all of the selves we Have ever been
I was his emergency contact. I just didn’t know it. I learned of my assignment one sweltering summer morning when the local dialysis center called to say that Julius had not shown for his treatment that day. Julius had missed an appointment earlier in the week as well. Still holding the phone, my mind went into overdrive. It was not like Julius to skip dialysis even once in a week much less twice. Painful as it was, dialysis was his life and his lifeline. This was not good news. I grabbed my purse and headed to the car. During the short drive to his home, I tried to prepare myself for what I might find. The back door was unlocked. I called his name as I opened the door. No response. An offensive odor and a swarm of flies greeted me instead. The house was burning hot, like a glowing kettle that had simmered for days over an open fire. I stepped carefully over the plastic shopping bags dropped in a trail around the door, the contents scattered here and there. I walked past the bathroom where I could see the toilet was backed up and the flies were buzzing. I called his name again, “Julius?” No response. As I proceeded toward the living room, I could see Julius in profile. He was seated on the couch. The television was on. Julius did not react to my approach. As I stepped around the couch and came face-to-face with my friend, I could see that Julius had died, probably several days earlier. Though I had anticipated what I might find, the preparation did not prevent my heart from breaking. I called 9-1-1. The dispatcher told me, “Get out of the house.” I sat on the front porch steps with my head in my lap and waited. The police arrived, and we entered the house together. With Julius’s medical history and no signs of other trouble, the police called the coroner, and then we waited for the funeral home staff to arrive. This was not a typical call for the young men from the funeral home. They came dressed respectfully in dark suits, crisp white shirts, and ties. Once they entered the burning hot house, sweat poured from their faces and necks. The condition of the body was unusual for them, and they were concerned about moving Julius’s fragile corpse. They asked me to leave the room and turn down the heat, if it was on. I waited on the back porch and said a prayer. As Julius passed, I lay my hand on the black body bag—farewell from an emergency contact and friend. The situation was both surreal and painfully real. There was much to be done, and while I was honored to be the emergency contact, I was not next of kin. I had no legal authority to make decisions. Julius had a nineteen year old son in flight school somewhere down south. I would need to reach Christopher and tell him that his father was dead, the most difficult of assignments. I loved Christopher. Had Julius anticipated this moment when he chose me for his emergency contact? The situation was overwhelming given the shock, heat and work to be done, but I wanted to clean up the house to honor Julius and for the sake of his young son who would soon arrive filled with grief. Thankfully, a friend came to the rescue. He unclogged the toilet and helped me to roll up the carpet that had been underneath the place where Julius died. I contacted a restoration company and got a machine to eliminate the terrible odors that filled the house. Then I rolled up my sleeves and got to work trying to put the house in order, scrubbing away my sorrow. The smells from the home, the smell of death filled my nose and saturated my clothing. I could not get away from it, but the scent kept Julius on my mind and close to my heart. As I worked, I reminisced. There was a final gift from Julius. We were with him on his last good day. We just didn’t know it. Had we known it would be the last good day, the knowledge might have destroyed the exquisite beauty of our final time together. It began as a simple day, ordinary on the surface, and yet it was filled with an extraordinary sense of peace and contentment. My children and I packed up some lunches, picked up Julius, and took him to a medical appointment in Cleveland, about an hour from our homes. Julius needed to meet with his transplant team, and he was becoming too easily fatigued to make the trip alone. Surrounded by this sweet man, and my sweet children, we talked and laughed. The children and I waited in the assigned area for Julius to finish with his medical appointments and tests and then we went to our van where we broke out a picnic lunch. Julius insisted we stop at a local country shop that sold delicious ice cream. His treat. Julius sat in a rocking chair on the covered porch while the children played on the edge of the pond and fed the ducks. Like hummingbirds, we poked among the blossoms, drinking the nectar of that beautiful day. Julius asked for a second ice cream cone, and we lingered there, happy and content. I had known Julius for a long time. His life had never been easy, and yet he was always kind, considerate, concerned, and cheerful. His own problems were never at the forefront. He always wanted to know about me and the children. This year, as we enter the season of harvest and thanksgiving hounded by a relentless virus, I am reminded of my friend Julius and all those who live with the specter of death. Julius made his peace with that terrible roommate. He did not let that specter rob him of joy. Julius did not let that threatening presence steal his spirit while he was still busy living. After Julius died, as I was helping to write his obituary, I was reminded of the words of G. K. Chesterton: “Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances we know to be desperate.” That was so Julius. None of us know what the day will bring or when it will be the last good day. While we live in a time of chronic threat, I want to be more like Julius—to make peace with that ugly, microscopic roommate and hold onto my spirit. Julius had a beautiful voice, and he loved to sing. There was always a song in his heart. Though he did not write the lyrics, I am sure he would agree with these words from the divinely inspired hymnbook: “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad.”
