There was an old woman who sat on her stoop!

It is one of the ironies in meager lives that the less there is to lose,

the greater is the fear of losing it.

                                      Joseph Gollomb

(I met so many interesting people on this trip to Toronto and Hamilton but I had to share one very special encounter that still has me thinking.)

Hamilton is city full of many beautiful houses but my favourite ones would be the one and a half story red brick well-built and often times identical houses. These were built brick by brick, row on row, city block by city block, side by side with very little room between them.

The city was created with the sweat and tears of hardworking immigrants who came to this country to work in the steel mills and other industries that surround trying to fulfill a dream in a new land. They worked long and hard and many of the older generation still remember what it was like to earn and hold onto what they had worked tirelessly for. I met a woman who not necessarily with her words but that and my own observations while spending some time with her on her front stoop had me wondering about not only this beautiful woman’s future but also filled my head with lingering questions about my own future.

Walking the downtown side streets of Steeltown as it is referred to by the locals and being in a bit of a hurry I rushed past house after house but kept my eye on the architecture that always seems to grab my attention. I have always loved this part of the city with its friendly passersby, the beautiful front yards with well-kept gardens, and an obvious pride of ownership in the homes that have stood here long before I, my father or even my grandfather had been around. History is when we preserve what came before and do our best to hold tight to it and keep it just the way it was so others will not forget, sometimes that thinking has hidden costs for some.

Standing in front of a beautiful old red brick house and enjoying the intoxicating fragrance coming from the white bloom of a Peony, a muffled sneeze penetrates the bushes lining the yard and seemingly coming from next door. I shuffled my feet to the right to peer around those bushes. There sat an older woman, Bless you slipped out of my mouth before I even had time to think, a instinctual response no doubt from my childhood, “Thank you”.

“Beautiful day isn’t it?” she said. Yes it is. You have a lovely garden. “It is so weedy I have to clean it out tomorrow”. I could not see any weeds only lovely purple and white Pansies freshly planted. I walked up to her and put my hand out, my name is Buttons. She grabbed my hand, “My name is Maria”. I have no idea why but I knew that even though I was in a hurry I had to take the time to talk to Maria.

Maria I would guess was in her late eighties or early nineties but you would not be able to tell that from her almost wrinkle free beautiful olive skin. That being said her sad brown eyes told a story of loss, and a long difficult life. Her twisted fingers, wrinkled skin and calloused hands revealed a woman who worked very hard labouring many years in some kind of occupation that was very physical, I did not ask, I did not need to I also have those hands.

Maria sat on an old worn second step obviously needing some attention with its peeling paint and missing rungs. The house had roof shingles peeling and curled and in some spots they were missing completely. The old door had peeling paint and obvious wear. There was a screen in the window with a big hole where I suspected the cat that peered through the window used it as its own entrance. Oh how I wished I could help Maria but I knew I could not, it was very clear to me as I watched her reach down to pull out a weed near the stoop that she was very independent and a proud woman.

She shared a story about how she had lived in this house for sixty years and how her husband had passed away ten years before. She talked about children who loved her and had very busy lives and families living in other cities and provinces. Of grandchildren she enjoys when they come for occasional visits but the conversations always revolve around her selling and moving with them to a nice new place. She has always answered NO, she always reminds them that her and their father built a lifetime of history here and it was not easy and she will not forget that and if she moves it would be for naught. She shared with me that she wants to live in that house forever and preserve the history and memories that lie inside those red brick walls.

Wow I must say this hit me like a red brick, I thought of our farm and my girls who have also moved far away and have created happy lives of their own and will probably never return. I wondered about Maria’s future and then wondered about my own. Would I be defiant and not take any help like Maria and hold on to and try to preserve those memories of our own hard work and struggles no matter what, is that what it means to hold on to your history? Must we have to struggle forever until you are also gone and people eventually forget then that is where it ends? I don’t know if I could or would do that.

I spent a little more time with Maria listening to her story then I had to excuse myself when I remembered my daughter was waiting and had no idea where I was. I gave Maria a hug and told her to take care of herself and maybe I would see her sitting on the stoop next time I made it back to Hamilton. “That would be lovely” she replied. I walked slowly down the street turning back once and wishing I could have done more and then I picked up speed and headed to see my own daughter.

 I walked through her door and grabbed hold of her and hugged her tightly. “How was your walk” she asked. Interesting, I replied. “Shall I put the kettle on?” Yes please do, there is a story I would love to share with you.

Holly published her version of our meeting here if you would like to read it. She is a fascinating woman and a wonderful writer. Check her blog out you will be smitten.

Later