We have all been there. Being presented with the dreaded fruit cake during holiday gift giving. This Americanized and far different version of the light and lovely, Italian Panettone, is often a leader in the well meaning but often sneaky world of “re-gifting.” Fruit cakes have been the core of cruel jokes the world over and polls demanding an honest answer, “fruit cake, feast or famine?”
This Christmas day, it was my turn. And so I sat with a frozen smile as my mother-in-law proudly bestowed the brilliant golden box before me. My three sisters moved their chairs closer and looked on with feigned interest and hidden smirks.
The lovely box was adorned with a bright red bow and contained several descriptive lines describing its contents; “Light as a feather and made with love from mother…” I pondered what mother, could do that to her family?
The enticing prose of the copywriter flowed “a painstaking seven day process to perfection in each loaf…” seven days might provide an explanation for the rock hardness of the cake.
And then the final line, “Bringing Families Together for Centuries.” Or apart for years. The real reason why families members don’t speak? Someone gifted another with a fruit cake.
Returning home that evening, I placed the gift on my kitchen counter furiously contemplating to whom I could pass it on. The Golden Rule, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” echoed in and out of my consciousness. Glancing again at the festive box it represented a cruel dichotomy – the outside an innocent Mr. Hyde and the inside, the despicable Dr.Jeckyl. In the end, I did the only reasonable thing possible. Pay it forward.
Our home borders a hundred acre nature preserve with every creature imaginable in residence. Waiting till night fall I carried the fruit cake out to the woods and removed it from the box. I gingerly placed it just off the walking trail near a bush resembling a small Christmas tree. With a new found lightness in my step I returned home. God Bless us everyone!
The next morning I poured myself a cup of coffee and with a pounding curiosity, made my way outside. Approaching the tree underneath where I had laid it the night before, I stared in confusion. The cake in all its splendor stood – untouched. Several pieces of fruit had been dislodged from the foundation and now lay scattered aside amid a large chunk of crumbled cake. I imagined a wily raccoon, delighted with his Christmas morning find, removing several with his delicate and agile paws, gobbling them furiously and then realizing in grave disappointment he had been duped. It was a fruit cake, plain and simple.
I hold a photograph in my hand. A picture from long ago. Though frayed and fading, it is one that tells a story. A melancholy tale of family, friendship, love and loss. And the unrelenting passage of time.
I study the image taken with my father’s old Polaroid camera. Fifty years have come and gone, yet that day, forever etched in memory.
Two young brothers sit together on the front steps of our Long Island, New York door stoop. Clad in hand-woven Irish sweaters, their cheeks are ruddy, speckled with rosy patches gifted from the late autumn chill. Their skinny, knobby knees are scraped and dirtied from a recent romp in the yard. The older boy David, is dark-haired and although the photo holds no date, is likely around six years old. His younger brother leans contentedly onto David’s side. His small hand is just ever so slightly brushing his brother’s, whether in comfort or familiarity. He is fair-haired with a sprinkling of freckles on the rung of his nose. I guess him to be four years old.
Their younger sister, Aideen, appears to be no more than two and a half years. She is held by her mother Maureen, who stands behind the boys. Aideen nestles her small chin neatly onto her mother’s shoulder. Maureen gazes steadfastly into the camera with just a hint of a smile, her beautiful face a portrait of strength and calmness.
The children’s father, David Sr., is seen in the distance. He stands in the yard, lost in thought. He has been a close friend of my father from earlier days and a name spoken with admiration in our home for as far back as I can remember. Their paths have crossed in and out each other’s lives over the years, sparked by a shared love of the restaurant business; my father a restaurateur in New York City and David, in Dublin and the Southwest Coast of Ireland.
Though their roots and I suspect hearts, have never left Ireland, David and his bride Maureen relocated to the U.S. some years back, where they married. David has followed his passion. A career he has always loved, working once again back at the helm of the restaurant world, this time in New York City. Three beautiful children followed.
The family is visiting this Sunday afternoon for a day in the suburbs. The atmosphere is relaxed, one of contentment, the kind that old friendships evoke. And the sweet rhythm of life plays on.
Shortly thereafter, it all falls apart.
It was a day like any other. A visit to New York’s Central Park. A far cry from the emerald green hills of Ireland, but a reprieve from the city’s endless skyscrapers, nonetheless. As the boys played, a Rabbi who was seated on a nearby bench approaches Maureen. “Your son,” he says, motioning to David, “is ill. You must bring him to a doctor.”
And with those words, a family’s life changed forever…
For years and years I forget this family my parents held so dear and the tragedy of young David, who shortly thereafter the Rabbi’s omen, was diagnosed with Leukemia. And at age eight years, while back home in Ireland where his family had returned, quietly slipped from this world.
I had forgotten this family from my childhood and the sadness that be-felled them, until the arrival of an email, written more than a half century later. A letter, that I now understand, returned them to me.
