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. 

We'll Always Have Paris

When I was in fifth grade I was offered the option of learning a foreign language in school- either French or Spanish. I suppose from a practical standpoint, Spanish would have served me better, but I chose French without a moments hesitation.  I memorized our ALM dialogs faithfully, happily conjugated avoir and practiced my accent while talking to our family dog.  My teacher, Mrs. Cheney, decided to rename me Margot during class time as there was nothing French to be conjured up from "Linda."  I reveled in it all.

My hearts desire was that someway, somehow I would go to Paris one day.  It was more than a mere 4150 miles away from my little Cape Cod house in Tinley Park, Illinois - it was a different world, a different way of life.  I watched rapturously as Audrey Hepburn explained the magic of seeing the Bois de Boulogne in the rain to Humphrey Bogart in Sabrina.  As a lark I would occasionally call Air France and book a flight to Paris, knowing it would cancel 24 hours prior to flight time without payment.  But somehow just knowing there was a flight booked to Paris in my name, for however short a period of time, was intoxicating and heady.

One of my favorite Christmas gifts, the book My Paris, by Maurice Chevalier, became dog eared and worn from constant use.  I continued taking French in school every year through my first year of college...  9 years in all. I'd like to say it's because I was determined to visit Paris someday no matter what, but truthfully, in my heart of hearts, it seemed like a pipe dream.  I hoped it would happen, but I didn't really expect it to.

But then I met Mike, we fell in love and decided to get married.  As we began to discuss where to go on our honeymoon, my old dream returned front and center, and miracle of miracles, Mike was completely on board!  The mere idea that we would be honeymooning in Paris had surpassed even my wildest dreams.  I bought guidebook after guidebook and read endless reviews of small, intimate hotels in Frommer's.  Rive gauche or Rive droite?   Should we have a planned itinerary or let the spirit of the City of Light guide us through our days?  I spent hours culling my wardrobe for the trip, discarding anything that painted us as American tourists.  In those days, we were told that the French disliked Americans with their crass behavior and loud voices.  Most likely, we were advised, the French would treat us rudely and with absolute disdain.  We decided to opt for adventure, avoid taxis and use the Metro exclusively - even from the airport.  

After much consideration we chose Hotel St. Roch at 25 rue St. Roch just off of rue de Rivoli in the 1st arrondissement and kept our fingers crossed that the guidebook descriptions would prove to be accurate.  Our dollars were exchanged for francs (this was before the existence of euros), our bags were packed and the evening to leave had finally arrived.

Our Air France flight from Chicago was a dream.  Lovely, uniformed flight attendants saw to our every need and served us delicious (really!) French food on china plates.  It was a spacious aircraft with an upstairs lounge, so we never felt cramped and I fell asleep happily, my head nestled into Mike's shoulder, nearly overcome with joy and a bit of celebratory champagne.

In the morning we were there!  Bags in hand (no rolling suitcases yet), we made our way onto a bus which would in turn, take us to a central Metro station so we could catch the Metro to the closest stop to our hotel.  Once at the Metro station we found a light up route board, so we set our bags down and studied it, watching the stops on the board light up indicating the correct route.  There were other travelers and commuters darting all around us, everyone in hurry to get where they were going.  Suddenly, we both felt a bit overwhelmed.  Chicago's north side and Tinley Park never seemed so far away.  We were waiting our turn to use the board when suddenly, out of nowhere, a French woman appeared by our side, smiling and asking us in English if we needed help.  She was a retired English teacher, she told us, and loved having the opportunity to use her English whenever she could. Gratefully, we told her our destination and she deftly pressed the button to illuminate our route.  We learned that her name was Claire Plonquet and before we even had a chance to respond, she took one of our bags and insisted that she would accompany us to our hotel to make sure the check in went without a hitch.

Hotel St. Roch was indeed a small, intimate place.  When we arrived, the clerk said he didn't speak any English and while I realized my high school French was woefully inadequate, Claire got us checked in and helped carry our bags up to our third floor room.  She didn't want to intrude on our honeymoon, she said, but if we'd like, she would be happy to show us around the Left Bank in a day or two and we eagerly accepted.

