The Girl in the Backseat

To some, I suppose, I am an old woman.  My hair is white, my gait is a bit more cautious and lines criss cross my face like an often folded map.  I understand now, as the years come more swiftly, that my outward appearance doesn't begin to reflect how I feel inside.  I don't mind this newest version of myself.  I've slipped into my mid sixties like a favorite comfy sweater on a winter day - my many years of triumphs and regrets woven together into a lovely jumble of memories.  The funny thing is, though, as anyone my age can attest, on the inside, the essence of who I am feels like the same person I was at 40, at 20, at 10.

There's no time during the year that I feel this more keenly than I do at Christmastime. As I decorate my house and sing along to carols on Pandora, I always find myself thinking back to Christmases past. Of all the chapters of my life, each Christmas has added patina to my memory bank.  Somehow, though, I always find myself yearning for the Christmases of my childhood most often.  

In my family, Christmas Eve was the big celebration, always held at my aunt and uncle's home in La Grange Park.  Our dove gray Ford would be bursting with gaily wrapped gifts as we made our way from our home to theirs.  In those days, people still dressed up, even for get togethers with family.  I can picture my dad holding my hand as he led me to the car, looking handsome in his shirt and tie, overcoat and hat.  My mom always looked so festive with a red or green dress, high heels and jangly bell earrings.  My sister and I would have  new Christmas dresses along with patent leather shoes and frilly socks.

As we pulled out of the driveway to start the trip to their house, the car was still chilly - the heater had not quite warmed up the backseat.  Kim and I shivered, both from the cold and with the delicious anticipation of what we knew was going to be a wonderful night.  Nat King Cole or Perry Como's voice would fill the car with familiar carols as I pressed my nose against the window watching the familiar landmarks pass, each one bringing us closer and closer to our destination.

And then... we were there!  A flurry of excitement as we walked up the stairs to their front door, our parents arms laden with the beautiful gifts.  A rush of warm air as my uncle opened the front door to welcome us in. I can still hear his voice calling "Merry Christmas" and see him in his red cardigan sweater, smelling of pipe tobacco and love. The tree would dominate the living room, bedecked in lights, ornaments and tinsel, with an ocean of presents that grew larger and larger as each family member arrived.  My aunt, popping out momentarily from the kitchen, wore a frilly apron decorated with sprigs of holly.  My mom would disappear into the kitchen to help the other adult females with dinner preparations and my sister and I would spend time with our cousins and the men would talk, while favorite Christmas records played on the hi-fi.

We had to eat dinner first, before opening gifts, which seemed a bit like torture as a child.  It was our custom to have spaghetti for dinner each Christmas Eve.  I asked my mother how that tradition started, years later, wondering what the significance was.  In my mind, I thought it had probably begun in the Depression when budgets were tight and just continued on, but no, she said.  It was always spaghetti because it was easy to serve, especially to a big crowd, and the children all liked it.  

After dinner, the dishes had to be done before presents!  My cousins, sister and I waited patiently, hearing the adults in the kitchen talking and laughing together as they washed and towel dried the plates and silver.  It seemed to take forever, but in some ways I didn't really mind.  The enormous pile of gifts was full of possibilities.  There were no gift bags then - everything was wrapped beautifully in gorgeous paper, ribbon and poufy bows.  Those moments - awaiting the arrival of all of the grown ups from the kitchen into the living room were filled with heady emotions.  It wasn't just about hoping for a certain gift - though there was some of that - but more about the warm, secure feeling of being in what felt like the best place on earth at that particular moment in time. The sounds of laughter, the voices of people who I loved and who loved me, the scent of evergreen and the colors of the Christmas season everywhere.  It was so magical to me.  So perfect.

Opening the gifts was loud and chaotic with paper and ribbon everywhere. It's funny, I don't remember particular gifts I may have received as being highlights of those Christmas Eves so long ago.

Soon it was time to get ready to go home.  After all, Santa was making his rounds and we knew that if we weren't home in bed, fast asleep, he might pass our house by completely.  Kim and I changed into our pajamas - the flannel footed ones that would keep us toasty warm on the car ride home.  My dad repacked the car with opened gifts and finally, after hugs and kisses from my aunts, uncles and cousins, we began our ride home.

Drowsy but excited, I looked out the window at all of the beautiful lights and decorations of the homes as we passed them on our way. One year, as I was on the cusp of not believing in Santa Claus anymore, we passed a house where I saw someone dressed in a Santa suit carrying a large bag as he approached the front door.  I panicked - what if we didn't get home in time?  What if he had already gone to Tinley Park and we weren't home in bed?  My parents tried to reassure me that Santa would still come to our house, but I think I didn't fully believe it until I saw the presents under the tree on Christmas morning.

By the time we got home, Kim and I had fallen asleep in the backseat, so my dad carried us into the house and upstairs to our beds where our mom tucked us in. Christmas day was just a few hours away and it too, would be filled with tradition of church, pancakes, Santa gifts and more family visits.  It was so easy to slip into that lovely child's slumber - carefree, filled with happiness and anticipation.