It was written from a now grown Aideen, the baby in that long ago photograph, who was seeking my help. Did I have any photographs or stories of David from their family’s visits to us in New York?
A string of emails followed, chasing the years.
We spoke of our parents now gone, and their everlasting friendship. Of our current lives and families; Aideen’s in Ireland and mine in Connecticut. She talked of her three siblings; two younger sisters who were born back in Ireland after the family’s return and her older brother who had remained in Ireland to raise a family. We touched on the good times and bad, the highs and the lows, the laughter and the tears.
Aideen and David
We spoke of her brother David.
It would be his 60th birthday on December 20th, of this year. His mother Maureen, who perhaps bore the brunt of losing David more deeply than the rest of the family, never spoke of the loss of her first born son. It was simply too painful. So Aideen and her siblings carried on, from childhood to adults, with just a scant memory of an older brother they never really had the chance to know.
But now, all these years later, Aideen felt it time to not just remember David, but to celebrate him.
We felt it only fitting to meet at the beloved Irish establishment Rosie O’Grady’s in Midtown Manhattan, where both our fathers and families had worked together so many years before. And we had little doubt their spirit was with us that night, pleased to see we had reunited once again. A friendship found, through one departed.
“He brought us together you know,” Aideen said to me later that evening as we stood on the corner of West 51st street, saying our goodbyes. And amid the backdrop of the bright lights of Radio City Music Hall, I snapped the below photograph, to prove her right.
This afternoon I visited the small market that inspired this story. There was a chill in the air which prompted the need to re-share with all my fellow soup lovers…
Day One – Torture. It is nearing lunchtime and I am missing my daily fix. Surely I can make it till dinner. Or can I?
Day Two – I am ashamed to say that I broke down and drove past the store, but success! did not enter, just circled, three times…
Day Three – The cravings have ceased and I have scheduled an exercise class for the same time I usually case the store, though it is unfortunately, directly across the street.
I am addicted to soup. There I have said it. They say that is the first step.
It began in those formative years of childhood. My mother a soup lover herself made it a family staple. My son’s kindergarten “All about me” poster highlights “Tomato soup with a touch of milk” as his favorite food. He and his brother still have soup almost daily for lunch. I just heard of a study that claims as an adult, you crave those foods you loved most as a baby and youngster. I have loved soup for as far back as I can remember. Zesty Tomato, the steamy, soothing broth of Chicken Noodle, the silky smoothness of “The Creams”… Cream of Chicken, Cream of Celery, Cream of Mushroom, Chowders, both Manhattan and New England battled for top dog in my dreams. When I was bitten by a Dalmatian as a child, I recall the calming words of my father as we drove home…”we will make you a nice bowl of soup.” Yes, I love soup. So the day I discovered a certain market in a certain area of Connecticut that offered complimentary samples of their soups, I was hooked.
But then it turned dark. What began as a simple game of choice spun out of control as I found myself visiting the store often on a daily basis for a quick sample of the fabulous soup. I could never have just one.
The “sample” turned into two, then three as I maniacally went from pot to pot, ladle in hand. I had different routines. Sometimes, I would stand and sample all six choices at a time. Other days, I would ladle one sample into the small Dixie cup set out for those customers who could indeed have just one, and cruise the store casually, cup in hand pretending to find other groceries on my list. On good days, there would only be two soups of the six whose flavor struck my fancy. On bad days which was more the norm, I was torn between all six, repeating the sampling of my favorite ones again and again. When Manhattan Clam Chowder was set out, I could go easily through four dixies.. The travesty of this whole affair was that after my obsessive sampling, I was no longer hungry enough to buy a cup of soup and ended up leaving the store with one or two other needless items I picked up hastily, guilt ridden. I could not help it you see. I really intended to buy a cup of the soup but as each sample turned into one more delicious than its predecessor I found I could not stop, all the while wary of a hidden camera or wily store manager who would pop out from behind the fruit stand and accost me “You!!! NO MORE SAMPLES! We are on to you!”
Yes, I had become one of those people I would watch at Costco or Stew Leonards as they lingered at the sample cart, wolfing yet another pig in a blanket, then circling and returning not ten minutes later for the second tasting. Lunch in samples. I had hit rock bottom. I was that person. I was a soup thief.
I often drive by that market and recall the soup bar. I pray that I am not the feature attraction at the company holiday party. I visualize a group of employees, eggnog in hand, a happy hour of sorts at my expense. They revel around the television as the tape plays. They pause, freeze, then replay again amid snide comments: “Watch how she walks to Produce, picks up a head of lettuce and then circles back again for another “taste” of the hot and sour!” Howls of laughter. “I wonder what happened to that lady, she never comes in anymore…” I squelch the delusion and pray it is only that. I feel relieved I have conquered my addiction. I no longer frequent the store.
I was in Stop and Shop yesterday and spotted their soup bar. Three simple choices of soup were set out in a tidy row, their steam and flavorful aroma beckoning shoppers. I approached the soup bar, my heart pounding. There were no cups for sampling.
