It wasn't very long into my acquaintance with "V" that mealtimes became clearly established as excellent occasions to share stories from our pasts. As each breakfast, lunch, and dinner passed, "V" and I found ourselves lingering longer and longer at the dining room table. This, I hoped, would help build a bond between us... and also help me to move forward beyond my memories of "M" so that I could fully enjoy a new and fulfilling relationship with an equally wonderful woman.
During breakfast on our sixth Saturday morning together, "V" and I were enjoying a cup of coffee (hers black and mine loaded up with non-sugar tasting sugar substitutes). We had already finished our cereal (hers plain and mine weighed down with sweeter-than-sweet sun-drenched raisins), enjoyed our toast (hers buttered and mine smeared with Smuckers' Rasberry Jam, because with a name like that, it's got to be good!), and I was just about ready to start clearing the table.
"What's the hurry, Dear?" inquired "V", a concerned look on her face. "Sit down. Enjoy your coffee. We'll chat a while longer."
And with that most welcome of invitations, a new pattern was quite pleasantly put in place. After breakfast was going to be the time for us to enjoy our longest, deepest, bond-building conversations.
And with that most welcome of invitations, a new pattern was quite pleasantly put in place. After breakfast was going to be the time for us to enjoy our longest, deepest, bond-building conversations.
This new pattern met with no resistance from my end. I was still very much mourning the departure of "M" from my life, even though her advancing Dementia had limited the depth of our talks significantly the last time I saw her. Still, we had always enjoyed the hours after breakfast as a time for chatting over our tea about flying and sailing and critters and such.
The content of my conversations with "V" are quite different in nature, understandably, as she is quite clearly cognizant for a woman of her age. In fact, even though I've only known her a month and a half, I've already begun to think that her mind and memory work MUCH better than mine! I can't imagine my recall being anywhere near that good if I'm blessed enough to live another 45 years!
Slowly, but steadily, "V" began to open up to me about her background during our after-breakfast, hummingbird look-out chats. I was pleased to learn that her family and mine shared a similar background... our ancestors settling in the Bronx after emigrating to the United States from Italy around the turn of the twentieth century. It turns out that our families lived in nearby neighborhoods, and as she spoke of her childhood and early adulthood years spent there, I was reminded of tales that my mother told me about growing up in New York City's northern-most borough.
It sure sounded like a friendly place. Everyone seemed to know and look out for each other in a neighborhood was like one big extended family. Kids played in the streets together, and were able to walk safely to and from school. Afterwards, they were welcomed into the homes of other families, almost as though all the children were interchangeable. Values were definitely different than they are today, somehow simpler yet so much more solid, and people felt a true sense of community in a way that seems almost impossible in today's technological world.
I could hear an slight air of longing for the "good old days" as "V" spoke of these times, but also a strong sense of gratitude for having grown up in such a close-knit and caring environment. These qualities were carried with her and her husband when they, like so many other city families, relocated to the then sprawling and largely farm-like suburbs. In "V"s case, the couple settled in a rather isolated little town because of her husband was transferred to a job near there. To hear her tell it, the little town soon became a close-knit community, as other families also settled there and began to raise their children.
"V"s quaint country home is located on a dead-end street, and during the time that her children were growing up, she described the neighborhood in very much the same way as the one she grew up in. A strong sense of community bound the families together in a way that doesn't always exist anymore. The children all played together, everyone knew each other, and families were always welcomed into each others' homes. There were church socials, town meetings, and other local events that drew people together and helped form a different, but nonetheless valuable, type of extended family. People could count on each other to be there, whether it be for a celebration or a crisis.
"All of the kids would always end up at our house," "V" explained with a smile. She talked proudly about being a stay-at-home Mom for a number of years before going to work at the local school district. And even then, the hours of her job made it possible for her to be home when the children were through with school. She described her backyard as being a football field, which was the favorite sport of the all the local kids at the time. And as we looked out the sliding doors of her dining room onto "V"s property, the Hummingbird feeder dead center in our view, the image grew clearly visible in my head. The yard was wide, filled with nothing but well-maintained green grass, bordered by trees and shrubbery on one side, and a rock wall on the other. It really did look like a football field of sorts!
