Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (30 page)

On my first day back, much to my surprise—as if she’s been waiting—she answers, “I sure am!” The lake is maybe a third of a mile around. We traipse around it three times, without a rest, pausing at each completed round to see if it is time to head home. “Let’s keep going!” she grins. (“See, I can still do
this!
”) We are both amazed and delighted at her newfound stamina. And she is very proud.

But the following days, she can scarcely walk at all, and certainly not around the lake; even getting in and out of the car becomes a strain. “I must have overdone it that first day, Rita.” Still, each day when I am ready to go walking, I invite her to join me, just in case she’s up to it again. Both of us are disappointed when she is unable to take even a leisurely stroll.

During those seven days, Mom and I laugh a lot, cry a little. We keep life pretty normal. Some mornings we go to Mass. Sometimes we invite favorite cronies out to lunch. At any time of the day or night, we find ourselves plunked down in the easy chairs in the living room, just gazing for hours at our favorite sight: the lake and the trees across from our house. How she loves that lake! We all do. We watch some television—the news, especially the weather, Lawrence Welk,
Wheel of Fortune.

Each day the magic hour of five o’clock ushers in “happy hour.” At 4:55, Mom begins arranging hors d’oeuvres while I fix drinks. And we always clink our glasses in a toast to signal that “happy hour” has officially begun. (More than once that week, words for the toast stick in my throat.) After happy hour, we fix dinner together. Pop popcorn later. Maybe play some pinochle. All the while, a cloud hangs over these common ordinary things that we’ve enjoyed through the years.

Mom’s mini-strokes some weeks before have left her unable to drive, so we run errands she’s not been able to do alone—go to the bank, to the grocery store, to Kmart for denture tablets and other supplies. I drive her to get her hair permed for the last time by the woman who has done it for 35 years, to get her taxes figured by the same accountant who has performed that task for the Bresnahans since the early 1930s. Back at the house, we find ourselves just sitting and looking at that lake again, sometimes quietly, at other times reminiscing.

Certain aspects of the lake always intrigue her:

“See how the water glistens, just like diamonds.”

“The waves are really high today, aren’t they, Rita!”

“Isn’t the fountain pretty?”

“Look at all the people walking today. Do you see that one in the funny red hat?”

Too soon, my time with her comes to an end. On my last day home, the last day I will ever spend in this little house, I rise early so as to get some exercise before leaving for the airport. Mom is awake but still in bed, and to my usual invite to go for a walk, she answers, with sadness in her voice, “No, my legs are hurting me too much. You go ahead.”

My heart is heavy as I step out into the chill—a foggy Illinois morning, with visibility perhaps 100 yards or so. Setting off briskly, I spot a few other hardy souls, mere shapes in the mist, out for their morning constitutional. I circle the lake three or four times, then as I am rounding the curve that puts me in front of our little house, I discern a lone figure wearing a long garment, approaching slowly through the mist. As the figure draws closer, I realize it is my mother. She raises her hand in a wave, and I hurry to meet her, shouting, “Mom!” A long brown raincoat covers her flimsy nightgown.

“I just had to come meet you, Rita. Are you going around again?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mom. Do
you
feel like it?”

She is quiet for a moment, torn, it seems, by an inner struggle—between her unflagging spirit that has navigated that lake for almost 60 years and longs to walk it one last time, and every bone and muscle in legs that can no longer carry her and that shout, “No way!” The struggle registers in her face, she slowly shakes her head, looks down into the lake with a great sadness and murmurs haltingly, “Oh— Rita—let’s—just—walk—one another home.”

We turn around, and arm in arm, step by step, Mom and I begin shuffling the five minutes back toward our little house. It’s our last walk together here—we know it in our bones. Tears start, for both of us. I can feel her chest heaving, there where our arms are interlocked. As for myself, 58 years of memories are crowding in and streaming down my cheeks. We hold tightly onto one another’s arm.