I remember how he would greet us, his four young nieces, with a cock of his head and a shy smile. Then without fail, that playful wink of his eye. And every time he winked at me, I felt like the most important person in the world.
On each and every visit to our Long Island home, he held a gift, generally a box of chocolates, tucked under one arm, and topped off with a simple tidy bow, for he would never dishonor my mother and arrive with “one hand as long as the other,” a favorite of her Irish expressions and a nod to proper etiquette.
Fresh off the boat from Ireland, the world was full of promise and dreams yet realized for my Uncle John. He had immigrated to America, like his older sister before him, to settle in Woodside, Queens where a job in construction awaited. Across the Irish Sea he came, to a land far different from the green fields of his home in Cloone, County Leitrim. And a new life beckoned.
I can see him clearly still, sitting quietly at our round white Formica kitchen table, contentedly reading the Irish newspapers as my mother prepared his breakfast. Always the same; a poached egg on one slice of toast and a cup of tea. For that he was grateful. I could see it in his eyes as he nodded at my mother as she placed the plate in front of her younger brother. A gentle and modest man he visited our family’s home once or twice a month, the frequency I imagine, having something to do with how far the scale tipped toward loneliness at any particular point in time.
And then he would be gone. No chocolates, no comforting wink, often, for months at a time. “Where is he,? Where is my Uncle John,?” I would query my mother, staring up at her intently with the innocent eyes of a six year old, who nevertheless, demanded an answer.
On some days when I asked her of my uncle she would turn from me but not before I glimpsed her eyes, dampened and shiny with tears. On other occasions when he went missing for a particularly long stint, she would simply retreat to her bedroom too distraught to respond to interrogation and I imagine as well, to quell the pain of a missing brother no longer shielded from the woes of the world by her fierce and protective arms.
But then he would return. Once again sitting at the same kitchen table, fork in hand, eating his poached egg on that single piece of toast made lovingly by his sister. On some days I noticed his hand would tremble as he lifted the cup of tea, served in my mother’s finest Lenox china, as beautiful and strong as her love for him.
And in that moment, all was right once again.
As the ebb and flow of life rose and fell over the passing years, my uncle John’s visits became a wee less frequent. And as I grew older, I at last learned the reason for his absences and my mother’s periodic sadness. “Your uncle has a disease,” she told us, “a terrible disease of drink, an affliction called Alcoholism.” And I learned that day that his sickness, was harder than most to conquer as there existed no pill or tonic to ease his pain. A terrible life sentence for her younger brother, my sweet Uncle John, whose cure required the mental strength of Goliath.
It has been three months..six months..eight months now. The longest stretch he has gone missing. I carefully watch my mother. Her mood shifts with time. In the early months, worry. And as the hands of time advance, desperation, followed by a simple aching sorrow. And in the end, the helpless inevitability of acceptance.
Her brother John, forever gone.
My mother never did learn what became of my uncle as it was likely he had lost all forms of identification during his drinking bouts. A face without a name, a body never found and tips from people who had known him from the neighborhood, that never quite panned out.
A man’s life ended. The hows and the whys forever unknown.
“He is probably buried in some pauper’s field,” my mother lamented as I sat on the edge of her bed one particularly bleak afternoon as she cried. For it was certain now, my Uncle John had died. And then she told me a story. A story which few knew. A story, which broke my heart.
Before he came to the U.S., my Uncle John was in love and planning to marry a local Irish girl. But then, a dismaying discovery; his fiancee was a distant cousin. So distant in fact no one could quite trace the lineage. But it mattered little. Being a small town in rural Ireland, gossip often ran rampant. My mother said my uncle was mercilessly chided by all who learned the tale. They insisted he could never marry this young girl whose heart he held so dear. He too agreed and came to the realization it was not to be. Beaten down, my uncle John broke off the engagement and headed to America with a deep and profound sadness as heavy as the trunk that accompanied him. Shortly thereafter, his struggles with alcohol began, perhaps in trying to dull the memory of his one true love and a life together that would never be.
I often think of my mother and her heartache in losing her youngest brother with an ending always left untold. I wish I had thought to suggest a memorial for my gentle Uncle John, but never did. I am sorry for that, mom.
But though sadness engulfed his later life, I will remember my sweet Uncle John and his visits to my mother. His generous nature forever recalled in those cherished boxes of chocolates and heartfelt winks, bestowed so generously in happier days☘️
I remember her laugh. That mirthful, contagious laughter which often caused her eyes to well up with tears as she relayed one of her many tales. She loved a funny story.
Some days I drive slowly down Catbrier Lane, past her old house. It holds new owners now, people I have never known. Her family have long departed. As falling burnt orange and red leaves dance in the breeze amid the ubiquitous, grinning and glowing Jack-o-lanterns, I remember too, how she loved Halloween.
