Common Wealth, Common Wisdom

Bill Cullen's hands have conducted a speech choir, Ann Huntley's have nursed a baby calf, and Jenn Sibert's have laced figure skates. As we went around the room, talking about what our hands had done, the conversation turned nostalgic. Ann Huntley pulled out a black and white photograph of her large family standing in front of a house. She remembered daring her little brothers to stick their tongues against a cold pipe in winter, and I felt a strong sense of family. Even as she talked about dark periods of her life, about death and hard times, I felt at ease and happy to just be in the room with them. Listening to Roger recounting snowball fights at school and walking seven miles into town to see a movie, I felt a sense of peace. It felt like the natural order of things for us to be listening as he relived his childhood. And I felt sad in a way too, that in our society, it took a paid internship to bring us here, listening to our elders at last.

As our discussion ended, the Huntleys' packed away their memories in a small, white envelope. I didn't have time to feel longing to look at them further; the whole group was ushered into a circle, hands in the middle. Young and old laughed and talked, our hands touching. The camera flashed. I laughed as Ruth started singing the hokey pokey. Our group broke up as arrangements were made to meet again. Already, I couldn't wait to hear more stories.