When I was 15, I had the pleasure of meeting an elderly man—though he would scoff at the idea of being either elderly or gentlemanly—who shared incredible stories while I worked my after-school job at a quaint library in a small town. For the duration of my time there, I referred to him as Mr. J. He visited at least twice a week for the six years I spent organizing the shelves. Mr. J. was a witty Liverpudlian who had made his way to British Columbia, settled down with his partner, and somehow aged along the way. The details of his life story have faded from my memory over the 14 years since I left that library, but the tales he told have lingered in my mind with a surprising clarity.
Now, as a parent to an eight-year-old daughter, the challenges of navigating life during a pandemic have turned my world upside down. Throw in the complexities of lockdowns, social distancing, and the never-ending presence of screens, and it’s been a whirlwind. My daughter’s attachment to her iPad has made it a struggle to keep her engaged in the wonders of childhood while managing the daily grind, including the mind-numbing repetition of watching “Full House” for the eighth time. Through it all, I often think of Mr. J.
“I remember the last day of school,” he once told me, in response to my whining about trivial high school dramas. I expected a comforting, almost grandfatherly moment. Instead, he smiled wistfully and shared, “In May of 1941, I went to school one day, came home, and found out the next morning that my school had been bombed during the blitz.”
He recounted how the destruction of his school thrust him into adulthood. With his father away at war, his mother needed him to step up. Without school, he took on odd jobs and helped repair what he could in their war-torn city. “Of course,” he quipped, “as a young boy, I sometimes wished our house would be bombed so I wouldn’t have to clean it. I imagined my mum and I would be safe elsewhere. I’m not that horrible. Just a bit.”
Reflecting on his story, I would gladly accept the provincial announcement of school closures back in March. While I have faced many challenges, navigating a war is not one of them. My daughter has not experienced the terror of nighttime bombings or the uncertainty of a parent’s return from war. Our worst has been bland headlines and generic emails, a stark contrast to Mr. J.’s experiences.
Yet, a different kind of weariness has emerged, one that Mr. J. foresaw. I expressed my disbelief at how difficult it must have been to manage such a situation. He brushed off my naive empathy, saying, “I was young enough that it left its mark, but I was able to grow beyond it eventually. Life went on. I always had my friends and community. Without that support, I might have ended up in a much worse state.”
This sentiment resonates with me. For every major crisis over the past century, each generation has faced its unique challenges—war, economic turmoil, disease. We are living through one such upheaval in 2020, a time that Mr. J. remarked would overwhelm the youthful exuberance he had amid the rubble of his childhood schoolyard.
Our isolation poses its own valid challenges. It breeds anxiety and despair, as we wrestle with the need for connection versus the reality of staying apart from loved ones for months on end. This struggle, while not as grave as war, is still significant. It is reshaping us into versions of ourselves we never anticipated. Our children are left to navigate an unusual stillness that humanity is not designed for.
I often find myself reflecting on Mr. J.’s wartime stories and contemplate the tales my daughter will share when she reaches her 70s. Will she recount a time when she couldn’t visit friends or family? Will she tell of how we found creative ways to fill our time while the streets below grew quiet, stores became lined with arrows, and masks became a norm? I wonder if she’ll share those memories with dark humor and hearty laughs, explaining why birthday candles are no longer blown out, reminiscing about a time when that was just a standard event.
And I ponder how she will respond when faced with the same naive empathy I once extended to Mr. J., a man who lived through war.
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Summary:
Reflecting on the experiences shared by an elderly man, Mr. J., during my teenage years has provided a new perspective as I navigate parenting amid the challenges of a pandemic. His stories of resilience during wartime highlight the unique struggles each generation faces and remind us of the importance of community and connection, especially in times of isolation. As I ponder the future stories my daughter will tell, I recognize the profound impact these shared experiences will have on shaping her understanding of the world.