Twelve years have come and gone but that day is still etched in memory. The day life became a shade grayer, following the news that my beautiful friend Grace had without warning, departed this world at 49 years of age.
I had just seen her the day before, as always, a vision of fortitude and strength. She asked me to meet her at a furniture store where she had placed a large, antique mirror on hold. Could I help her get it into her car? And then the next morning, when she complained of back pain I reasoned it was from of course, moving that big mirror.
By nightfall, she was gone.
We met at drop off on the first day of nursery school. And then as the years rolled on, we found ourselves again entwined when both our children now in their teens, joined a springboard diving team in a neighboring town. And a friendship which began slowly, progressed from the occasional wave in the market to daily phone calls, often exceeding an hour in length.
In an age of computers and texting, I loved those phone calls. We delighted in discovering commonalities from our youth—how we both loved teen idol Scott Baio and the dreamy David Cassidy or debating the merits of which was the better beach? the Jersey Shore (her choice being a Jersey girl) or Jones Beach (mine, growing up on Long Island). I would cradle the phone under my chin as I made the beds, never wanting to hang up as there was always just one more story. And always more laughter.
Her tough façade shielded a gentle heart. She once trapped a possum that was ravaging her vegetable garden, in a cage she had purchased at The Home Depot. That was so Grace. Why call a professional when she could do it herself? The next morning as she crept up to check the cage, she was devastated to discover that in trapping the creature, it had perished. As she dejectedly opened the trap door, the possum sprang out. She laughed and laughed as she told me she had forgotten that possums played dead.
Grace was steadfast and unwavering in her beliefs; a formidable participant in any discussion.
A topic that came up frequently between us was the amount of driving time needed to arrive at a certain locale. We often carpooled together to diving practice and Grace claimed it took her no more than twenty minutes from her home to the YMCA, wherein I would argue that was impossible, as our house was closer and I could not get to the Y in less than twenty five. There were never any loud arguments or bad feeling, just a persistent impasse.
“Perhaps you drive faster than me?” I would remark. And she would confidently smile and say, “No, 20 minutes door to door . . .” and so it went on for years, the debate of distance with no declared winner, just a constant volley between us.
Her two favorite words were “divine” and “fantastic,” which she used in abandon. You felt like there was nothing she could not accomplish. She was the definition of a doer, a ying to my yang. Confrontational, strong, never wavering in her beliefs.
Loyal, funny, and protective, she loved Hugh Grant movies, Estate Sales and the city of London where she had lived for a period during her single years. She cherished her childhood friend Diana, who shared her Polish heritage of which she was so proud. Her joy was hosting summer barbecue pool parties, always being among those she loved. She visited the ocean at any chance possible and delighted in finding exotic locales for family vacations.
Above all, Grace loved her family, the true joy and light of her life. And there is no doubt her spirit, strength and determination live on through her two daughters Maren and Devon, who I have watched grow into beautiful young women.
Although I will not see my cherished friend again in this world, I keep close to me the memories of her voice, mannerisms, and of course, that laughter. If I am to take anything away from this tremendous loss it is that age-old advice that life is fleeting. I am not one for hugging, but what I would give to hug her one last time and tell her how happy she made my life during our short time together.
And during those times when I don’t feel her near, I ponder where her spirit may be. And then, a vision comes which goes something like this . . .
A calm, deep, soothing voice is heard, “Grace, it is time to leave to greet our new friends. It will take you 15 minutes to reach the gate, and if the clouds are thick, it may take some extra time . . .”
A steady, confident voice replies, “It takes only ten minutes. I have been there twice now and there is no way it takes more than ten minutes.” The voice begins to object but then reconsiders. She has not been here very long, but he is already aware of her capabilities. That is one of the reasons he chose her for this job. He responds calmly, “Very good, Grace, I trust your judgment.”
ROCHESTER, September 26 — Eastman Kodak Company today announced its intent to stop making and selling slide projectors by June 2004.
“The Kodak slide projector has been a hallmark for quality and ubiquity, used for decades to produce the best in audio visual shows throughout the world,” the company said. “However, in recent years, slide projectors have declined in usage, replaced by alternative projection technologies.”
One of my happiest and most comforting memories of childhood was our family slide shows.
These coveted movie nights which generally took place once a year, consisted of nothing more than three simple ingredients: a blank wall in our living room, a Kodak carousel slide projector with my father at the mast and myself and three sisters, huddled on the sofa, pressed together in anticipation like peas in a pod. My mother, who had seen the slide shows too many times to mention, usually busied herself with other things, occasionally stopping in to comment on a particularly beloved picture. Prior to turning off the lights, my father would announce in a deep theatrical voice “Who wants a magic drink?”
They were always different in taste and made from whatever struck his fancy that night; orange juice with a splash of pineapple juice and Grenadine or perhaps apple juice and ginger ale with a jigger of seltzer. The ingredients were unimportant. It was the anticipation of what was to be and the lovely ritual of our movie night routine that we cherished. Those magic drinks were just part of the show.
