Always Smile at Old People

Always Smile at Old People

Yesterday I spoke to a woman I have known for many years. Not known really – seen or noticed for many years might be more appropriate.

She was a crossing guard at an intersection that I passed on my daily commute from Madison, NJ to Teaneck. That was close to forty years ago (the mid 1970s) and she was middle-aged back then.

She still looked as immaculate in appearance as she did decades ago and these days I see her from time to time at the YMCA where she rides the exercise bike. Her husband accompanies her as she is, today, obviously suffering from Parkinson’s disease.

I’d say she has been coming to the Y for a year or so now, but, not really knowing her, I never spoke to her.

 

Yesterday as I waited in hallway for my grandson to finish his basketball class she came around the corner huddled over her walker, and we were face to face.

 

I decided to say hello, “You know, I know you from many years ago. I used to pass you every morning as I drove to work. You were the crossing guard and I always thought that you looked so attractive and smartly dressed."

 

She looked up, her face brightened. “Yes I was the crossing guard,” she affirmed. Her voice was weak but there was a faint smile.

 

“Sometimes I’d see you going into your house, there on the corner, and I thought that, just like you, the house looked so neat and well kept.”

 

“Thank you so much for saying all of that,” she said, smiling more now.

 

Her husband, standing within earshot, took a step toward us, “That was awfully nice of you,” he said.

 

“I see you exercising regularly now. Keep up the good work,” I said. She was still beaming.

Just then, grandson Johnny, age six, bounced down the hall toward me. I reached for his hand. “Nice to talk to you,” I said to the woman as John and I turned to go.

 

“Thank you so much,” she repeated.

 

Walking out, I thought for just a second, “Who was happier about our short exchange, her or me?”

That chance encounter and our brief words certainly made me feel awfully good.

 

Then, seemingly without reason, a thought sifted through my mind about my youth, my bedroom in the house where I grew up. There was a mirror on the wall where I logged many hours training my pompadour. Wedged between the frame and the glass there were always three or four index cards upon which my mother would write words of wisdom – reminders of life lessons.

 

I remember two:

“I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold instead of the friendships I've made,” E. A. Guest, my mom’s favorite poet.

And this one, “Always smile and say hello to old people.” This I believe was her favorite. She even passed it on to my two daughters and they mention it from time to time, citing their grandma.