The little house welcomes us back into the shelter of its warmth. It feels more like holy ground to me than it ever has before, rich with the fullness of life that has been lived here. Holy ground where, as a little girl, I learned not only how to walk, but how to “walk with one another.” Waves of gratefulness wash over me for all my parents taught me here, and for my mother’s walking... especially for her walking...

I help Mom out of the damp raincoat and into her warm blue bathrobe with the lacy cuffs. Shuddering and shivering as she ties the robe, she goes straight to the stove and puts the teakettle on as she’s done every morning for 60 years. “C’mon, Rita. Let’s sit down and have a cup of tea.”

Rita Bresnahan

The Making of a Woman

I watched with my dad as my mother came down the stairs. First appeared the tips of her red satin high heels, followed by smooth, creamy legs. The hem of her gray, watered-silk Chanel floated into view like a fog. The skirt funneled upward to a cinched waist, which began at once to reach outward again to claim a pair of proud, under-wired breasts, pressing against a red satin wrap that framed her bare shoulders and tucked in behind her elbows. She was the epitome of ’60s chic. Her scent reached us... heady, delicious.

I turned toward my father to see how he liked it and was riveted by a new expression on his face. He stared up at this creature-no-longer-his-wife with a glowing gaze that seemed to impale her like a butterfly on a pin. She stopped, midstep. A slightly startled smile touched her lips. “Well,” she murmured, “how do I look?”

“Come here, you,” he said—commanded.

I stared at these two people who had once been my parents. They seemed to share some secret that, strange as it seemed, obviously had nothing to do with me. I felt a sudden urge to wedge myself in between them. I saw him put her evening coat over her shoulders. He bent down and whispered something into her hair and she tilted back her head. A secret dawned in her eyes. Like the shutter of a camera, my mind captured that instant. It remained with me long after the door had closed behind them.

The next day I sat in my father’s chair waiting for him to come home. I wore my mother’s Chanel, the cinch belt pulled well past the last notch. I had found that when I sucked in my stomach and raised my ribcage, I gave a perfect impression of having breasts. I waited, my bare legs stretched in front of me like a model’s. I noticed the lipstick smear from when the tube had dropped from my hand, bounced off the bathroom counter and slalomed down the skirt. I hid it in a fold of fabric. Then I heard the key in the lock. Quickly I lifted my chest.

He stopped when he saw me, about to say hello as usual, but registering something different. I could practically see his workday drop from his mind like a dusty backpack as he took in the dress, the made-up face, the pose. His eyes softened, and then his face adopted a smile of pure Desi Arnaz charm. “Well!” he said. “Is this my lucky day? Let’s have a look at you.” I got off the chair and rustled toward him, stepping carefully. His amused eyes dropped to the red streak across the skirt, and his expression changed. He looked at me sharply. I stopped, for the first time realizing what I’d done: my mother’s favorite dress, impossibly expensive, a Christmas gift from Dad. We stared at each other, his eyes seemed to knife right through me...

Suddenly he crouched down and looked into my face. I saw the crinkles around his eyes, little white untanned rays, and the lank, brown hair with the blond layer on top. I saw my own skinny little body engulfed in this ocean of watered silk. Then I heard him whisper to me, “You’re growing up so fast, you know that? Someday I’m gonna turn around and you’ll be the toast of the town. Your old Dad won’t be able to fight his way through the boys. Will he?”

All at once he picked me up and held me in a gigantic bear hug. My mother’s shoes flew from my dangling feet, landing noiselessly somewhere on the carpet. He squeezed the breath out of me, five o’clock shadow dug into my neck, drawing a muffled scream of laughter before he gently put me back down. He crouched again. “Don’t grow up too fast, you,” he ordered. He tapped my flat, unremarkable nose.

And for the first time he didn’t call it “the freckle farm.”

Doni Tamblyn

Tribute to Dad

My father died three weeks after his 80th birthday. No one read about it in the headlines since he’d never invented anything to speak of or lit up the big screen or amassed a huge fortune. His most outstanding achievement was that he was a nice guy. But that seldom makes the headlines. “Harold Halperin, Nice Guy, Dies at Age 80.”