There was always one slide, without fail, that was turned upside down. This would halt the show momentarily, as my father with a slightly frustrated “tsk” would right the renegade slide. And we were ready to go once again.
I loved that Kodak carousel projector and the faded yellow boxes of slides stacked beside it. They were never labeled so each reel was a surprise in itself. Who might appear on the screen that night was anyone’s guess — my six or sixteen year old self? Our first family pet Bubbles the beagle, or our gentle giant of a Great Dane we called Jenny? My mother posing on the beach in her youth, or proudly cradling her first grandchild? The lack of chronology only added to the experience.
Some days, in the quiet of my mind, I can still hear the slow deliberate click of the projector, advancing slowly, telling without words the story of our life. Slide to slide, toddler to teenager, mother to grandmother, youth to twilight. An entire lifetime displayed on the wall of the darkened living room.
When my parents died, I cared about no other of their possessions except that time warped machine that could somehow transform me back to family vacations, birthday parties and people and places no more. With my sister’s blessings, I brought it to my own home with the promise to bring it to family gatherings, a carousal reunion of sort. Though it is yet to be. It sits up on a shelf in an unused room. I have taken it down one or two times in a half-hearted attempt to have my own family slide show but then, as it spits and jams due to age, return it in frustration to the loneliness of the upstairs closet. I have made myself a promise. I will find a way to restore that Kodak Carousel to the beauty of its youth.
“There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them.”
Sylvia Plath
I am addicted to baths. It began in my childhood, at what age I cannot say for certain. I can envision myself and my two sisters bobbing around in our bathtub, a simple no frills fixture unlike the whirlpool spas of today. My mother, who instilled this love of baths in us, laid peacefully center. It was those calming waters which somehow righted every wrong and made life at the end of the day oh so much more delightful. “Can you start the tub?” we would call to my mother nightly and upon hearing the rumble of the water racing through the faucet, would immediately feel comforted.
As I grew into older childhood my nightly baths and love of, continued. I remember bringing into the tub different props for amusement. My fondest memory involve the Barbie dolls which I would plunge into the water, their perfect bodies and pointed toes gracefully leaping from the soap holder which I would use as a makeshift diving board.
When I left for college I realized with some dismay, that my nightly baths ritual would become a thing no more. Bathing in a dorm bathroom shared by who knows how many others was something I did not find appealing – not to mention the cleanliness factor. Yes sadly, my nightly baths ceased upon entering freshman year in college and were promptly replaced by a shower.
Yet one night, the old urge struck. Returning from a night out and perhaps one Tequila Sunrise too many, I made my way to the dorm bathroom. Perfect! At 3AM on a weekday there was not a soul in sight. I undressed and proceeded to the sink, my towel tightly wrapped around me. As I began to brush my teeth I felt the towel slipping. As it fell to the floor I was faced with two choices: pick it up immediately or finish brushing and then retrieve the towel. Given the late hour and the desolateness of the dorm, I opted for the latter – my fatal mistake. As if in a dream I watched the bathroom door swing open to reveal a tall sleepy male, no doubt someone’s boyfriend as my dorm was all women. His eyes, which only moments before were half slits were now golf balls as he gaped at me standing before him, stark nude, tooth-brush still in hand. I shrieked, tore past him and jumped on my roommate’s bed. Babbling and breathless I attempted to explain to her what still rates as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Oh bath, how could you have forsaken me?
When I became engaged and began staying overnight at my fiance’s apartment I learned the meaning of true love. Craving my bath one night, I mentioned that his tub did not seem well, completely clean. I asked where I could find his cleaning supplies. “Do you have to have a bath every night?” he asked with some annoyance as he disappeared into the kitchen. Returning with a can of Comet and scrub brush he for the next 15 minutes, painstakingly cleaned the tub for me. And with that gesture, I knew I was marrying the right man.
I have two sons who have inherited their mother and grandmother’s love of baths. I can hear the water running nightly and I have caught them filling up the tub to play their own Barbie doll type of diving game but instead they use pencils. They catapult the pencils off the side of the tub in their own game of acrobatics. At any hour, morning or night, at the slightest hint of a stomach ache or joint discomfort from sports, a tub is running. Aqua therapy of sort.
I realize this is a luxury in our society and lecture them on the number and length of time spent in the bath. But it often falls on deaf ears as my son races in from school, drops his back pack in the corner and heads up to the bathroom to turn on the bath. He too understands the healing of the waters.
My adult bath ritual has changed only slightly since childhood. I still take one every single night, but instead of the Barbies I bring one guilty pleasure which I lay on the side of the tub; four Hershey Chocolate kisses. My second favorite comfort in life.
I first encountered her while doing laundry one afternoon, wordlessly, robotically, tending to our clothes. She taking them out of the dryer and me, placing them in. I can still recall that subterranean, no frills room, whose stark walls and dismal atmosphere would make the perfect backdrop for an Alfred Hitchcock horror film. That was, until the day I met Lee, and the mundane chore of doing laundry suddenly became a shade brighter.
