“I’ve been living here for over a year now, Beth, and things seem to be falling into place. Time has moved forward since that first day I arrived, and as much as I still don’t think of this place as my home, I have been able to form a comfort level in its familiarity. I know that the children feel relieved to know I am living here where I have help that is readily available should I need it. I guess to some extent that satisfies me, too. I know that every living soul here, or that has been here, has had to deal with the same emotions I have felt or am feeling. I am not unique in this situation. No one wants to forfeit everything they’ve lived their whole life to acquire to come here to spend their final days, and even though the powers that be try to re-enforce that this is our home, it is not.
Oh, there are some who came here quite willingly, not kicking and screaming, but for the rest of us who moved here out of dire circumstances, well, we’ve just had to accept things for what they are. For the most part, we’re treated well and have a high dry place to lay our head at night, and there are three square meals a day to fill our bellies. As a youngster growing up, that was our daily objective, so one shouldn’t grumble.
It bothers me, though, that some people working here seem to think that we are all just empty shells. I guess that they look at us and just see an old worn out soul. It seems they forget that we were here a long time before they were even a glimmer in their daddy’s eye. They just don’t grasp the idea that we were young once ourselves. We’re just in a different season of our life. They’re still enjoying their summer years, but we’ve progressed to winter. The only real difference between them and us is an accumulation of years. Years that have sped by way too quickly, putting us in a different chapter of our lives. Their stories are still being written and ours are almost ready to be told.
They don’t foresee the future and realize that they are heading in the same direction with each passing day. They will all be old one day themselves, God willing. I often wonder how they will see life looking through their rear view mirror, because when you get to be my age, there isn’t much of a view to see through the windshield. All our best days are behind us, and pictures and memories are all that are left to recount our existence.
A few days after my arrival, I remember taking a good look around this room. It was as if it were the very first minute I walked through the door and was seeing it for the first time. I took in each and every detail. I was thinking about the layout and design and was wondering what the others who had lived here may have thought about it. It was then, that it occurred to me, that the last person who lived here must have just died recently for this room to have become available. They had died right here in this very room where I now lived, and they were lying in this very bed where I would be sleeping that night. A shiver ran up my spine. The thought of it all gave me an eerie feeling. Then I asked myself, how many people have died in this room? Who were they? What did they think of this place? Were they ever happy here?”
“Oh, dear me.” Beth seems startled. “I hadn’t even though of any of those things. It makes me shiver, too, just to think about them. You’re right, Gran, it is eerie.”
“It makes me sad to think of these things, Beth. My heart feels heavy, for I will be on that list someday, too. The list of folks that have died in this room, in this very bed. It seems that after we are gone our lives get forgotten. Yes, there must be a lengthy list of people just like me that have lived out their final days, months, and years right here. The last chapter of their life story unfolded within these very walls where they became a part of the forgotten generation. They were tucked away here, hidden from the eyes of society, looked after by strangers and merely sustained until they drew their final breath. It would be interesting to hear their stories and find out how their life journey brought them here.
I often find myself lying in bed at night looking around this room, wondering about all those other souls. I wonder how many others there have been, who they were, and what their story was. Yes, if only these walls could talk, I’ll bet they could tell us quite a story.
I know that just in my lifetime there have been so many changes. The others that came before must have lived in even different times. To think back to where I come from and what I have witnessed and endured is one thing, but some of the first residents here were probably born across the ocean in a whole different world. I know Ma and Pa told us stories about where their folks and kin had come from. Ma and Pa were born here on Canadian soil, but not all their siblings were.
Ma’s family came from Ireland. Her parents sailed across the Atlantic with three small children in tow. They had no idea what was in their future, other than the hope for a better life. Ma used to tell us stories about all the hardships and famine her folks had endured in the old country. Times were better here in Canada, but they still weren’t easy. There were eleven children in her family and she was the youngest.
Pa’s family was English. His parents boarded a ship sailing to Canada right after their wedding day. Grandad’s older brother and his family had moved here several years earlier and had sent word for Grandad to immigrate here. Apparently it was to be the land of wealth and opportunity. In many ways it was just that, but there were many hardships to endure before the wealth part came into play.
