When my cousin Stuart was a kid he visited our Aunt in Toronto’s west end, circa 1960. She was a single, working, professional woman in tweed suits, sensible shoes and a once-a-week hairdo. They went for a walk down a busy street and he, being an excitable ten year old boy, kept running on ahead. He’d stop and wait impatiently for her to catch up. After the third such frustration, he walked back to see why she was so slow. What was keeping her? There she was, talking to homeless people and handing out change. In Stuart’s eyes, these were people he had always taken for granted–they weren’t people anyone needed to stop for, let alone talk with.

He was shocked to learn that she knew most of them by name and she knew enough about each of them to ask for updates on their circumstances. When our aunt died a couple of decades ago, Stuart told this story at her funeral. In that moment, he said, watching her chat comfortably and easily with those men, he learned a little something about kindness, consideration, and respect for others.

A side effect of growing older is the sad but true fact that more people around you pass away; Stuart died this past week. I can’t say that he and I were very close, but I can say I thoroughly enjoyed every conversation I ever had with him. He had a brilliant wit, a clever turn of phrase, and I believe he invented the self-deprecating remark.

We hadn’t seen each other in a very long time, but we grew up loving all the same people. His mother was one of my favourite aunts in spite of my mother’s constant, and very vocal, disapproval of her showy, bosomy ways. And I know he got an immense kick out of the character who was my mother. Together, we both loved our fore-mentioned Aunt.

His daughter wrote a lovely post commemorating him. I hope she will forgive me for borrowing her words. In her heartfelt goodbye she thanked him for teaching her to always talk to the cashiers, the cabbies, and the ‘real people with dirt on their collars’.  

That’s not a bad legacy for any one.

Keep your joy.

Anne Milne is an every Sunday blogger, unless it’s a holiday weekend. Or summertime. Facebook or email.