She stood five feet tall and as the saying goes, appeared no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, but possessed a jauntiness that masked her slight frame. Her short white hair was cut in a blunt, bobbed style, and just grazed her chin. I loved her hair, so sleek, straight and perfect, like a Barbie doll’s and when she laughed, swung side to side. She wore a pair of dark, Jackie’ O style glasses which hid a pair of almond eyes, deep chestnut in color and if you looked close enough, reflected a life of both hardship and soul. The few times I saw her with her glasses off, I recall how her eyes, often cold and suspicious, could change in an instant, and sparkle with delight when I told her a particularly funny story, of which I had many.
Though well into her late seventies, she possessed a youthful spirit, shuffling around the laundry room in her signature style; a pair of faded, Levi jeans cuffed at the ankle and flip flops embossed with daisies. I still remember Lee’s Flip Flops as she stood at the washer, arms teeming with clothes. Those tiny, yellow, delicate daisies in direct contrast to her fierce nature.
Before our friendship materialized, she cast an imposing and stoic figure frequently visible around the apartment complex where I noted with some dismay, she was often arguing with someone. And as I recall, always won. I vowed to keep my distance as I generally disliked confrontation.
But a shared love of the sea sparked a connection that was instant and a memory that remains, though Lee is long gone. She had admired a tee shirt I was folding, pure white in color with just one perfect, turquoise blue wave splashed boldly across its center amid the evocative words, “California Dreaming.” “I love the beach,” she told me.
Her fondness for the seashore was instilled as a young girl. Growing up her family had owned a small cottage on Breezy Point located on the western end of Jamaica Peninsula in Queens, NY. Lee had inherited the cottage after her parents died. She loved this getaway from the chaos of the city and would visit at every chance possible. She described a grueling journey involving a bus ride, followed by the subway, two transfers and a decent walk before she reached her final destination. Breezy Point! and paradise found, her port in the storm. I hailed from Long Island, home to the epic Jones Beach, just a stone’s throw away from my home. And like Lee, found any excuse to escape to the seashore which we visited in abandon as children, teenagers and young adults.
I was a young mother during my friendship with Lee and we would sit in the apartment complex’s playground, mid-afternoon, as my young son raced in and out of the sprinklers. Those green park benches, ubiquitous back in the day, though scratched and chipped with age, offered a simple comfort and I imagine, could tell countless stories of the many who sat there before us. And during those lovely, endless summer days, we talked of life. The ebbs and flows, the highs the lows.
Lee was married to Marty a kind and gentle man who worked as a Super in a nearby NYC building and who I had met only a handful of times. Her only daughter Joanne, who lived with Lee and Marty on the ground floor of their two bedroom Stuyvesant Town apartment, often sat with us on the park bench contentedly. Her age, was unknown to me, as she could morph from six to thirty-six during the course of a simple conversation.
As my son sat happily in the playground’s sand box one bright and sunny afternoon, Lee shared with me one of her life’s most dark and secret tragedies, describing how Joanne as a young girl fifteen years prior, while home alone in their apartment, was attacked by a maintenance man she had innocently let into the apartment. I never knew, nor had the heart to ask, if the incident, which clearly left Joanne traumatized, caused her innocent, childlike behavior, and the reason she did not work or have an apartment of her own.
We eventually moved from my beloved “Stuy Town,” to the Connecticut suburbs leaving Lee, Joanne and those comforting green benches far behind. On the morning we were leaving, Joanne, bestowed to my toddler son as a parting gift, her beloved teddy bear, its knotted fur, bruised and worn no doubt from years of hugging it close. “I don’t need this anymore,” she said simply. “I want him to have it…” Lee, who sat on the bench watching intently, nodded wordlessly.
Lee and I, as if in mutual acceptance of our impending loss, never spoke in person again but continued to exchange Christmas cards, each year penning a special note of remembrance to each other.
One year I quoted a Charles Dickens passage in my card, recalling how she had loved him. It was from one of her favorite tales, “A Christmas Carol.” Lee replied shortly thereafter with a note of her own, penned in her typical hurried, but artistic script:
“Only you could find this beautiful quote. You were always different. Stay that way.”
I have kept that sentiment tucked away in my dresser drawer, forever special to me as a compliment from Lee, rare in occurrence, was a thing to be treasured. I knew this one, had come from the heart.
Ironically, it was Joanne not Lee who I kept up with after we moved away. Every two or three months I sent her notes or cards often containing photos of my two sons as they aged from toddler, to teen, to adulthood. I would choose bright and colorful cards adorned with owls which she loved, and write of our lives in Connecticut. She would reply with a note of her own and always included an expression of gratitude for my friendship and a mention of love, from her mother Lee.