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During my youth, American suburbs were growing and expanding. By the time I was a teenager, my family lived in such a development just outside of Pittsburgh. Our suburb was home to the first enclosed mall in the state of Pennsylvania. The Northway Mall opened in 1962, but I did not get familiar with it until the 1970s when I was in high school. The mall was my alternate universe. Once inside, there were no reminders of my life on another planet. Sometimes on a Saturday morning, my mom or dad would drop me off at the mall where I would meet a friend. I usually entered the mall through Woolworth’s, the original five-and-dime store. Woolworth’s had a counter that sold frozen Cokes and giant, soft, salty, pretzels. I would come back later and call that fare my lunch. Once I caught up with my friend, Spencer Gifts was our first stop. Spencer’s never disappointed, and we spent a significant percentage of our mall-time there. Spencer’s Gifts sold novelty items and gag gifts among other things. As teens, we were pre-occupied with the outrageous novelty items. We found them hilarious. While lava floated and morphed in the lamps all around us, and psychedelic posters glowed on the walls, we howled with laughter over the fake vomit, whoopee cushions, and the crazy expressions printed on t-shirts. Spencer’s definitely had the What?! Factor. The merchandise was generally inexpensive and nothing we needed, so we rarely made a purchase, though I still regret not buying the t-shirt that said, “Dear Auntie Em, Hate you. Hate Kansas. Taking the dog. Dorothy.” I don’t know why that shirt tickled my funny bone back then, but it sure did—enough to remember it to this day. Hanging out in Spencer’s was so much fun that the store could have charged admission, and we would have paid. Next on our agenda was the National Record Mart. If we did buy something on a mall-Saturday, it was most likely a record album. There were hundreds of albums to flip through. We studied the jackets and the song lists comparing notes about our favorites and judging whether or not there were enough good songs on the album to merit a purchase. We could pick up a 45 RPM if we decided the album wasn’t worth it. Waldenbooks was nearby and our next stop. It was a tiny shop compared to the giant Borders and Barnes & Noble stores that came much later, but it was books. Never a waste of time! It was an opportunity to find something good to read like Graham Greene’s Travels with my Aunt, William Blatty’s The Exorcist, or Richard Bach’s Johnathan Livingston Seagull. It was also an opportunity to set eyes on the controversial adult book titles of the times: Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex but Were Afraid to Ask, The Sensuous Woman, The Joy of Sex, and The Total Woman. Of course, we were discreet, taking these books to another section and remaining on the lookout for any parents who might recognize us. I learned then that living a lie can be exhausting. While I didn’t learn much about sex, I did learn to walk the straight and narrow. We wandered the rest of the mall making shorter stops in the big department stores like Joseph Hornes. Those were usually too pricey for teenagers. We might try on clothes at Marianne’s or shoes at Bakers, but we made few additional purchases. The most exciting, life-transforming mall event happened when a company advertised in the newspaper that it would be at the mall to do ear piercings. Pierced ears were a privilege reserved for teenage girls back in that day. The company would come into the mall, set up a kiosk, and pierce ears. It took about two seconds and cost $7.95. Good bye clip-ons! After a couple of days, the company would close up shop and return again in four weeks. After our ears were pierced, we received a post card in the mail asking us to come back and have our piercings checked. Each customer received a pair of tiny gold ball studs with instructions to turn the post, and clean the earlobes with alcohol until healing was complete. We returned when the postcard advised us to. Ever after that, mall shopping involved every store that sold earrings. For the first generation to grow up in the suburbs, malls were a big deal. Teenagers could safely have some freedom and develop adult consumer skills. The opportunity motivated us to take on small jobs and to save our earnings for the things we wanted. Those shopping-Saturdays allowed us to see items that others talked about so that we could be “cool” too. The mall was a place where teens shared experiences and cemented friendships. It was a great way to pass a quiet Saturday. The suburbs continued to grow. And grow. The traffic increased and the malls became crowded. Merchandise became more expensive, and the next generations of teenagers had packed schedules that rarely left them with a leisurely Saturday. Increasingly, their world became the internet and shopping was done on-line. In the years since I first slurped frozen Cokes at Woolworth’s and giggled with girl friends at Spencer’s Gifts, the Northway Mall has gone through several re-inventions, and so have I. But I have stayed true to my brick-and-mortar stores. My earlobes remain pierced. Inside my jewelry box are inexpensive but precious earrings purchased on one of those quiet Saturdays long ago. I continue to giggle with a dear high school friend who wandered those wide corridors with me. I still love books and old record albums. And if I find that t-shirt with the note to Auntie Em, I’m buyin’ it! Every teen needs an alternate universe, a place that is her own, an out-in-the open space where she can be both cool and safe. We didn’t spend much money at the Northway Mall, certainly not enough to keep it in business. Thankfully, memories didn’t cost much. And they were built to last. There are people in my community I only know from looking through their windows. I am not a voyeur or a peeping tom. I am a Diet Coke addict. I know that stuff is bad for me, so I try to limit myself to one a day. I am not fond of Diet Coke in cans or bottles. The quality is unreliable. As a connoisseur, I prefer my Diet Coke from a fountain. I’ve discovered that the new, next generation, Freestyle, digital dispensers have the best flavor-to-fizz ratios. And so, each day, I make one stop at a drive-through window. During this time of COVID-19, I tell myself