Meanwhile, we filled our days drinking in Paris as if it were the last drops of water on a parched desert.  The history; the excitement of a city that never sleeps; the food that surpassed expectations even when found on a cafeteria line - it was everything and more than I had ever imagined.  Mike and I went to the Bois de Boulogne, not realizing it was a hangout for drug addicts, but still finding the inherent beauty there while managing to get nearly lost right before park closing.  How could it possibly get any better?

When we met up with Claire again, she took us on a guided tour of the Left Bank, pointing out sights and telling us stories we never saw in any guidebook.  Over lunch, she casually mentioned that she was having a small dinner party the next day and invited us to come if we'd like.  Her home was in Glaciere, the 13th arrondissement, and could easily be accessed by the Metro.  We didn't think twice before accepting, marveling at how fortunate we were to have met such a kind, generous woman.

The next evening we made our way to Glaciere and to Claire's apartment.  There were about four dinner guests besides ourselves and not one spoke English.  One gentleman was a Count from Spain, and although Claire was multilingual and spoke Spanish as well, they conversed in French out of deference to the other guests.  Little by little, my school French had been coming back into use and I found I was able to converse with them and even think in French as I was doing so.  I'm sure to them, my limited French, complete with an appalling American accent was laughable, but they were all so gracious and treated us as if we were  visiting royalty.  At the end of the evening, Claire presented us with a book on Paris and warm hugs from herself and all of her guests.  Mike and I were quite overcome.  We had not been treated as annoying, crass Americans one time.  We had, in fact, been treated like dear friends and were shown kindnesses at every turn.

That was 37 years ago.  We've been back to Paris, but sadly, Claire was gone.  Over the years we have visited many other cities and have warm, rich memories of each one.  Somehow, though, nothing will ever come close to comparing to that first trip to Paris and my childhood dream fulfilled. 

April Come She Will

With apologies to T.S. Eliot, I think you got it wrong, buddy.  April is not the cruelest month, it's among the most magnificent thirty days on the calendar.

Okay, I'll acknowledge that if I still lived up north I may be singing a different tune, but here in Florida... well, it's nearly incomparable.  Each morning is like an exquisite gift waiting to be opened.  The daybreak gives way to periwinkle skies and sparse fluffy clouds.  Not much humidity yet, so I still can manage good hair days.  The littles are happy to be shepherded outside to the backyard in the afternoon while I stretch out on the chaise, sunglasses on and in full relaxation mode.  Up and down the Little Tykes slide they go in an endless loop or race barefoot races across the lawn.  I sigh take a sip of water. Surveying the scope of my little world I'm nearly in sensory overload.  The grass is impossibly green; the golf carts zip by filled with men in plaid shorts, visors and skort clad women who pause to wave as they pass us on their way to the next fairway.

I make a mental note to call someone to have the palms trimmed back "hurricane" style before June 1st.  Meanwhile, their fronds dip and sway to the rhythm of the breeze.  Dragonflies hum as they dart in and out of the azaleas.  Normally, a scene like this would make me drowsy but everything around me seems so alive with color, scent and sound that I focus on drinking it all in.  Wouldn't it be lovely, I muse, to somehow bottle the essence of April to take out and relive on dreary days?  I will myself to imprint the details of the moment in my memory bank. 

In the evening I take my usual walk around our neighborhood.  As I start out, daylight is waning.  The boys who usually play street hockey on my block reluctantly leave their friends to go inside for dinner. Lights in front windows wink on, one by one.  The aroma of burgers on a charcoal grill waft by, and although I don't eat red meat, my stomach rumbles with some primeval desire. Small pink bikes lay temporarily abandoned in front yards while their pint sized owners splash happily in their bathtubs.  I listen to my favorite music and just walk, walk, walk.  Soon, it's nightfall.  It's cooler now and I zip my light jacket while looking up at the sky.  It's a clear night and the stars remind me of glitter scattered across the heavens. I think of my parents, my sister, and friends I've lost and feel their presence in the night sky.

