Missing Papa Bear

Tony and Me

The one thing my sister, Denise, said she remembered about our dad was the smell of his leather briefcase. When she said that, I knew exactly what she was talking about. I wonder now who gave him the case. It seemed always to have existed, with its rich, worn-in smell, its butter-soft texture. What I remembered, too, was how he would come home from work, pick us up, and we would hug him tight. And how his face, with its day's growth of stubble, would scratch.

It occurred to me that these observations were snapshots of the man, but didn't really tell who my dad was. In many ways, he was a shadow in my childhood. I loved my parents, but it was my mom who was the front person. Dad and Mom were a child rearing team. They would agree on a course of action, then my mom would carry it out. In those years, raising six kids on a limited income in a too-small house, Dad was stressed much of the time. Our objective as kids was to fly under Dad's radar. Mom would try to spare him from the small stuff. I suppose it worked, but I didn't really connect with my Dad until I was in high school. By that time, three of six kids had flown the coop, so much of the pressure was off. He began to relax into the person I came to know and appreciate. And really love, not just because he was my Dad, but because he was himself.

In a strange turn of events, when I went through my divorce at age 24, it was my dad who was the supportive one. Eventually, my mom came around, but it took awhile. I got really close with my parents when I moved to Virginia. Mom would write the letters, but my dad often supplied the zing. He clipped a picture out of the newspaper of the Queen of England in her Cinderella-like carriage. Over the place where the queen appeared, he pasted a picture of a cat and captioned it, "Pussy Cat Marge goes to London to visit the Queen." (Marge was our cat at the time.) Once we got a postcard from him that I recognized as one I had sent to them. He covered up the back with white paper and wrote the following: "We were watching a program about recycling -- but we have nothing to recycle -- we will keep looking -- they say a penny saved is a penny earned..."

The Man in Uniform

My parents were pleased when we moved back to Cleveland. We spent many Sundays visiting and drinking coffee and laughing.We got Dad to talk about his childhood, his many pets, and his sisters. He gave us glimpses into his time in service during World War II, but, like many veterans, he was reluctant to tell us very much. He did mention Italy, his friendship with a local family, and how he wanted to go back but was afraid it would be too different from what he remembered.

When we asked what his dad was like, he hung his head, turned away, and said, "I'm dumb compared to him. He was a genius." I have often wondered how different things might have been if my grandfather hadn't had a heart attack and died in 1951 at the age of 60. My dad, then a new homeowner with two small boys, was just getting to know his own father, who had slaved away for years trying to keep his own drugstore in business. My grandparents had moved here from Lima, Ohio, and my newly-married parents lived with them while my dad finished college. My grandfather's death was a blow my father never got over. I am grateful that my dad and I were given the years to become close. That I don't have to wonder every day what might have been.

Tomorrow marks the anniversary my dad's birth. He passed away several years ago after battling Alzheimer's, a cruel disease that slowly robbed him of everything. First, his independence, then his ability to walk, his speech, his dignity, and finally, his life. It was a brutal, faith-shaking eight years. I wouldn't wish him back in that stage of his life. But I do wish I could talk to him again like we did on those Sundays. There are so many things I want to ask him. Now I will just have to be content to hear him with my heart.

The Unsung Heroes

No, I'm not going to write about fire fighters. Or police officers. Or members of the military. Or anyone whose job it is to serve and protect..  

This week, I give a hearty shout-out to the women in my life who have helped whip me into shape.The ones who have inspired me to be a better me.

Before I get started, I want to say that no, I'm not including my mom or my sisters here-- their influence on my life has been considerable, but there simply isn't enough room here to do them justice.

So, without further ado, and with preliminary apologies to anyone I am leaving out...the envelope, please. And the winners are...

Judy Mabe-Squires
Judy moved in across the street from us when I was about 13 years old. She first befriended my sister, Denise. At the time, she was in her 30's, divorced, and needed a babysitter for her young daughter, Sheila. When asked if I would be interested in the job, I jumped at the chance. I sat with Sheila for many years while Judy attended night school at Cleveland State University. And on Saturday nights  when she dated. After graduating from high school, I got a job at an insurance agency downtown. Judy offered me a ride to work. When the job started to head south for me, Judy said there was an opening in her company, and would I be interested. Oh, yes. I was. And for three years I worked at the Albert M. Higley Company, General Contractors. Judy was my first mentor, but she also cared about me. She looked out for me. She made me feel like part of her family. She showed me what possessing perseverance, integrity and a good heart could achieve.

Pamela Collins-Stec
Pam and I worked together at J.B. Robinson Jewelers. From my vantage point in the accounting department, I was in awe of Pam. Sophisticated, artistic, witty and worldly, I never believed I could live within her circle. Eventually, I moved to the advertising department in an entry level position, and later on I worked for Pam. She invited me to spend time with her outside of work.We went antique shopping one rainy Saturday and sat talking afterward in her apartment. We yacked about life and men and a lot of things I don't remember. But I do remember the joy of being in her orbit. Of discovering that, as well as being this amazing human being, Pam had a heart that, for size, rivaled the universe. Over the years, she would marry, have two great kids, and survive breast cancer. We still meet for lunch. And yes, I am still in awe of her.

Bette Bradbury
Bette was the Vice President of Marketing when I worked at Kay Jewelers in Alexandria, Virginia. Kay took over J.B. Robinson Jewelers, and in 1986, I was a soon-to-be-unemployed retail advertising copywriter/print manager. Bette took me in, and I was never sorry that I made the move. Bette was a demanding boss, but always cared about us personally, too. She believed in us and fought for us. And when we screwed up, she took the flak, quietly reprimanding us in private. We didn't want to disappoint Bette. As a result, she got the best work out of us. Toward the end, shortly before Kay was taken over, Bette could see the handwriting on the wall. She allowed us to experiment with a print campaign that was really out there. And she gave me the opportunity to write and produce radio spots. It was a great experience for me, and I was grateful. After Kay closed, Bette moved out to New Mexico, where she works to help women to  work. I feel blessed to know her.

