When I Grow Up

This week I was fortunate to spend time in the company of some sprightly onagenarians, overlooking the north coast in St Lucy. At 94 and 98 years of age, these women could recall names of people they grew up with and even how those people may have been related to my family.

They could recount the events of the labour unrest and race riots in 1937, as if it had happened yesterday - describing how they had to hide in the cane fields to avoid the violence.

I didn't ask what their secret was but some of the woman had skin that was smooth and glowed as if they possessed the finest coconut oil in all the land.

Despite some physical restrictions, they had strong mid-lines and moved with grace and poise. This was most likely due, in no small part, to the years they spent lugging loads of fruits and vegetables on a 9.6 km journey (on foot!) from the Shorey Village in St Andrew to St Lucy.

Most importantly, they all had an incredible sense of humour and a quick wit I could only aspire to. When they laughed, it was a deep belly laugh that filled the room and caused anyone who heard it to burst into laughter.

Later that day at lunch on the west coast, I met a woman who was celebrating her 93rd birthday. She possessed a similar poise and a twinkle in her eyes of a thousand tales to be told. Before she left, she turned to my table and said, "you must enjoy your life" and then walked cheerfully out of the restaurant.