As we travel, I have a habit of striking up conversations with random people, often on public benches. It usually mortifies Brent.
But it often turns out great, like the time I started a conversation with a fellow in Macedonia, and he ended up inviting us to spend the day with him and his wife out in a remote rural village where they were renovating an ancient stone house.
Even so, I was in no mood to talk to anyone a few weeks ago, when I sat down on a bench next to a random woman. I’d just walked for five hours — 20 kilometers! — up Sydney’s northern coast, and I was pretty beat.
I’d seen some nice beaches, but it hadn’t been worth all the effort. Now, I just wanted to listen to my podcast.
Never Miss a Beat
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The woman next to me said something, but I wasn’t much in the mood. What if she were a really odd duck or wouldn’t stop talking? Maybe Brent had a point about talking to strangers.
Not wanting to be rude, I took out my earbuds. “Excuse me?”
“I said it’s a very breezy day,” she replied. She was older, but elegant-looking with silver hair and a lovely blue dress. She had lively eyes and a sweet smile, and her voice was as rich as English cream.
I looked out at the blue ocean, the wind whipping spindrift off the waves.
“It is,” I agreed. “I just walked up from Narrabeen, and I almost lost my hat several times.”
“Narrabeen? My, that’s a long walk. Good for you.”
I thought about putting my earbuds back in, but the woman seemed a bit lonely. Besides, talking to strangers is kind of my thing. If she was an odd duck, then so was I.
“I’m Michael,” I said.
She smiled. “Colleen.”
“Do you live near here?”
“About a kilometer away. I come here almost every day. Some days it’s really hard. But I know I can sit here and rest once I make it. I’m 92.”
She sighed, and I somehow knew everything she wasn’t saying: Most of my friends are gone now. My husband, if I had one, is gone, and my kids, if I have any, live far away. I spend most of the time by myself.
I nodded, looking out at the ocean. “But when you get here, you have this to look at.”
She looked at me and beamed. “Exactly.”
“Were you born in Sydney?” She sounded English, but I’d learned long ago never to assume anything about where a person comes from.
“No,” she said. “I was born in England. I came here when I was 19. I was a Ten Pound Pom.” When she saw my confusion, she laughed and explained how “Ten Pound Poms” were Britons who immigrated to Australia via a program where the Australian government paid almost the entire cost of the passage. She had to promise to stay in Australia, which was strapped for labor at the time, for at least two years.
“Was it your whole family?” I asked.
“Oh no, just me.” As if anticipating my next question, she said, “Life was very hard after the war. So much of London had been bombed, and things like sugar were still being rationed.”
“How well do you remember the war?”
She laughed again — not at my question. She just seemed to like to laugh. “Very well. I was eight when it started. I remember one day walking to school when I was sixteen, and a doodlebug flew by directly overhead.”
“A doodlebug?”
“A German bomb — a rocket on its way to London. It was an ugly black thing with flames coming out the back. Made a horrible buzzing noise. My family and I were very lucky — we were never hit. But we had broken windows and cracked ceilings. Mother started a garden so we’d have fresh vegetables. She also raised rabbits for meat, and she used the fur to make gloves for us in the winter. Mother was amazing — I’ve been so lucky in life.”
Her life didn’t sound so lucky to me. I also couldn’t imagine permanently moving to a new country on my own as a teenager. I couldn’t imagine spending my childhood living through a war either.
“How was Australia when you got here?” I asked.
“I found work straightaway as a nurse, which I loved. But I had to quit when I got married.”
“Because you got married?”
“Oh, yes. You did back then. Then I had three children. And then our house burned down.”
“It did? How did that happen?”
“The nappies — our youngest was still wearing them. Back then, the cloth was very flammable, and someone must have put a stack too close to the heater. We lost everything, but we were very lucky. We all got out alive.”
“Lucky” again, I thought. She doesn’t sound very lucky to me.
“My husband died in 1955,” Colleen went on, “but I never remarried. Then, in her thirties, my oldest daughter died.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “That was very hard.”
We fell into a companionable silence.
We watched a lorikeet fly past us and up into a tree.
“Now that I’m so old, I appreciate nature more than ever,” she told me. “I love the birds, how intricate the flowers are. It’s all so marvelous.”
I nodded and said, “The older I get, the more I appreciate nature too. I’m not at all religious, but it makes me feel more spiritual in some way.”
“I’ve never been religious either,” she said. “Have no use for it. But I do wonder why I’m still here when no one else in my family has lived this long. What’s the point of it all?”
“I think the only point is whatever we give it,” I said. “We have to make our own meaning.” I faced her, curious what she thought. “What’s your take?”
Colleen considered the question. “I suppose I agree with what you said. After my husband died, and they changed the rules about nurses being married, I started nursing again. But then at age 72, they made me retire.” She fixed her eyes on me. “No one insures old nurses. So I had to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. I started walking and took up tennis. I played until just last December, when I hurt my shoulder.”
I wanted to ask why she’d never remarried, but that seemed rude.
“I’m a bit lonely,” she said, stating the obvious. “But I feel incredibly lucky to be here. Honestly, I’ve been so very lucky most of my life.”
So here it was again. How did she feel lucky despite all the loss and tragedy in her life?
“There’s so much beauty,” she said as if reading my mind. “And I’m grateful I got to help so many people as a nurse. I’ve also been really healthy my whole life — maybe because I almost never had sugar as a girl.”
“Or,” I said, “maybe because you’re so resilient and have such a great attitude about everything. Is that the secret to a long life?”
She considered this too. Earlier, I’d told her a bit about myself, and now she said, “Maybe. I definitely think you and Brent should keep doing your long walks — and also keep traveling, and also writing about it.”
Pausing, she continued, “You should also laugh as much as possible. Deep belly laughs are marvelous. They help with the pain.” She hesitated. “Because there is pain — a bit more every year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Oh, it is what it is,” Colleen said. “I don’t know how long I have left. I think when we get very old and have a lot of pain, we start to become forgetful, which I have started to do lately. Maybe that helps a person become ready to go. I’m not quite there, but it will be okay when the time comes.”
I appreciated her honesty. I’m not obsessed with my own demise, but I do think about it more and more, wondering how many “good,” healthy years I have left.
“You know,” she said, “you should get back to your husband. He’s probably wondering where you are.”
I checked the time. How had we been talking for almost an hour?
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I should.” I didn’t want to go. I’d made this great connection with this random person, and now I was just…moving on?
She nodded. “Go ahead, it’s okay. But thank you for talking with me.”
As I stood up, I said, “Thank you for sharing your story.”
But she stopped me. “Will you do me a favor?”
I turned to look at her.
She gave me a sly smile. “When you get home, tell your husband you picked up a strange woman at the beach.”
At that, we both roared with laughter — deep belly-laughs and everything.
And I realized that Colleen and I were going to both keep talking to random people on benches — and we were both going to be better off because of it.