Before he left for college, my son approached me holding Joanne’s teddy bear gifted to him so many years before. “Let’s send it back to her mom, maybe she needs it more.” And we boxed it up with a heartfelt note, and returned the bear to his rightful owner who I imagine, welcomed it back with open arms.
And then one day, a letter from Joanne, more difficult than usual to read. She scrawled that she was frightened. Lee was sick and couldn’t remember things. She had something called, “Alzheimer’s Disease.” She didn’t know how to talk to her mother.
I responded, “Ask her about Breezy Point…”
Not quite six months later, she wrote to tell me Lee had died. A life now folded away neatly, like those laundry days we once shared.
I continued sending brightly colored cards and notes to Joanne, throughout the years. My sons were now young men, off in college. I would tell Joanne of my oldest, a springboard diver who had won his first competition and that my youngest was attending university in Ireland, the land of his grandmother’s birth. She wrote how she loved to receive my cards. She wrote of how she missed her mother. She wrote of how she loved me and my family and wished we still lived close.
And then one night, after a lapse of communication from Joanne for more than three months, I returned home to a phone call on my answering machine. A male voice, unrecognizable, wracked with grief, his words delivered stuttering and stammering. After re-playing numerous times, I at last interpreted the garbled message and from whom it came.
“Kathy, this is Marty. Kathy, Joanne died.”
A long, painful silence followed, then his final words, “I never knew it would be this hard…”
I called Marty back the next day. He did not answer and has never returned the call.
I wondered from what illness, if any, did she die and searched endlessly for an obituary, desperate for an answer. I hoped she was remembered. I struggled for weeks seeking closure but could not bring myself to call her father again.
And then I realized, I never really knew her. And how she died mattered little. For I am certain I brought her joy through my cards and friendship, just maybe, during a time in her life she needed it most.
And that was all the closure I ever needed.
I sometimes think of those long-ago days as that young mother, sitting beside Lee and Joanne in the serenity of Stuyvesant Park. I can hear their voices still; Lees’s tone is shrill, her words tumbling out knowingly and confidently, Joanne’s is slow and steady, lilting, with a warm innocence, always aiming to please.
It is said that people come into your life for a season or a reason. I believe I was lucky enough to experience both, in my short good fortune of knowing Lee and Joanne.
Everybody in the Pool! The iconic swimming pool at Bear Mountain State Park circa 1967
It’s the tiny bear trinket I remember, possibly more than the place itself. A delicate little figurine with a soft sprinkling of fuzzy fur on its body, which I loved to carry around and stroke as if it were a real pocket pet. My dad bought this cherished gift for me and my three sisters one summer afternoon at Bear Mountain, a frequent day trip we took from our home in Queens, New York.
I recall as if yesterday kneeling in front of the glass enclosed case of the bustling gift store and seeing the wee bear which sat forlornly in the stark enclosure. It was positioned away from the other bears just begging to be taken home. “We’ll take four!” my father sang out in his lovely baritone voice, whose accent betrayed a touch of his childhood years raised in Glasgow, Scotland. “Gifties,” he called all souvenirs and presents. I believe he took more pleasure in buying them than in the souvenir itself, though I could tell he too admired the look and feel of the little bear. When my sister Anne dropped hers only moments after leaving the shop, she cried and pleaded for him to buy her a second but alas it was not to be. My dad did not budge and although I know it killed him, taught us a lesson that day in responsibility and the value of a dollar – though she did get a new one on our next trip.
I often wonder, fifty years later, what became of my little bear but that is not important. I still have the memory of those day trips to Bear Mountain that magical destination situated in the rugged mountains rising from the west bank of the Hudson River.
Although Fall was a popular time to visit with the gorgeous colors that framed the mountains, we often went in the summer to escape the heat of the city. Its expansive pool held promise and delight for hundreds of children and parents alike who arrived in droves weather permitting. On one visit when I was around five-years old, I slipped through my inner tube and a woman sitting nearby jumped into the pool, fully clothed to save me. I remember my father insisting I go up to her and say thank you afterwards and how embarrassed I was in doing so. The photo above was taken by my father. I discovered it in a box of old Kodak slides last year and on a whim, posted the iconic shot to a Facebook group called “Historic New York City.” Within hours it received over 1,000 likes but it was the comments I read that made me realize the memory of Bear Mountain did not belong to me alone. Scores of New Yorkers and others from surrounding areas most now likely in the twilight of their years, recalled their own special memories…
“Beautiful Bear Mountain Memories..”
“I think Bob Dylan wrote a song about going to Bear Mountain…”
“We would take the ferry up the Hudson from NYC to Bear Mountain with our cousins. We still talk about those days…”
“We would sometimes sneak into the pool late at night as I lived close by..”
“Possibly one of my favorite childhood activities was leaving the city for Bear Mountain, picnics and swimming with family, hikes, sledding in winter. Such good times.”
“Did you see the guy on the high dive?? He is doing a handstand!!!”
“My brother Warren got his head stuck between the bars and had to be rescued!”