Through the years I have made lovely Christmas memories in the years when my children were small and now, with my precious grandchildren. Each Christmas brings a new layer of joy and thankfulness for the birth of Our Lord which, in turn, allows us to celebrate Him with those we love.

Those childhood Christmases, though, were the gold standard for me.  As the radio stations begin playing carols and the decorations go up, I always think back to those Christmas Eves of my childhood and how they made me feel.  I often wish, just once, I could go back in time and be the little girl in the backseat of the car, nose pressed against the window, instead of being one of the adults up front.  Of course I can only be that little girl in my mind, and only for a moment or two.  After all, I have to make the spaghetti sauce and finish wrapping the gifts.

The Sweetest Thing

Back in my previous life, before moving to Florida and retirement, I worked as the store manager at my husband's family business - a camera store/photo studio/film processing lab in Chicago's Lakeview East neighborhood on the north side.

One of the absolute best things about working there was meeting so many nice and interesting people and having the privilege of developing relationships with them.  I was able to glean snippets of some of the best times of their lives from them as they dropped off precious rolls of film to be developed from their wedding or vacation of a lifetime.  I watched the "buggy brigade" of young moms and their little ones stop in to see us as they documented their babies as they arrived and celebrated each milestone of childhood.

Since our store was located in an urban area, we were fortunate to have a customer base of a diverse swath of people.  I loved the process of learning more from the stories of their lives with each short visit they made to our store.  While, as a business, we stayed pretty consistently busy, the mornings, especially, were a little less hectic.  That was the time I could tidy the picture frames, straighten the album display and file the packets of photos awaiting pick up.  It was also the best time to have conversations with those that were home during the day and did not rush off to jobs downtown. 

Hawthorne Place was the street one block south of where our store was situated.  It was a gorgeous block of stately homes with large, rolling lawns behind massive wrought iron gates. One of those homes belonged Mrs. E.  I only saw her infrequently, when she and her companion/housekeeper would stop in the store for a roll of film or album refills.  She was an elderly woman, always leaning on her cane and resting slightly against the counter or her companion.  Our conversations were never long and she didn't share many details of her life, but I was enchanted by the idea of her living in such a grand house on Hawthorne.  As a reader, I envisioned her as the heroine of a Dickens novel (Miss Havisham?) with a mysterious past that no doubt included debutante balls, trips abroad on ocean liners and a string of beaux from which she could choose a husband.  I had probably "known" her for 5 years or so when she stopped coming into the store and sent her companion to run her errands instead.  I missed seeing Mrs. E, missed the formal way she spoke and asked about my family.  

One day, to my surprise, her housekeeper came in and handed me a sealed envelope with my name on the front in tall, confident cursive.  It was an invitation, written on a thick vellum card, to luncheon (not lunch) at her home one afternoon in two weeks time.  I was thrilled.

I dressed carefully that day in a dress instead of my usual work clothes and carried a fresh bouquet of flowers.  I remember thinking, as I rang the bell at her home, that I almost felt as though I should have been wearing gloves and a hat with a fascinator veil to complete the illusion I had of stepping back into time. Her housekeeper answered the door, ushered me inside, and whisked the flowers away, only to have them reappear later on the dining room table in a Waterford vase.

Mrs. E was an accomplished hostess.  Though she had aged quite a bit since I had seen her last,  throughout our meal she peppered me with questions about my life and my ambitions.  I tried to ask her about her own life, particularly about her late husband and earlier days in her home, but she deftly turned the conversation back to me time and time again.  All too soon, the luncheon was over, and I found myself walking down Hawthorne again - this time back to the store.  I didn't see much of Mrs. E after that, as her health had begun to decline, though her companion relayed her good wishes each time she came into the store.  I always wondered why she had asked me.  Our relationship had always been formal and our interactions fairly brief.  Whatever the reason was, I was able to tuck the magnificent memory of that afternoon into the story of my life.

Mr. Delson was another customer who has always stayed dear to my heart. He always spoke softly with what I imagined was an Eastern European accent (I later learned it was Latvian). He, too, was in his eighties when we began to strike up conversations over the store counter. Sometimes his sister, with whom he lived, came with him, though she rarely said more than hello.  He would tip his hat in a courtly fashion, call me "Lady Linda" and tell me how much he appreciated my smile. I can't remember one time spent speaking to Mr. Delson that he was cross or complained or was short tempered. 

I knew him for years, though really, only in that casual way that a customer and shop keeper would know each other.  I knew he was a civic activist and had his very own orchestra that played at the Blackstone Hotel downtown in the evenings.  Mostly, though, instead of sharing more details about his life, he would talk about current topics or tell me how much he enjoyed visiting with me. Each time I saw Mr. Delson, I was struck by how five minutes spent sharing pleasantries would brighten my day immeasurably.

One day, I was completely surprised when his sister, Miss Delson, came by alone.  She handed me a wrapped box of Fannie May chocolates - my absolute favorites - with a note from Mr. Delson.  She told me he hadn't been feeling well which was why she had come alone, but that the candy was a token of his friendship and he wanted me to know how much he enjoyed our conversations.  I was bowled over by the unexpectedness of it all and by his generosity.  What a kind soul, I thought.  What a dear, sweet man.

