Marj Watkins at age 100
By Suzanna Leigh
“How do you spend your days, now that you are 100 years old and retired?” I asked my mom, Marj Watkins.
Waiting patiently while she struggled to find the words, I resisted the impulse to fill in the word I thought she might want. I thought she would start with, “Oh to be 80 again!” Instead she said, “I … watch the little … the little … creatures, and I wonder what their little lives are like,” referring to the squirrels and birds she feeds on the deck outside her window. “And I remember … things.” She pointed to a wicker basket resting on the old treadle sewing machine, filled with her now-unused art supplies. “I bought that from … from a … gypsy girl in France.”
Mom told me how, many years ago when we were stationed in France, a gypsy girl came to the back door “like a proper merchant,” selling baskets her mother had made. They were well-made baskets, and mom bought one, over Madam Ochone’s objections (Madame Ochone was the French woman who helped mom with the housework).
“You shouldn’t buy from her!” Madame Oshone admonished. “She is a gypsy. Gypsies steal!”
“Well, if you won’t buy from them, how else will they live?” Mom asked. “They have to steal!”
Mom still treasures that basket, and I treasure her lesson in non-judgement – a lesson I am still learning. For example, there was Danny, back in Oatman, AZ, the little “ghost town” I lived in with Davey during the 70s. Danny was a drinking man with six kids and a wife, who had trouble keeping a job. At least that was my perception of him. And he was known to lie. I didn’t have much use for him. In fact I thought he was … some sort of low-life.
Until one day …
It was 30 miles down a rough, narrow road from the small community of Oatman to the nearest grocery store, an hour’s drive away. That’s where my truck broke down. Thirty miles from home. This was back before cell phones, so I had no way to call for help. There I was, standing beside the road with baby Atom in my arms. I was stranded. I didn’t know what to do.
But merciful Heavens, there was Danny! He saw me as he drove by and stopped to help. He fiddled with the truck and discovered the problem; the old battery was dead and wouldn’t hold a charge. He drove me to the nearest auto parts store where I bought a new battery. He drove me back to the truck, installed the battery, and got the truck running again.
I was able to finish my shopping and head back up the long hill to Oatman in time to have dinner on the table when Davey got home from work. I looked at Danny a little differently after that, and I am less likely to look down my nose at people who aren’t living their lives the way I think they should.
We have so many stereotypes we want to judge people by, based on what they are wearing, what they look like, their race, religion, financial situation. I think we do that because we are lazy. If we judge people and situations by outward appearances, we don’t need to go to the trouble of getting to know who they really are or what is really going on. Trouble is, when we do that, we are often wrong and we can make bad decisions. It can lead us to putting our trust in the wrong people, or to giving people grief who don’t deserve it, if we only knew their backstory.
Like mom always told me, “Don’t judge a person until you have walked a mile in their moccasins.”
