Was different back them. So she claims. Didn’t have to worry about walking alone at night. No fear. It was simply a case of being. No worries.
I contemplate what she’s said. So much is true. My grandmother is pushing 95 years old. It happens that she was home today. On my chilly roll home from my road riding hill climbing day I decide to pop in for tea.
There’s always something to talk about. Memories. The good old days.
Nana brings up the murder not long ago by two young boys. They killed a young teenage girl. Minutes from where she lives.
We all have to scratch our heads on that one. Why? What makes a person so young commit such cruelty?
Then she sits back; deep in her wing back and claims life is like this. But it wasn’t that way when she was growing up.
“I grew up in the best times,” she says.
She remembers her days in Vancouver and walking around Stanley Park, even at night.
“You wouldn’t do that now,” she adds shaking her head.
True. Because of fear. Because of the known. Because of what’s been.
We live in different times. Shaded by horrors of the past. Not war. But murders, rapes and robberies.
Two cups of tea and some homemade cabbage rolls later, I push for a positive note to end the visit on.
We talk about my brother’s children. Her grandchildren. The accomplishments of the others.
Growing up a different world to what hers was.
Growing up in the new now.