Later, as I snuggle into bed, I shiver with anticipation for the next day when it happens all over again.  May, with her beguiling attributes, is just around the corner.  I know I'll love May with full abandon when the time comes and my love affair with April will fade into the background, but right now, at this very moment, I want this month to last forever.

The Things We Leave Behind

Every spring I vow to myself that this will be the year I drastically pare down the "stuff" I've accumulated, though so far I've been less than successful.  Oh, I throw plenty away, too - old birthday cards, wedding programs, funeral mass cards and magazines, but I'm still left with too many things I can't seem to bring myself to part with.

On the closet shelf in one of our guest rooms there are about seven boxes filled with an assortment of photographs.  There is another box like it in the closet under the stairs and another one still in the garage.  These photos - some of which are horribly bad - are a potpourri of my life.  There are my baby pictures, chunky monkey baby Linda in a sundress and bonnet (what can I say - it was the Fifties); my sister and I at about 7 and 9 years old respectively with our pixie haircuts in matching short sets; wedding pictures for my parents and Mike and I and scads of miscellaneous photos of aunts, uncles, cousins, friends - you name it.  There are also a sizeable number of old family photos that I've inherited of my grandparents and their siblings, most of whom were long gone by the time I was born.  On the back in faded blue ink there will be a short description - "At Cedar Lake" or "Chicago, 1911." 

It's sentimental, I know, to hold on to these pictures of people I never met, but who hold a blood connection to me.  I'll study them - relatives I've only heard of by name, frozen in time on a Kodak print with their glossy black and white finish and white crimped edges.  What were they like, I wonder.  Were they funny and nice?  Hard working or cavalier? What hardships did they struggle with that are barely hinted at with a half smile or troubled eyes?  I know some of their stories, the ones my parents shared with us anecdotally as I was growing up, but that's pretty much the extent I know about their lives.  Often, especially in the case of a more distant relative, an entire life would be distilled into one memorable fact - "Aunt Lizzie was so young when she was married that her husband would come home to find her still playing with dolls."

It got me thinking about what would happen to our entire collection of photographs once Mike and I are gone.  I feel more of a connection to some of the people in the oldest family photos because of their connection to my parents in their own childhoods and the faint memories they shared with me.  That connection won't really be there when my own children sort through the boxes of photos and casually throw old pictures of people they never heard of into large garbage bags.  It makes a little sad.  I imagine my children and grandchildren holding on to a picture or two of Mike and I as children or at our wedding - feeling that it doesn't seem right to throw them all away, but not knowing quite what to do with them either.  After all, today's generation saves images on a cloud, not in boxes on closet shelves to be brought out after dinner on holidays to pass around and evoke memories.

I understand that with each generation that passes, those that came before us are mostly just faceless names.  We know they existed and if we really think about it, that they had lives filled with happiness and sadness, dreams and hopes, but overall, they have no bearing on our present day lives.   I wonder, though, if some future great grandchild that I will never know personally will run across one of these pictures of me (one that saved the cut from being tossed in the trash) and hear a sentence or two about my life - encapsulated into a short string of words.  What will those words be? 

I guess I'm not really ready to let these photographs and the lives they represent go quite yet.  Maybe I never will and it will end up being someone else's job, and that's okay too.  In the meantime, I'll savor the life moments I've been given and leave the sentence or two of my legacy to those who are yet to come.

Family Secrets

On the face of it, to people who don't know me well, I may seem like the poster child for a bland and unremarkable life.  And though I complain sometimes that the scope of my existence is dull and predictable, the real truth is that the life I have now has been carefully cultivated and is not a reflection of  the cards I've been dealt.

