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.
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