The woman cackles. “You think so? Looks like a drowned rat, to me. He’s my daughter’s dog.”
I stifle a laugh, then kneel to pat the poor little dog on his head. It’s not his fault he looks like a rat. “Does your daughter live here?” I ask politely. The woman doesn’t look like a local—for one thing, she’s wearing an I♥NY T-shirt.
But she surprises me by shaking her head. “She lives in Jersey. She’s just visiting me for the weekend. I’ve lived here for seventy-seven years,” she adds. There’s a distinct note of pride in her voice.
“Wow,” I say. “And you—like it here?”
It’s a stupid question, I realize as I say it. Of course she likes it here, why else would she have stayed so long (or be wearing that T-shirt)? But I’m curious to hear what exactly she likes about it. All the older people I knew in Waldon would despise living in New York City. They would find it too loud, too rushed, too crowded.
“Of course!” the woman says. “I was born here during the Blizzard of ’47, and I haven’t left since.” She laughs, revealing very white, shiny dentures.
“Was that a big blizzard?”
“Big! It was huge. Nothing like these little flurries that people these days call a storm.”
I grin. That sounds like something the older people in Waldon would say. No snowstorm is ever as big as the one happening in front of you. “That’s really neat,” I say. “Were your parents born here too?”
As it turns out, they were, and for the next half hour, the woman tells me about them—her mother, a seamstress, and her father, a painter. I ease myself onto the bench as she talks, feeling myself drawn into the slow rhythm of her speech. She talks like Jim does, dropping names of friends and family as if they’re people I should already know. “And of course Aunt Mabel hated that,” she says, and I nod conspiratorially, as if I knew Aunt Mabel too.
I ask her what she did for a living, and that’s its own story—a clerk at a grocery store, a history teacher, a stay-at-home mom of six (six!). She’s telling me about her youngest daughter, whom she hilariously refers to as the “least clever one,” when all of a sudden she looks at her watch.
“Oh, would you look at that.” She rises to her feet. “I’ve got to run. Pleasure chatting with you, dear.”
She ambles off with her dog, and as I glance down at my phone, I realize with a jolt that a whole hour has gone by.
There’s a strange ache in my chest as I rise to my feet. I try to make myself jog again, but my legs are slow and heavy. I walk the park instead, thinking and chewing on my lip.
I’ve missed talking to older people, I realize. I miss talking topeople who grew up outside of my time. I miss that little spark of interest when I learn something about the past, like the time Jim told me about rumrunners during PEI’s prohibition years, or when Mrs. Finnamore described the dress Queen Elizabeth II wore during her royal tour of the province. It’s like time traveling, almost. Being transported back to a moment that happened before you existed.
I stop dead in my tracks as an idea hits me.
That’swhat I want to do for my exhibit. I want to give people that feeling.
The very next day, I bring it up to Benedita. I’m speaking quickly with excitement, leaning forward in my chair in her office. I know it’s only an exercise in creativity, but I can’t help but feel I’ve struck upon something really cool.
“Picture a dark, quiet room filled with little enclosed booths,” I say. “And every booth has a video feed of an older person talking about their life growing up in the city.”
“Like artists and historians, you mean?” Benedita asks.
“No, just average people,” I say brightly. “Regular people telling regular stories. Like this woman I met yesterday in the park—she told me the funniest story about her family’s milkman back in the fifties, and how he always got their order wrong on Thursdays.” I hesitate, seeing Benedita’s slightly bemused look. “It was funnier when she told it,” I admit. “But that’s the point, see? It’s a glimpse into the past, told by people who actually lived in it.”
Benedita smiles. “It’s a lovely idea,” she says. “Really creative.”
I bite my lip. I can hear an unspokenbut.
“I could do something else,” I say, “if you don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Oh no,” she says. “I told you, this is not about realism, it’s about creativity!”
I nod, but I can’t help wondering—why couldn’t an exhibit like that be real?
“The Met focuses more on art and sculpture, that’s all,” Benedita says. “But it’s certainly a clever idea. I would go to an exhibit like that.”
I can’t tell if she’s just placating me. I muster a smile. “I’ll keep thinking,” I say. “I’m sure I can come up with something more... artsy.”
“Let me know if I can help,” she says kindly, then turns back to her computer, which is open to an article about an old painting.
I keep a bright, interested look on my face, but in truth, I’m a little disappointed. I thought it was a pretty cool idea. In fact, I had this secret daydream that when Benedita heard it, she would want to make it into a real exhibit. But that’s pretty childish of me. The Met isn’t a tiny barrel museum in Waldon where I can nail up a stack of barrels and call it an exhibit. It’s one of the greatest collections of art in the world—and videos of old people telling funny stories about milkmen aren’t art.