The following week I learned that Mr. Delson had passed away the very day after his sister had brought the chocolates and note to me.  I was devastated, but also incredibly touched that he had reached out to me in the waning days of his life. I didn't ever want to forget this gentle man with his easy smile and old world ways, so I carefully folded the note he sent and put it into a locket in the shape of a book that I had and carefully kept it in my jewelry box.

That was 22 years ago, and though I don't wear the locket anymore, I take it out of my jewelry box from time to time, read the note and give thanks that I've been blessed knowing such lovely people in my life.

I suppose if there are any lessons to be drawn from these experiences of mine, it's that the smallest, most seemingly insignificant actions can become treasured memories for someone else.  A lunch(eon), a note and some candy, a quick smile and the genuine interest we can show one another can become the basis for a cherished memory.  And there is nothing in this world sweeter than that.

You'll Be In My Heart

Early this morning before taking my grandson to school, he was fooling around with the Echo that Mike got for Christmas, ordering Alexa to do this and that, much to his delight. Eventually he commanded Alexa to play Disney songs and then settled in to eat his breakfast while I puttered in the kitchen with meal prep for later in the day.

Suddenly, the song I couldn't bear to hear was playing - You'll Be In My Heart by Phil Collins from the movie Tarzan.  In what felt like the worst kind of time travel, I felt myself transported back to my little sister's hospice room, a mere 7 or 8 hours before she died.  Kim loved Phil Collins and had every CD he ever put out and that song was one of her absolute favorites.  I had gotten the idea to download several of his songs onto my phone to play at her bedside, which I did.  At that point in her journey she was pretty much comatose, though we were able to rouse her partially with a lot of effort, if necessary.  My mom and I sat at her bedside, along with my daughter Amy and her husband, Tyler, trying our best to be present and uplifting for my sister but simultaneously feeling scared and trying to hold it together for Kim's sake.

I will never forget holding her hand as the song You'll Be In My Heart played from my phone.  I sang/whispered the words into her ear as I squeezed her hand, hoping on some level she could feel the energy of how much I loved her right through my fingertips.  Somehow, at that moment, that song became an anthem for us, for our sisterhood.  For the nights spent together in our shared bedroom when she would beg me to tell her a story.  For the countless Christmases and birthdays and every ordinary day in between that we played together; swam together; went to school together; navigated our parent's divorce together.  She was only sixteen months younger than me and at 57, she was far too young to die. How incredibly impossible it is to be a supporting actor in this tragedy - to watch someone who knows you better than anyone else and who you love wholly and without reservation slip away inch by inch before your eyes. What kind of a world would it be without her in it?  I couldn't begin to grasp the far reaching effects.  Looking at her, vulnerable in her hospital bed, her body wracked with the damn cancer, I knew on an intellectual level that I wanted her suffering to end.  I was being selfish, not wanting to give up one moment of my life that had her in it.  But of course, it wasn't up to me.

My mother, in her eighties, was also barely keeping it together.  The emotional toll was enormous and she had physical limitations to deal with as well.  Her grief was raw and somehow I needed to do my best to shepherd her through this.  I wanted to spend the night at the hospice center with Kim, as I sensed (and the nurses affirmed) that the end was probably near.  Earlier in the day, my mom had agreed that it was a good idea, but after nightfall, she winced with discomfort trying to find a modicum of comfort in the recliner at Kim's bedside.  "I don't think I can do this, Linda," she whispered to me, "can we go home? Let's come back early tomorrow morning."

Of course, I assured her, though inside I was devastated.  She needed me to be near her and I couldn't bring myself to refuse her knowing how fragile she was.

Outside in the parking lot as I helped my mom into the car, I looked up at Kim's window and saw the glow of the lamp that sat on the table near her bed.  "This is it," I thought.  "I don't think I'll ever see her alive again," and my heart broke into a million pieces.  There was something so both poignant and stark seeing that light burning in her window as we prepared to drive away. "Today is the anniversary of the Kennedy assassination," I said dully as I pulled the car out of the parking space.  "It's a terrible day."

A little after midnight that night the call came through from the hospice center.  Kim was gone.  Time, over the last five years, has gradually lessened the glass shards of grief that stabbed at my heart those first days and months.  One thing I was never able to do since then, though, was to listen to Phil Collins sing that song.  I deleted it from my playlist and quickly changed the station if it ever came on the radio. Even hearing a few bars of the song took me back to that sad, sad day and filled me with emotions that I thought I needed to keep locked away forever.  

Today, though, as the song I dreaded echoed through my kitchen, I forced myself to listen more closely to the words.  I realized in a sudden burst of clarity that Kim would always be in my heart, now and forever.  Instead of feeling filled with pain like an overflowing cup, I felt as if she were in the room  - her arms wrapped around me, reminding me that she's always there, always with me, in a million ways.  I'm sure there will still be times in the future when the song starts playing unexpectedly that I'll have to pause and  force myself not to turn it off out of habit. In the end, though, I will learn to embrace it as a blessing and reminder that while she isn't here in the physical sense, she is with me every moment and the bond we share as sisters can never be broken.