Elegy For A Stranger

I recently read the news that a woman in a nearby town had passed earlier this year and it produced a moment of sadness as I remembered her. 

Truth is, I didn’t know Alice well at all. Aside from one or two conversations, we were strangers to each other. But I remember those conversations, well, the spirit of them anyway, if not the exact words. It was the early to mid-nineties, when my parents owned the little store up here in our town and Alice stopped in once, maybe twice. Somehow or other, we struck up a conversation that turned into a lesson on the history of our town as well as those surrounding it. I can close my eyes and see her still, hunched over at the counter as she told me about places and people that were here long before I was born. 

Aside from that, I don’t think we interacted in any way ever again. Truth be told, I’m not sure she ever knew my name. 

Come to think of it, yeah, she probably did. Alice knew pretty much everything and everyone within a fifteen to twenty mile radius of Erin, New York. 

I don’t know a whole lot about her though, but what I do know is enough. 

I know that despite whatever medical issues caused her posture to be extremely hunched over, the poor woman walked at an almost ninety degree angle, she didn’t let it stop her. Lord knows I’d see her walking all over Elmira and Horseheads. I know that she was a very unique person and people made the mistake of judging her by how she looked and dressed. As her obituary states, “Alice was a perfect example of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’ She was judged by her appearance to be a poor homeless person. In reality she was an educated, well traveled and generous person who simply traveled to the beat of her own drum.” 

We make assumptions and, well, you know how the saying goes. 

I’d also add that she was a living treasure trove of knowledge and I wish I knew even a fraction of what she knew when it came to our area and its rich rural history.

Human history has been handed down through time in story form. For generations our species’ story was shared through oral storytelling whether it was recounting the day’s successful hunt around a campfire or epic tales of heroism in battle. Some were memorized to be told again and again for generations. They became the basis for legends such as Beowulf, Cú Chulainn, King Arthur, and more. As the written word developed, these stories were preserved for posterity and are enjoyed even today through the latest medium. Though embellished with each telling and now considered works of fiction, it’s still possible to find a bit of our history, and ourselves, within those accounts. 

Countless other stories though, have been lost to time. While they may not be fabled tales of fighting Grendel or the Mongol horde, they still play a part, albeit a quiet one, in our history. Stories of survival during a historically brutal winter or perhaps reminiscing about being educated in a one room country school house bring our local history to life. If we’re smart, we learn to listen, to remember, and appreciate where we come from both as individuals as well as a community. In doing so we keep the memories, that history, and those people who lived it alive. All too often though, those people and their stories slip through the cracks. And when they’re gone, their stories go with them, lost forever. 

Friends and neighbors who knew Alice far better than I are fortunate to have heard her story. They’re no doubt grateful for the opportunity and I’d bet that they’ve shared those stories with others at least once or twice. If not yet, they will and in doing so will keep her memory alive as well as that history she passed on to them. That’s exactly how it’s supposed to be, and has been, for thousands of years. 

For my part, while I don’t remember the words exchanged when we talked, I remember the moment and the connection, however brief. For that I am both lucky and grateful.