Anna Mae Joyce
Mrs. Joyce came into my life by way of my mother-in-law, Gracemary. She was one of the very few friends Grace had, and she was very good to her. Not in a patronizing way, but in the way of true friendship. After my husband, Bill, and I moved in with his mom to take care of her, I recall Mrs. Joyce coming over to pick up Grace to take her out for ice cream. They would laugh like school girls together. Mrs. Joyce, a widow, had been married to a man who was bi-polar. So she understood and was sympathetic to Grace, who struggled most of her life with mental illness. When he was little, Bill went to Mrs. Joyce's house with his mom, and she would park him in her library, where he would sit and read while the women would "kaffe klatch," as Grace always put it. Over time, Mrs. Joyce became more to me than just a friend of my mother- in-law. When I went to see her in the hospital, she shared her own story of her life and gave me a better understanding of Grace. And grace. She was thoughtful, courageous, kind, and resilient. She had a lot of faith, and it served her well. I still miss her.

There have many women in my life who have touched me, who have made me a better person. If you are one of them and I haven't called you out by name, I apologize. But know that you, too, have made a difference. You have brightened my life, eased my pain, made my way lighter, showed me how to do it right. And I am grateful to you all.

Crossing the Pond...30 Years Ago

How can it possibly have been 30 years since my feet landed on British soil? I don't remember all of the details, but I do remember the giddiness that filled me, from planning the trip to touching down at Heathrow to experiencing a country I'd dreamed about all my life.

Fortunately, I kept a journal of my trip. Unfortunately, it was more of a "we went here, we went there, we were constantly amazed by..." kind of travelogue. It should have been a rich, clear picture of what it was like to walk and breathe among the spirit of kings and queens and commoners who lived over thousands of years. The thrill of Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's, standing there with my lame little camera, trying to take pictures and realizing the futility of the attempt. Everything was so BIG, my photos from the trip are a disappointment.

If I were going there today, I imagine I would try to capture the small things, more of the details. I would have taken a shot of the cabby who took us to the airport, the one with the Cockney accent. He might as well have been speaking Swahili, it was that hard for us to understand each other. I might have taken a photo of the gentleman in the pizza place who was sitting strumming a guitar and singing, "I Can't Help Falling in Love with You" while my traveling companion was in the ladies' room. Or snapped the escalator at the tube station that seemed to reach to Mars. All of these images, alas, are only in my head.

What is it about my fascination with the British Isles? My ancestors were largely from Germany, but I've never had a desire to travel there. So I'm not sure. Perhaps it's having spent time in England in several previous lives, as one psychic told me. Maybe it's simply because America is such a young country. Our history only goes back a few hundred years, instead of a few thousand years. We don't have a Hadrian's Wall or a Canterbury Cathedral, where visits by centuries of pilgrims have worn down the stone stairs. And where Thomas Becket was martyred. There is no American counterpart to Dover castle, up on a hill, ready to defend the country against foreign invasion.

Looking back 30 years with a (maybe) more mature perspective, I think about my 24-year-old self. I was such a youngster, really, with my whole life ahead of me. I hadn't traveled much at all up to that point, so everything was truly an adventure. I can't imagine today just picking up and plopping down the money to fly across the ocean to make a dream happen. I admire that about my young self. What I lacked in maturity, I made up for in chutzpah.

At the end of my trip journal, I expressed a wish to return to the country of my dreams. In 30 years, I've pined, but never taken the plunge. I have a husband, a kid, a demanding job, financial obligations -- ties that didn't hold me back on my first trip.

Maybe someday I will go back. And experience the country I still love with deeper appreciation.

In the meantime, I'll have to rely on my memories, some less-than-fabulous photos, and the imprint the place left on my heart.

Someone Else's Shoes 

From time to time, I play this game in my head. What would it be like to be someone else? 

This isn't born of contempt for my own life, or a coveting of others. More of a curiosity. If we're all part of the same jigsaw puzzle, what is that guy's piece of the puzzle like? I've played the game in the grocery store, the park, in a slow meeting, and sometimes watching TV images of faraway places. What do they eat for breakfast? What is their home like? Are they married? Do they have children and how do they feel about them? Do they have health issues? Do they read? What is their deepest, darkest secret?

Maybe it's just the writer in me, looking for a story. A way to slip into someone's shoes and take them for a ride. I'm pretty sure I know what I'd find. That, with some extreme exceptions (your Hitler types, for example) we're all built pretty much the same way.

We all want a safe, happy home life with those we love around us. We want good health. We want to be comfortable financially. We want to be happy in our work. We want our team to win. We want to feel good about ourselves. We want a measure of peace in our lives.

Understanding this brings with it the question: If we're all so much alike, why aren't we kinder to each other? Why are we cutting each other off in traffic or itching to run over those who get in our way? If we all want essentially the same things, why do we torment those who look different or those who take a different path to achieve the same goals? (Presupposing, of course, that their path harms no one else.)

The thing about imagining yourself in someone else's shoes is that you are imagining, you don't really know. You can't really know because even if you could step into their life for a day, you wouldn't feel the same way they do because you haven't had all of their life experiences.

So...maybe we don't know as much as we think we do about the folks around us. Maybe they've endured horrors we will never understand. Maybe they're just not thoroughly equipped to deal with this world. Maybe they have pain in shades of red and orange that we cannot fathom.

Maybe we should cut the world -- and ourselves -- a little slack. And yes, by "we" I mean "me, too."