There are times in this job where you wish you could have the time to do a story justice. Dropping in on centenarian Max Hill on Tuesday was one of those moments. I longed to be able to plonk in the comfy chair next to his, one that perhaps was inhabited by his late wife Zeta, and spend the day just listening to him talk about the past 100 years.
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How often do you get to do that? Spend time with people who have seen so much, experienced all kinds of things you can’t even imagine?
I wanted to search the nooks and crannies of his house. He knew exactly where the old hockey sticks used for the photograph were. I wanted to know who the people were in the photos around the house, generations of family, some fading, some fresh.
There was a photograph of Zeta on their honeymoon holding a little wobbegong shark. Who caught it? Where were you? How was it, caught up in that flush of first love in 1941?
There would have been a war going on, futures uncertain, did you talk about that while you sat on the beach, while you were fishing, curled up in bed like the honeymooners you were? You’ve lived through a few wars, seen the whole concept of warfare change. I didn’t even ask if you had served.
I wanted to ask about the trinkets around the house, Zeta’s collection of ornamental mice: what did they mean to her, did you see them in your travels and think my wife would like that, tuck one away for her on your return?
I wanted to ask how it feels to have lived in the same house for 78 years. What memories each room holds, where babies were laid, where doors were slammed, where faces would appear after long absences, what meals were cooked, what walls you pressed your wife up against to kiss her passionately. Homes hold so many memories.
I never asked you what regrets you had. You didn’t seem like the kind of man who would have many. Still sharp and to the point, although, as even you admitted, your memory for the past is better than remembering the now.
We all have them. Would you have liked to have travelled more? Been kinder? Been a better husband, or father, or indeed grandfather and beyond? Achieved more in your career, had a better education, been better with your money? Does any of that even matter now?
You said your greatest accomplishment was that your family all still seemed to like to each other, that they all still made the time to talk to you, even the newest, youngest additions. What a blessing.
That’s how we’d all like to be remembered. Headstones full of words like good father and friend to many, loved by all. How many headstones read: filed all his tax returns on time, or successful lawyer, the balance in our bank account?
It’s sometimes not until a life is plucked from our own, that we start to think about these things. You can’t spend more time with someone after they have gone. That’s a regret many people have. I wish I had spent more time with my children while they were little, made time for friends, found time for people who mattered, and indeed, those who didn’t.
You said one of the things you realised later in life (and you said later in life a couple of times, and I wondered when, at 100, did later in life kick in, at 50, 80? Perhaps all is not lost for me and there is time to realise, and then act on, all these things myself) was that what really mattered were relationships and connections with people, being able to help other people. You’re right, that is what matters. Why does it take us so long to realise that, or why do we realise that way too late?
I hope that you kick on, that maybe you even get to see one of your great-grandchildren become a parent, you kind of liked the idea of great-greatness, I could tell when you mentioned it.
What a legacy. And perhaps your legacy to us all is reminding us that we should all be taking life one week at a time. And eating those bananas as much as we can.
