My Summer Job

Over the summer I worked at a museum. As a second year History major, this was a prime business opportunity for me. I set up huge displays, cleaned up the old ones and did a ton of write-ups and research, but I think the best part about my summer job was getting to meet new people from all over the country and tour them around the museum. Not only was it fulfilling to watch the sparkle of understanding and fascination in their eyes as I described to them a fact about our town/province’s past, or even lead them closer to solving mysteries about their own ancestry through our archives, but it was more amazing to hear their stories. There was one man in particular that I’d like to talk about, because I think I’ll always remember the conversation we had that day.

The museum is located in a very small town and run by very kind people. Naturally, when we get a visitor who has a story to tell, we don’t hesitate to invite them to sit down in our small kitchenette in the main building and have a cup of coffee with the tour guides. This one particular day I was working—I think it was a Saturday, although I could be mistaken—I’d just finished showing a youngish man around our nature gallery. He was a hunter/taxidermist who had previously hunted in our area and come home with a beautiful buck, so he was very interested in the geography detailed in our wall mural as well as all the taxidermy animals we had set up in the display. He told me he’d brought his 95 year old father to the museum that day, to which I replied “Oh! Well I hope he finds something that interests him.” The man replied with a chuckle, “Everything interests my dad. You can show him anything and he’ll probably have a story from his life that relates to it.” This peaked my interest and I was curious to learn more. The younger man began to walk around and admire a few of our other displays. I spotted who could only have been his father out of the corner of my eye. What hair he had was white with age and he wore a faded yellow plaid shirt with black pants and suspenders. He had a black cane in one hand, a museum pamphlet in the other, and he was seated in an automatic wheelchair. He was eyeing our display on my town’s first miracle surgeon. I wandered over to him, as any good tour guide would do, and asked him if he was enjoying himself. He was rather deaf, so he asked me to repeat myself. When I did he replied with “Oh, yes! I was just reading up on this doctor man…you know, when I was much younger, I had to get stitches in my calf!” He had a thick Dutch accent. I asked him what he’d done to his leg. He replied, “I was being a silly child, trying to impress my friends, you know.” He chuckled. “I grew up outside of Holland. It was hard enough trying to keep yourself entertained as a kid, so injuries happened when we tried too hard.” I smiled and laughed with him about it. I made sure he didn’t have any questions before letting him look around for a little while longer.

When the father and son were both finished wandering around the museum, they came back around to our kitchenette. I didn’t hesitate offering them coffee and cookies, and they obliged. I prepared it for them and we all sat down to talk. There was probably six of us gathered around the small kitchen table; since it was a slow day all of us took a break to talk for coffee hour. The son explained how he owned the old Catholic church in town and he used it as a place to stay when he came for hunting season. He explained that he and his father live in British Columbia, which is quite the distance away. He said he grew up in our province though, which is why he liked to come back for hunting. That weekend in particular, however, they were in town for a relative who was getting married in the nearby city. He explained to the other tour guides the same thing he’d explained to me: his father was full of stories. Of course, all of us being intrigued by the idea of new information, we urged the older man on. He seemed a little bashful for the first five seconds before quickly diving into it.

He told us how he’d lived in the Netherlands for most of his life, not coming over to Canada until after he’d married his wife. He’d fought in WWII and he played an active part in keeping those who were in danger safe and hidden. He said “The Holland people were very kind to those poor souls. We knew they were damned if we didn’t do something to help them so…we just did. We helped them, and they were so grateful. Hitler was a very bad man, of course. I can’t understand why he’d want to kill such kind people, regardless of their religion and all that nonsense. They were so grateful.” He told us some stories about growing up across the pond and how life was different back then. He told us what his mother used to cook for him when he was sick and how he still had some of his recipes with him today. He said after he’d married his wife, who he loved very much, they moved to Canada because it was promising and their home country was falling apart after the war. They wanted to start a family and they didn’t want to start one in a place that was hopeless.

