Common Wealth, Common Wisdom

Gordon sat behind a desk surrounded by coolers, selling soda to the other seniors. He was extremely tan, as if he'd he'd spent a lot of time outdoors during his life. He looked down at the table, kind of drawn into himself; when I asked him to share his life story, he responded with a less-than-enthusiastic, "Sure, I guess." Gordon told me about his life modestly, as if he didn't feel what he was saying had much importance. But once he started talking, he kept talking. I never had to prod him with questions.

Born in Lowville in 1938, Gordon didn't have much money growing up, but felt a rich sense of community. He never felt terribly impoverished, as neighbors always took care of one another; they had what they needed. One Christmas his father gave him a ring-toss game crafted from the rubbers of canning jars. Gordon told me it's still one of his most memorable Christmas presents. Gordon worked odd jobs for several years and then raised the union fee necessary to get a job at Alcoa, an aluminum company in Massena. He worked there most of his life before retiring in 2000.

When he retired, Gordon and his wife started traveling. He told me about the places he visited: Of the beautiful string band he'd heard at a church in Hawaii; of the pickpocket in Spain whose attempt to steal Gordon's wallet left him with merely a pack of tissues; of the "candy-cane shaped roads" along the coast of California.

His wife had been sick for a long time with a heart condition, but she never wanted her life to slow down. Finally, last year, she became too sick to travel. Her kidneys failed and Gordon found himself going back and forth between the hospital. She passed away last year. "She lived for life," his soda-selling partner, Shirley, said. Hearing Gordon talk about her, knowing what she meant to him, I found myself wanting to know her, wishing I could have experienced this person who could spark such intense feeling in the man beside me.

Labels: Brenna, Community, geofeed, Lowville, Memories, Neighbors, North Country, Observation, Travel

Zelda Thomas sat looking expectantly at me, her large glasses magnifying the wrinkles on her face. I thanked her for letting me talk to her as I squeezed a grey, rusted folding chair onto a section of hard concrete floor between the aging card table and another group of elders whose canes stuck out dangerously into aisles.
Zelda Thomas was born in 1914 and raised by her grandparents on their farm. She became a teacher at a one-room schoolhouse in Russell. "We made soup at school," she remembered. Students would have potatoes for lunch and then bring soup home for their families. For Zelda, the Depression happened so slowly she hardly noticed it. Living on a farm, her family was more self-sufficient than others who lived in town. "We had cows, pigs, chickens. That's what we must have eaten" she said.
Zelda is 95 years old and doesn't hear so well. Each time I asked her a question, she would lean in closer to me with her eyes closed, then lean back and open them as she answered. But not hearing well also has its advantages. Zelda's friends always want her to drive them around, because she never gets distracted by their talking.

Labels: chelsea, Depression, geofeed, Norfolk, Observation, Picnic, Russell