Family secrets are obviously not in our private domain. The fact that this is something so rarely talked about makes it impossible to guess how many people I've known have pushed some uneasy knowledge far  back into the recesses of their mind.  Or worse, perhaps, let it fester in the forefront, affecting choices and decisions.  Defining them.

These secrets can involve someone whose life doesn't directly influence yours, which makes it more of an embarrassment.  The cousin who is an alcoholic; the aunt who has a cocaine addiction; an uncle arrested for porn on his computer - nothing you want to be broadcast to your friends or co-workers, but far enough removed from you and your life that it doesn't keep you up nights.

Or, conversely, they can be less sensational secrets, but the kind that have far reaching consequences like a stone skimming across a pond. Sometimes I marvel that decisions made by someone else decades ago has helped shape me into the person I've become.

If I look at things clinically, I can see that many of my life choices have been a direct response to my own collection of family secrets.  At least the ones I knew about.

In the last year several more long buried secrets have come to light after a bit of probing. It took me awhile to digest these revelations - to take some time to see how these truths fit into my life.  They were unsettling truths, upending the story I'd always believed - the story I'd always been told.   

Recently I had the opportunity to spend some time with one of my cousins.  We talked about our family secrets and the repercussions of guarding those secrets so ferociously, even within closed familial ranks. There were some tears, some regret, but more importantly, lots of love and forgiveness.  

I can be whoever I want to be, I've decided.  Family secrets  shouldn't have the power to  define me.  I am writing my life story day by day, moment by moment, and I am the author- no one else.  I realize that these secrets have influenced the kind of wife and mother I am, but for that I'm really quite grateful.

Taking it Literally

A few weeks ago I was at Target with my granddaughter picking up several random items from my shopping list.  After leaving the store, I gathered her and the bags into my arms allowing me to leave the shopping cart at the entrance rather than having to wheel it to the corral  in the parking lot while leaving a toddler in the car seat.

As I started walking to my car, a woman called out and ran over to me holding a pumpkin spice candle that had been left in the bottom of my basket.  I realized suddenly that the candle had been left in the cart inadvertently during checkout.  "Oh, no" I said to the woman, "I didn't pay for this!"  She smiled and shrugged.  "Well, it's out of the store now."

At this point I was already buckling my granddaughter into her car seat and was in a bit of a time crunch.  I thought to myself that I would just pay for the candle the next time I went to Target.  And you know what?  I did.

On my next visit I handed the cashier another candle and told him that I wanted to pay for it but wasn't taking it with me  -  that I had mistakenly taken one without paying on my last trip.  He looked at me like I was certifiably insane.  "You're the first person I've met that's ever done that," he said, "I've seen everything now!"  The woman standing behind me in line laughed in agreement.  I suddenly felt like a righteous, holier-than-thou goody two shoes.  The kind that no one likes.

Later, I polled a couple of friends and family members in different age groups to get their take.  "Well," one of them said cautiously, "it's really admirable that you are so honest, but yeah, it's kind of unusual.  I think stores like Target just build shrinkage like that into their pricing."   "It's not like you took shoplifted intentionally or took something from another person," said another. 

Let me take a moment to be clear here.  I'm not looking from validation from anyone - I just reflexively did what seemed right to me.  At the time, in my mind, it was just a straightforward transaction and I didn't expect any commentary from the cashier at all.  The whole experience and aftermath just got me wondering.  When, I wondered, did I miss the update on society's moral compass?  I am truly not being judgmental here, just curious as to when things changed and how I missed the memo.  Or was the reaction I got (pretty much across the boards) an anomaly and not representative of society in general?  And if a $3.00 candle is no big deal, does that hold true of say, slight exaggerations on income tax forms?  Or cheating in school?  Or any instance that is perceived as victim less, but may have given us pause in years gone by?

As I re-read this, I'm afraid I'm still coming across as preachy or as if I'm claiming moral high ground.  Nope, just puzzled.  And not totally comfortable with being "that person" but not sure at this point in my life I can (or want) to change.  In the meantime, I will most definitely be checking and double checking the bottom on my shopping cart.