Eventually though, his wife passed away by means of which he was not clear, and he was left with just his children. Unfortunately though, by that time he was getting older and his children had families of their own elsewhere in the country. His wife had been the love of his life and he missed her dearly. He didn’t want to feel so alone, so he made the move out to British Columbia, where his son was living. He was set up in a grandeur old folks home, where he got his own assistant and everything. He said he liked to romance his assistant, who wasn’t much younger than him. He said they’d go for walks or for rides on the ferry together, and he’d get all dressed up in a nice suit and hat for her every time. He didn’t have any intentions of marrying her, since he was too old for it he said, but he liked their relationship nonetheless. She made him happy and he liked to make her happy. And then he explained to us something I don’t think I’ll ever forget. He said:

“I was sad for a very long time after my wife passed. She was my whole world, you know. I loved her for a very long time and I still love her to this day. She knows that, I think. I am a very old man who has felt love and been loved, but I’ve had my fair share of terror and sadness. During the war it was very hard to feel happy, but when I saw how grateful the Jews were when we risked ourselves to keep them safe, well…their happiness made me happy. Moving to Canada made me happy, because it meant I’d be giving my family a chance at a real life. Now look—my son owns eight hair salons! Eight! And he doesn’t even have any hair left! I have more hair than him and I’m 95 years old! He probably wouldn’t have been a hairdresser if we hadn’t moved to Canada. He might be like I was, injuring himself in stupid ways and working a mundane job he hates if we’d stayed back home. My assistant, she makes me happy too. We have fun on our walks and boat rides. For a 95 year old man it’s very nice to have fun like that. Some my age might say it’s impossible to find real happiness and enjoyment anywhere but they’re wrong. You can find happiness in the simplest of things if you look at it in the right perspective. Perspective…it’s all about perspective. Why just the other night there was that folk concert in the church across the way from ours. My son wheeled me out onto the sidewalk in front of our church and we could hear the music coming out of the doors just fine—and I’m deaf so it must’ve been very loud in that building! Anyway, we didn’t have tickets, so he set me up in my wheelchair outside our church and I listened to the music. It made me happy, listening to that music.”

His son interjected with “But dad, you fell asleep in your chair listening to it.”

The old man smiled, winked, and said, “Ah yes, but I fell asleep to something that made me simply happy, and that’s the point I’m trying to make.”

He and his son continued to make loving jabs at one another’s hair and attitudes before finishing their coffees and deciding they best be on their way. We thanked them for their time and begged them to come back next year. After they’d left, we all kind of stood around in a stunned manner, muttering things like “wow” and “he was amazing to listen to.” I opted to clean up the kitchenette while everyone else went back into the office, and the entire time I was sweeping the floors and wiping the table and counter I kept thinking about what he’d said. He was a 95 year old man who had lived through getting stitches in his leg, WWII, moving to a new and foreign country, losing the love of his life and finding hope somewhere else. Anyone else in his position might be entirely sour or indifferent to the little things in life, but he had a completely different outlook on it. He found immense pleasure in listening to music from a concert across the street until he fell asleep to it. He found happiness in simple walks and ferry rides with his friend, and he had been so quick with the comebacks to his son’s sassy gestures. He got entertainment out of all of it. He was gracious for the coffee and cookies we made for him, and he welcomed our myriad of questions. He was the kindest person I met that summer. And he was happy just because he had the option. He reminded me that I can choose to be happy or I can choose to be miserable, and when bad things happen it’s okay to be sad about it for awhile, but the only person who can pick you up again is you. You have to be strong enough to get up and find enough happiness in something to allow it to put a smile back on your face. Perhaps that’s common knowledge to some people, but I think the way in which he described it was so humble and meaningful and it really put it into perspective for me.

I really do hope I see him again next year. I’d love to hear about his past year of ferry rides and visits, just for the simplistic happiness of it all.