Squamish lost a colourful member of our community just before Christmas.
A few weeks before his 42nd birthday, on Dec. 20, James Edward Torrie – or Jimmy as he was more commonly known – passed away. Jimmy was a fixture at the Chieftain Centre Mall and often outside Save-On-Foods, where he greeted shoppers with a shy smile as he tried to piece together money for the things he needed, particularly dog food for his faithful companion.
I didn’t know Jimmy well. But in the past 10 years that I have lived here, my daughters and I came to recognize him as someone with a kind and gracious heart. He was real, and I appreciated that. I often would offer him food after a shop in the grocery store – and learned early on that he didn’t like bananas.
His presence was a gift to me and my family. He allowed my girls to learn that not everyone lived in a comfortable house, had a job to count on or a warm meal waiting – yet you could still offer a wide smile. They came to know that sometimes it’s not easy to stay clean, have clothes that fit well or even a pair of socks in the middle of winter, but it’s possible to still take pride in one’s self.
Jimmy wasn’t always at his best, though. Sometimes he was absent for what seemed like weeks at a time. Other times, it was clear he was wrestling with his demons, and they seemed to be winning. He struggled, as many people on the streets do, with health issues.
I won’t claim to know the finer details of Jimmy’s life. I don’t. I could generalize or make guesses, and I’m sure many of us have. I have, in my mind, tried to piece things together, to make sense of a life that was seemingly hand-to-mouth. But adding labels doesn’t feel helpful or particularly kind. We are more than our collective ailments, addictions, and circumstances.
So much more.
During his more difficult times, Jimmy was as careful with his words and actions around my children as he could be. He spoke less. He kept his eyes downcast beneath his mop of dirty blond hair and ever-present ball cap. He smiled less.
From that I think my children learned that life can be very, very tough. And regardless, even during these bleak times, we have to show up as best we can and tend to what needs tending – whether that means making enough change for a cup of warm coffee or a few dollars to buy a new chain for your bike.
There were many times Jimmy would occupy my thoughts long after I had run into him. I wondered where he went at night, if he had family. Jimmy felt like someone who wasn’t that much different from me; maybe he just had a rougher road. Or perhaps he just wasn’t as well equipped to deal with what life threw his way. He could easily have been my younger brother. Anytime I saw him, I welcomed the chance to see how he was doing, see if he had a smile to offer or not, and to find out what he needed.
If I could help him, I would. Once we had a particularly poignant exchange. He started by asking if I had a Band-Aid. We sat on the curb that cold afternoon and he showed me the sores on his feet. It was clear he needed so much more. That day I bought Jimmy a box of bandages, something to clean his sores with, gauze and some new socks.
He didn’t say a lot when I handed him the bag, but his posture changed and I took this to mean he felt some relief. One problem for the day could be checked off his list. Frankly, I’m sure the exchange did more for me than for him. Jimmy simply gave me the opportunity to help in a way I hadn’t known would be possible when I got out of bed that morning. And I was so grateful.
I remain grateful for him, his bright blue eyes and his chipped-tooth smile. I doubt I will stop looking for him.
In his obituary this quote was shared: “We need to look at what we have in common, not what makes us different, so we can reduce the distance between us.”
Such a simple, powerful statement.
Thanks for everything you gave us, Jimmy. You will be missed.