that I am not just feeding my craving, but I am also making a small contribution to these businesses and the economy. Oh, the rationalizations of a user! I talked to a dietician once about my habit. She explained that it is not just about the substance, but about the entire experience—the cup, the ice, the straw, the trip to the store or restaurant…Wow! That was insightful. I do like a certain size cup, amount of ice, straw. I have a few preferred locations and go elsewhere only when traveling or when my usual places are closed, sold out, or the dispensers aren’t working. And I have come to appreciate that there is another important element to the Diet Coke experience. It is the people in the windows. The voices over the intercoms. The Coke and the smile. When you become a regular, you get to recognize the staff. They start to acknowledge you in a familiar way. The restaurant becomes your place as well as theirs. Their presence and yours become predictable and reliable, a brief but comforting connection in an anonymous world. Years ago, there was a young woman who waited on me each morning at a local shop. Over the course of about two years, I learned she was saving money to go to college. One day she told me it was her last day. She had reached her goal. She was off to college! I wished her well. Despite the passage of time, I still think of her and wonder how it all worked out. A permanent connection was made there at the window. Sometimes I hope to run into her again and hear how it went. In 2018, I went to work in a small rural town in Missouri. I brought my bad habit with me and scouted out a new fast food restaurant that was on my route to work. Every morning I pulled up to the same intercom to place my order. Pretty soon the staff got so familiar with me, my car, and my order that they no longer asked what I wanted. Barely at a stop, I would hear a voice from the loudspeaker telling me to pull up to the window, my drink was ready. Now that is service! How far down the road did they see me coming? And it felt good to be known by someone while I was a lonely stranger far from home. Eventually, some of the regular staff learned my name and addressed me like an old friend. I am back in my hometown now. It was a little sad to leave my people at the drive-through in Missouri. Coronavirus was awaiting me back in Ohio. My daily routine was upended, and I started visiting a new drive-through restaurant. With a few months of patronage under my belt, I now recognize the voices on the intercom and the people who reach out to me from the drive-through window. They know just how I like my drink and how much ice to add to the cup. Every couple of weeks a pair of hands reaches out the window to pass me my drink, and a voice says, “It’s on me. Have a nice day!” I feel a surge of friendship for this young masked man. I will have a nice day, Kemosabe. I will. And I do. Next time you pass a drive-through window, take a look. There are actual people hidden behind the glass. Kind and gracious people. A special class of friends. We were young together. Fresh and indestructible, we met on the cusp of adulthood at that time in life when heartaches heal and leave no scars. We worked in the same office building. We knew each other’s bosses. We shared office gossip, and with our rolling eyes, we silently talked dirt about people in the crowded elevator. We made pots of coffee in the break room and shared stale pretzels from the vending machine. We sipped gin and tonic at night clubs on Friday nights. Weeknights, we went to home interior parties as we each set up housekeeping. We lay over at someone’s mom’s house waiting for the parties to begin. The moms offered us the best chairs or cool drinks while hot pots simmered on the stove. Brothers and sisters wandered in and out of the house. We were bridesmaids and house guests. We attended baby showers. We went on road trips together. We were fearless on the highway. What were ten or eleven hours behind the wheel after a week of work? Nothing! We sat on hotel balconies facing the ocean. With our slender legs up on the railing, our bare feet warmed by the sun and the hems of our shorts billowing from the ocean breeze, we wrote silly poems on postcards to our families: “Dear Mom and Dadio, we’re sitting on the patio…” We howled with laughter at our cleverness and because we were relaxed and free and happy. A lifetime of years passed. Occasional phone calls and emails formed a dotted line connecting the then with the now. Disasters did strike—cancers, hospitalizations, deaths, divorces, job losses. It has been 25 years since we last met in person, but there is no anxiety or self-consciousness, only joyful anticipation. We all agree to meet halfway at a restaurant off a busy highway exit. The three hour drive between Columbus and Pittsburgh is too much for a day trip now. We travel only in the day light. Our new friends say, “Isn’t that too far to go alone? What will you talk about all day?” Our cars arrive in the restaurant parking lot at exactly the same time. We each peer out of our car windows, squinting through our bifocals, each wondering, “Is that her?” The youth is gone from our faces. There is silver in our hair, wrinkles around our necks. We carry heartaches that did not heal, scars that did not fade. But that is not what we talk about when we are together. We howl with laughter at the same old jokes. We rehash the same stories. We remember together the people we have loved who are gone from our lives, the ones our new friends never knew or even met. No explanations are needed. We knew each other when. We know each other still. We are connected at a mysterious core. They know my entire story and I theirs. There is no threat of judgment here. They have known my naiveté and my stupidity, my accomplishments and my courage. We are back on the balcony. We are clever, relaxed, free, and happy. There is a truth between us that we do not need to speak. We know that we have moved to the head of the line, the front of the class. The time ahead is no longer endless. We are no longer indestructible save for the bonds of friendship formed when we were young together. An earlier version of this post appeared as "We Were Young Together" in the Senior Beacon, May, 2018. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
April 2024
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