For most of his adult life he owned a corner drugstore with his brother-in-law. It was the old-fashioned kind of store with friendly service, a soda fountain and a gumball machine where the gum still cost a penny and you could even get a “winner” to trade in for a candy bar. Although his customers could have bought their prescriptions cheaper at the chain across the street, they came to my dad’s because his “Hello, Mr. Jones!” did more to heal than any of the drugs.

When he retired at the age of 70, my dad started a second career working for the Hershey Company, stocking candy racks at the local 7-Eleven’s and White Hen Pantries. Although he was supposed to throw away the outdated candy bars, one of his greatest pleasures in life was to share them with the neighborhood kids or bring them to the local soup kitchen for the homeless to enjoy. Everyone called him the Candyman.

His entire illness, from the time he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer to the time he died, was less than four months. Those four months were a gift to him and to us— not long enough for him to suffer a great deal, but long enough for all of us to say our good-byes and to feel complete. It was also a time for me to notice not only who he was but also the way my father gave us his love. I had never taken the time to notice before.

I delivered his eulogy:

Yesterday morning, on the Sabbath, my beautiful father died. When thinking about the words to say at his funeral, I thought, “What tribute can you pay a man whose whole life was a tribute? A tribute to goodness, kindness, caring and generosity. There’s really no need for words because my dad’s life spoke loud and clear enough.”

We all know who Harold Halperin was. He was everyone’s favorite friend. He was everyone’s favorite neighbor. He was everyone’s favorite uncle. He was everyone’s favorite employer. He was everyone’s favorite employee.
He didn’t have an enemy in the world. I don’t think there was anyone who knew him that did-n’t love him. He was a gentleman and a gentle man.

Not that he was perfect—no human being is.
But in my life, even in the most trying times for him—and there were a few where I really stretched the guy—I never felt for even a moment that he wasn’t there for me with all his heart and all his love.

We’re all going to miss him. I’m going to miss him because he was the only one who told me on a regular basis that I was so beautiful that I should have been a movie star—and really believed it.

The kids will miss him because there was never a more loving grandpa. I wish you could have seen the way he played with his grandchildren. The love in his eyes,the way he adored them—and how they loved him!It was always, “Papa, look at me,” “Papa, come here,” “Papa, watch,”“Papa,play with me!”And there he was, down on the floor with them, not caring how difficult it was to get back up again.

And my mom—what can I say about their love? For 47 years those two were completely devoted to each other. My husband and Mom were talking yesterday and Mom said, “If only you and Debbie could have a marriage like Harold and I had. In 47 years, we never went to bed angry.”To which my husband replied,“Ceil, I think we blew it already.”

One of my most vivid memories of childhood was when my dad would come home from work at 6:30 for dinner. My brother and I would hear him ring the bell—our private joke was that he’d ring it over and over until we got there. We’d be upstairs doing our homework or watching TV and we’d yell to each other, “Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home!” Then we’d race downstairs and open the door and he’d always say, “What took you so long?” It was the highlight of our day when Dad came home.

A second vivid memory was the dinner ritual he had. When we’d be sitting at the table,Daddy
would reach over and put his hand on Mom’s arm and say, “Do you two know that you have the most wonderful mother in the world?”He’d say that every night.

And my mom and dad lived his final weeks as they lived the rest of their lives together—my mother loving him and taking care of her darling, precious husband’s every need, 24 hours a day. Doing everything that was humanly possible so that he could die with dignity in his own bed without suffering.

And my dad, with days, even hours, left in his life, was still wanting to make sure everything was taken care of for his wife and family. A few days ago Dad was so weak he could hardly talk, and I was telling him how much I loved him and what a great dad he’d been and how lucky Larry and I were to have him for our father. I was going on and on, pouring my heart out to him, and finally I just said, “I love you so much, Daddy.” At which point he whispered something back to me. At first I couldn’t hear him, so I put my ear close to him and said, “What did you say?” He mustered all his strength and repeated, “Be sure to get the brakes on the Oldsmobile fixed. I don’t want your mother driving without good brakes.”