But it isn’t to the palace
That the Christ child comes,
But to shepherds, street people,
Hookers and bums.
(“The Cry of a Tiny Babe”, Bruce Cockburn)
Danny and I were walking back from brunch last Saturday, before he headed back to Toronto to finish off some last details on his project. I noticed that my “buddy,” Wally, was out on the street.
Danny laughs at me. He says that I’m magnetically drawn to strays: abandoned cats, scruffy kids and street people. That’s not true. Most street people make me nervous. I avoid eye contact; I feel embarrassed when pressed by guilt or a pleading and effective pitch to rummage for change that’s always too small to be anything but pitiful or too large to be surrendered to pressure tactics. Where are the quarters when you need them?
Wally’s different. He sits on the seat of his walker, backed up against the limestone and glass wall of a drug store where he’s been stationed most days for many years. He sits in his usual pose: hunched forward, elbows propped on the sides of the walker, hands meeting in front of his chest with their backs touching, fingers dangling to brush the shiny material on his thighs. His head hangs down low as if he’s resting, until he hears the sound of approaching footsteps. Then without hesitation, he slowly raises his head and looks around as if compelled by his good nature, despite the pain and exertion, to smile and greet the passerby.
The first time I noticed Wally was during a scorching summer when I was still studying at the university. I had a job downtown that had odd shifts and I noticed that no matter when I walked by his corner, if it was between 10am and 4pm, Wally was there. I was amused to realize as I passed him each day, that sitting at his station with his coffee can at his feet to accept spare change was Wally’s job – it was the work he did that gave his life meaning and balance.
Sometimes when I would walk by at noon hour, I would see a uniformed waitress from the German deli across the street bringing him a take-out lunch. He would pack the drink and the fruit that she brought him in the saddlebag of his walker, and eat the sandwich hunched at his post. Once as I was walking by I heard him thank her for the lunch; I was surprised by the voice – proud in its gratefulness, strong and deep in timbre. I would have expected a much softer and unsteady voice from such a frail little man.
That was also the first time I saw Wally’s face up close: sagging, shot through with a latticework of lines and wrinkles, intersecting each other at odd angles. His nose was bulbous and red with gaping pores that spoke of many years of hard drinking and hard living. But what really grabbed my attention that day, and what has held me captive in his friendship ever since, were his eyes: pale, crystal blue on a background of intricate red webbing that, try as it might, doesn’t quite succeed in masking the twinkle of curiosity and amusement in the amazing blue. I was hooked – I’d do anything to have Wally look up and smile at me.
This past weekend when Danny and I saw Wally on the sidewalk up ahead of us, I took my wallet out and removed the twoonies that I always save for him. The wind is brutal as it funnels its way up from the lake. I notice Wally is wearing a new toque and he has socks on his hands. As we approach, he looks up to see who’s coming. I suspect his eyesight is poor because he never recognizes me until he hears my voice. I bend down to drop the coins in his can and put my hand on his arm as I lift myself up.
“How’re you doing, Wally?”
“Oh, missus,” he greets me, refolding the lines in his face into a smile. “I’s just wunnerful,” he says, exposing his Newfoundland roots.
I ask about his Christmas and he points to the cap on his head that he got at the church supper on Christmas day. He tells me he got four pairs of new socks at the Sally Ann so he wears two pairs in his boots and two pairs on his hands. He says that his landlady gave him a new shirt for when he has to dress up. I can’t picture it myself, still he must have cut quite a figure in his day, with his thick, wavy hair now yellowy silver – and those eyes…
Danny asks him why he’s sitting here in the cold wind and the shade, when across the street, there’s a vacant property whose front is bathed in winter sunlight; there’s even a little alcove over there to back into out of the wind.
Wally lowers his head and shakes it slowly, bringing the side of his face almost parallel with the street on each side as he explains patiently – as if to a child: “Nooo, Buddy. She’s way too hot over there in the summer.”
I can tell Danny is lining up a series of “buts” to counter the explanation but the firmness of Wally’s answer settles the matter with a wonderful logic. Danny concedes.
Wally gives us the news of the street – how the meter maid got into a screaming match with a guy in an SUV who was too cheap to pay the quarter while he ran into the bank; how the lady from the flower shop brought a big bouquet into the deli – it must be someone’s birthday; how one of the girls from the office next to him was crying on the sidewalk as she puffed on her cigarette at break time. He tells of how the young panhandlers who are moving into this area are too aggressive, and he worries that they will scare off his people.
Wally’s not deep, he doesn’t possess the wisdom of elders, he’s just there each day, watching the world as it passes by his corner. The layers of tattered clothes and the stubbled chin can’t hide the quiet dignity that he brings to his life. The waitress and her sandwiches, the banker who lets him “bum” a smoke each day as they share a few minutes puffing together, the single mom I’ve seen who sends her little girl to put a nickel in his can, and me, in some small way, we’re all there to support Wally in the maintenance of that dignity.
Wally is our witness to his world.
The whole idea of witnessing has come up a few times in the last few days. On Sunday evening at church, the priest was speaking of the magi who came to see the baby Jesus. He spoke of the importance of sharing what we see, of witnessing to what we have witnessed.
Then yesterday, I was speaking with Jean about how I was a witness to my childhood. But I could only watch it unfold – I hadn’t known what else to do with those scenes.
Now, in giving the memories – the good and the bad ones – a life on paper, in writing them down and bringing it all back, I’m witnessing to these truths as I saw them. I’m sorting through which deserve to be preserved and which should be discarded.
Starla’s Kitty Litter Theory about memories:
Part 1: To discard memories, first you must use the litter scoop to pick them up and take a good look before you throw them away, in case you find a diamond, or a key embedded in the feces.
That the Christ child comes,
But to shepherds, street people,
Hookers and bums.