“My high school graduating class took a day trip to Bear Mountain. One signature in my yearbook reads “Bear Mountain till the bears turn bare…”
“That’s me in the red swim suit!”
Then, the one comment that made my heart stop..
“I still have my little bear ornament from the Bear Mountain gift store…” a stranger wrote. Accompanying the sentiment was a graying and faded but still recognizable photo of the bear souvenir. Not exactly the one in my memory but there it was nonetheless.” I wasn’t the only one…
I have not returned. For reasons I am uncertain. Too painful to visit without my beautiful dearly departed parents by my side? Too much of a heartache to see how the Bear Mountain of yesterday overshadows the reality of today? But it really doesn’t matter. have my phenomenal photograph of the pool with that forever unknown guy doing a handstand on the high dive.
And always in memory, that tiny, bear ornament my father bought me so many years ago…
If there was a word that existed to define the opposite of a hoarder, it would indeed describe my mother, a minimalist who disliked clutter of any sort. Our home was beautiful, warm, open and airy but devoid of any type of knickknack, or paraphernalia she deemed unattractive or cumbersome. A snapshot of our living room: sheer white linen curtains, a simple, beige sofa two tasteful paintings which hung amid otherwise bare white walls and a coffee table on which a Crystal Waterford bowl sat center.. A baby grand piano was tucked neatly in the corner of the room and placed atop it, only two lone items, a framed family photo and the small Belleek China Scotty dog, my Irish born mother so loved.
We all learned quite early on not to leave anything within her reach or it would simply disappear, forever. We had a theory, my sisters and I, that all those belongings, mostly certain items of clothing, were shipped off to her beloved homeland Ireland. We imagined our Irish relatives and their friends the delighted recipients of the new American fashions which would arrive in a large parcel carefully wrapped in simple brown paper, stamped “overseas.”
I don’t know how this idea was formulated among us. Had we heard my father in anger accusing my mother of this rather underhanded deed when he could not find his adored sweater? Had we seen a large UPS box tucked away in a hall closet? Had we heard my mother speaking to a distant relation in hushed tones, promising a shipment would soon arrive? No I do not believe we ever had absolute evidence, it was just a truth we knew existed, though one we could never quite prove.
My best friend Louise, once left her prized jean jacket at my house. I swallowed hard three days later when she came to my door ready to reclaim it. Ransacking the house together I finally shook my head in defeat and told her she must have left it elsewhere. But deep down I knew the unpleasant truth… it was no doubt en route that very moment, via Aer Lingus, to greener pastures.
Another time, my college roommate came home with me for the weekend and left her favorite sweatshirt in my room. She too would never see it again. I imagined another teenage girl, but this one Irish by birth, clad contentedly in the Manhattan College sweatshirt, perhaps strolling the banks of the Liffey on one of those chilled and damp Irish morns or sipping a Guiness in a local pub hugging the American made sweatshirt close.
My sisters and I were swimmers and divers and over the years accumulated many trophies, a result of our efforts. Years later as young adults, we noticed their absence and asked my mother where the trophies had gone. Silence. Our school yearbooks too had a short life span, as did report cards, photographs and our childhood artwork. And at Christmas, our annual tree trimming, generally a happy and festive time, on more than one occasion ended in angry words and confrontations as ornaments usually of the bulky or unattractive variety, evaporated into thin air. “Check another box,” my mother would suggest.
I think it was my father who bore the brunt most deeply. He would sit in his recliner on Sunday mornings, peacefully reading the papers. Leaving for a short time to drive me to a friend’s house, he returned to find the papers he had left at the foot of his chair, not fifteen minutes before, gone. He would later find them stacked neatly in the garage, whisked away before he even had the chance to get through the sports page.
My father loved going to tag sales on weekends. A voracious reader, he sought out interesting novels bearing tales of war and far away voyages; many of the tomes old and yellowed. I recall one Saturday, him returning home toting a large box. Entering the back door he came face to face with my mother, who glancing at the box remarked somewhat hostilely, “More bloody books!” Witnessing the exchange I worried little. There was no doubt their shelf life in our home, would be short lived.
Was there a method to her madness? I think she simply disliked excess and when she felt we had too many items of clothing we had not worn in a while, decided it was time for them to be on their way.
You might think that this habit of my mother’s caused anger, frustration and hurt within our family. Sometimes true, but it only lasted a day or two being that we could never really prove it was of her doing. Though while looking at a Christmas card one year of my four beaming Irish cousins, I could swear the youngest was clad in my old rolling Stones tee-shirt.
As an adult, I too dislike over accumulation and clutter. I am of the school that less is more. I understand my mother’s obsession with less more clearly now. I don’t agree with donating others belongings without permission though have been tempted on more than one occasion, to “whisk away” a number of my husband’s college sweatshirts. I refrain.
And on those days I long to look at an old high school yearbook, I return to my old friend’s house. The one whose jean jacket went missing.
Shangri-La 