I know that my ancestors’ stories and circumstances were similar to many others hereabouts. Some of my predecessors to this very room must have lived comparable lives. I imagine that there have been residents residing here that came from other countries and cultures from around the world. Other than the natives, my generation of Canadians were just about all born of immigrants, each with a story to tell. I heard someone say one time that Canada’s citizens are like vegetables in a stew pot. They are all different, but blend well together when put in the same pot. We have quite a mix, that’s for sure.
Some of my predecessors to this room must have had some colourful tales to tell. It’s too bad no one has ever thought to document some of those stories. Back in the day, folks lived through very different circumstances. Higher education was only attainable by a select few. Doctors, dentists, and lawyers were held in very high regard. Of course, there were only a handful in this northern territory. Perhaps, a few of them ended their days here. They would have stories to tell, for sure.
The old country doctors were a different breed. They used to spend most of their time on the road heading out to people’s homes to attend to serious emergencies and incurable ailments. They were called out in the middle of the night to deliver babies that couldn’t be born on their own. Often times they arrived too late to save both mother and child. Most folks had no money so they only fetched the doctor if it was their last resort. Then the doctor had to accept chickens and other livestock in exchange for services as he knew the people were too poor to pay their bill otherwise. Those days are sure long gone.
I surmise that some of the folks that lived here had occupations that no longer exist. Jobs that faded away along with the bygone era that they contributed to. Jobs like blacksmiths, teamsters, river log drivers, barn framers, typesetters, and stenographers. Most youngsters never heard tell of such jobs. It would be intriguing to hear about some of those jobs and what they entailed.
Yes, I’ll bet there were some very interesting people that lived here. They would have been fascinating to listen to. They would have all had stories. Some with stories that would keep their audience’s sitting on the edge of their seats. It’s too bad all those poor old folks left this world and took their life experience and wisdom with them. That is one of the saddest parts about losing an older member of the community; they take so much information with them. It really is a great loss.
I’m sure there have been many war vets that have lived here, too. They have stories of their own to tell. Stories that need not be forgotten. They suffered and endured the unthinkable to maintain our freedom. Their stories should be told, and we all need to listen. We need to appreciate everything they did to support the cause, and we must always be grateful. Grateful that they were willing to put their lives on the line for all of ours. So many of their comrades failed to follow them home. They died and were buried on foreign soil fighting for our freedom. We must never forget what those people sacrificed for us. Never! I know that I can’t forget, but my generation lived through those times. We suffered the pangs of war.
If these walls could talk I’m sure they could tell us other stories, too. The kind that were told behind closed doors in soft spoken whispers so others couldn’t hear. The kind of stories that would send chills up your spine. Stories about cruelties and unkindness done to others. You can be sure that some of the folks that spend their final days in this very room had suffered from some form of brutality during their life.
I know that some women have had to endure a violent existence. They were beaten, raped, or violated by their fathers, brothers, or husbands. It’s sad and harsh, but it’s a reality. In my day those issues were kept very quiet. Women didn’t talk about it. They were afraid to speak out for fear their violator would find out and cause them further harm. Those sins were big burdens for their victims to bear. There was no place to go and no help to be had. Most women took those stories to their grave. They were too afraid to tell them.
And some people endured cruel childhoods. They were beaten and unloved. Their parents or guardians used very harsh punishments. Corporal punishment was acceptable back in my day, but some folks took it to the extreme. They used to say, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” It was a very hard start in the world for children who found themselves in that situation. It was a tough circumstance to overcome. Those are really hard stories to hear and harder ones to tell sometimes, but they weren’t uncommon, and I’m sure that some of the residents that lived here lived them.
You know, if these walls could only talk, I’m sure they could spin us a yarn so intriguing we’d want to hear it time and again. It would be a story so fascinating that our wildest imaginations would have a hard time envisioning it to be true. So many stories about times gone by. The hard times, sad times, trying times, but also the fun and the exciting times. Stories that reflect all the historical milestones of this great nation. The stories of building Canada. The story of each life remembered.”