(“The Cry of a Tiny Babe”, Bruce Cockburn)
Danny and I were walking back from brunch last Saturday, before he headed back to Toronto to finish off some last details on his project. I noticed that my “buddy,” Wally, was out on the street.
Danny laughs at me. He says that I’m magnetically drawn to strays: abandoned cats, scruffy kids and street people. That’s not true. Most street people make me nervous. I avoid eye contact; I feel embarrassed when pressed by guilt or a pleading and effective pitch to rummage for change that’s always too small to be anything but pitiful or too large to be surrendered to pressure tactics. Where are the quarters when you need them?
Wally’s different. He sits on the seat of his walker, backed up against the limestone and glass wall of a drug store where he’s been stationed most days for many years. He sits in his usual pose: hunched forward, elbows propped on the sides of the walker, hands meeting in front of his chest with their backs touching, fingers dangling to brush the shiny material on his thighs. His head hangs down low as if he’s resting, until he hears the sound of approaching footsteps. Then without hesitation, he slowly raises his head and looks around as if compelled by his good nature, despite the pain and exertion, to smile and greet the passerby.
The first time I noticed Wally was during a scorching summer when I was still studying at the university. I had a job downtown that had odd shifts and I noticed that no matter when I walked by his corner, if it was between 10am and 4pm, Wally was there. I was amused to realize as I passed him each day, that sitting at his station with his coffee can at his feet to accept spare change was Wally’s job – it was the work he did that gave his life meaning and balance.
Sometimes when I would walk by at noon hour, I would see a uniformed waitress from the German deli across the street bringing him a take-out lunch. He would pack the drink and the fruit that she brought him in the saddlebag of his walker, and eat the sandwich hunched at his post. Once as I was walking by I heard him thank her for the lunch; I was surprised by the voice – proud in its gratefulness, strong and deep in timbre. I would have expected a much softer and unsteady voice from such a frail little man.
That was also the first time I saw Wally’s face up close: sagging, shot through with a latticework of lines and wrinkles, intersecting each other at odd angles. His nose was bulbous and red with gaping pores that spoke of many years of hard drinking and hard living. But what really grabbed my attention that day, and what has held me captive in his friendship ever since, were his eyes: pale, crystal blue on a background of intricate red webbing that, try as it might, doesn’t quite succeed in masking the twinkle of curiosity and amusement in the amazing blue. I was hooked – I’d do anything to have Wally look up and smile at me.
This past weekend when Danny and I saw Wally on the sidewalk up ahead of us, I took my wallet out and removed the twoonies that I always save for him. The wind is brutal as it funnels its way up from the lake. I notice Wally is wearing a new toque and he has socks on his hands. As we approach, he looks up to see who’s coming. I suspect his eyesight is poor because he never recognizes me until he hears my voice. I bend down to drop the coins in his can and put my hand on his arm as I lift myself up.
“How’re you doing, Wally?”
“Oh, missus,” he greets me, refolding the lines in his face into a smile. “I’s just wunnerful,” he says, exposing his Newfoundland roots.
I ask about his Christmas and he points to the cap on his head that he got at the church supper on Christmas day. He tells me he got four pairs of new socks at the Sally Ann so he wears two pairs in his boots and two pairs on his hands. He says that his landlady gave him a new shirt for when he has to dress up. I can’t picture it myself, still he must have cut quite a figure in his day, with his thick, wavy hair now yellowy silver – and those eyes…
Danny asks him why he’s sitting here in the cold wind and the shade, when across the street, there’s a vacant property whose front is bathed in winter sunlight; there’s even a little alcove over there to back into out of the wind.
Wally lowers his head and shakes it slowly, bringing the side of his face almost parallel with the street on each side as he explains patiently – as if to a child: “Nooo, Buddy. She’s way too hot over there in the summer.”
I can tell Danny is lining up a series of “buts” to counter the explanation but the firmness of Wally’s answer settles the matter with a wonderful logic. Danny concedes.
Wally gives us the news of the street – how the meter maid got into a screaming match with a guy in an SUV who was too cheap to pay the quarter while he ran into the bank; how the lady from the flower shop brought a big bouquet into the deli – it must be someone’s birthday; how one of the girls from the office next to him was crying on the sidewalk as she puffed on her cigarette at break time. He tells of how the young panhandlers who are moving into this area are too aggressive, and he worries that they will scare off his people.
Wally’s not deep, he doesn’t possess the wisdom of elders, he’s just there each day, watching the world as it passes by his corner. The layers of tattered clothes and the stubbled chin can’t hide the quiet dignity that he brings to his life. The waitress and her sandwiches, the banker who lets him “bum” a smoke each day as they share a few minutes puffing together, the single mom I’ve seen who sends her little girl to put a nickel in his can, and me, in some small way, we’re all there to support Wally in the maintenance of that dignity.
Wally is our witness to his world.
The whole idea of witnessing has come up a few times in the last few days. On Sunday evening at church, the priest was speaking of the magi who came to see the baby Jesus. He spoke of the importance of sharing what we see, of witnessing to what we have witnessed.
Then yesterday, I was speaking with Jean about how I was a witness to my childhood. But I could only watch it unfold – I hadn’t known what else to do with those scenes.
Now, in giving the memories – the good and the bad ones – a life on paper, in writing them down and bringing it all back, I’m witnessing to these truths as I saw them. I’m sorting through which deserve to be preserved and which should be discarded.
Starla’s Kitty Litter Theory about memories:
Part 1: To discard memories, first you must use the litter scoop to pick them up and take a good look before you throw them away, in case you find a diamond, or a key embedded in the feces.
Part 2: You can only ignore a tray of unpleasant memories for so long; like a dirty litter box, it won’t clean itself.