As "V" described the way her two sons played in the backyard with the other neighborhood children, I began to think of my own childhood. Come to think of it, I grew up in very similar surroundings, only my sprawling suburbs were way on the "other side" of the Hudson River. And even though the Hudson is nothing like the "Mighty Mississippi," it can certainly hold its own in terms of its distinctiveness and division. Not to mention absolutely astounding beauty. People on the Eastern side rarely interacted with people on the Western side, at least not until the many beautiful bridges of the Hudson Valley were built. And even then, it was as though a great chasm separated two very different societies, a situation which still seems to exist today, although perhaps to a lesser extent.
I shared with "V" that like her, my mother also worked in the local school district, returning home shortly after my sister and I got out of school. And although our rocky, terraced corner yard looked absolutely nothing like a football field, the adjacent street served as the playing field for the kids in my neighborhood. Except in my case, the game was baseball. And I was the only girl on the team, my younger sister preferring to watch from the sidelines. Luckily for us, it was a somewhat isolated street, with not a lot of through traffic to endanger our safety, or interrupt the game.
Although many of the similarities between "V"s story and mine stopped after the backyard football field of her children and the baseball games of my own childhood, one thing was happily becoming evident. "V" and I had a lot in common in terms of our family heritages, and I was thrilled that this was helping to solidify the bond beginning to grow between us.
"My husband and I went back to our old neighborhood once," "V" told me during one of our after breakfast conversations. "I wanted to go," she said, "but he didn't." I asked her why, and her voice became almost inaudibly soft. "He knew it had changed, and he wanted to remember it the way it was." She went on, "I was persistent, though, and we finally went back." Her voice actually drifted off as she told me how the area had severely changed, and not for the better.
I suddenly recalled my Grandparents, who I greatly adored, in a memory that I hadn't thought of in at least thirty years. They described a visit to their old neighborhood in the Bronx in much the same way as "V" just had. I shared this with her, hoping she would know that I could truly relate to her own story in some way.
She looked at me then, our eyes connecting, and I knew in my heart that she did. At that moment, I felt completely comfortable and at home with "V", and decided to tell her about about how I had left my home town on the Eastern side of the Hudson Valley as a young adult to live on the West Coast for ten years. Upon my return, I sadly discovered that my own home town had turned into a commuter nightmare, the once forested hills filled with tree-less rows of manufactured houses that all looked the same. "It wasn't anything like I remembered it!" I exclaimed.
"V" nodded understandingly, and we shared the first of many laughs that sixth Saturday morning of our acquaintance. Even though the Bronx neighborhood she grew up in and my own hometown in the suburbs were two distinctly different places from very separate eras, I knew that both of us could empathize with the other about how it felt to "go back." Although the cement in the bond between "V" and me was becoming much stronger, I also somberly realized that I couldn't go back to the relationship I had with "M".
But I could share it with "V" by telling her some of the adventures I'd had during my travels with "M". The two of them could meet, so to speak, and in that way, all our lives would become indelibly intertwined. Plus, I could also continue writing stories about "M" in this blog, keeping her and her stories alive and well for anyone who is interested in reading them.
I greatly look forward to forging ahead in getting to know this magnificent ninety-five year old woman named "V", with her own unique history full of delightful and enlightening tales just waiting to be told... and read.
I am on the "other side" of the river now... and I know that this is exactly where I am meant to be.
Slowly, but steadily, "V" began to open up to me about her background during our after-breakfast, hummingbird look-out chats. I was pleased to learn that her family and mine shared a similar background... our ancestors settling in the Bronx after emigrating to the United States from Italy around the turn of the twentieth century. It turns out that our families lived in nearby neighborhoods, and as she spoke of her childhood and early adulthood years spent there, I was reminded of tales that my mother told me about growing up in New York City's northern-most borough.
It sure sounded like a friendly place. Everyone seemed to know and look out for each other in a neighborhood was like one big extended family. Kids played in the streets together, and were able to walk safely to and from school. Afterwards, they were welcomed into the homes of other families, almost as though all the children were interchangeable. Values were definitely different than they are today, somehow simpler yet so much more solid, and people felt a true sense of community in a way that seems almost impossible in today's technological world.
I could hear an slight air of longing for the "good old days" as "V" spoke of these times, but also a strong sense of gratitude for having grown up in such a close-knit and caring environment. These qualities were carried with her and her husband when they, like so many other city families, relocated to the then sprawling and largely farm-like suburbs. In "V"s case, the couple settled in a rather isolated little town because of her husband was transferred to a job near there. To hear her tell it, the little town soon became a close-knit community, as other families also settled there and began to raise their children.
"V"s quaint country home is located on a dead-end street, and during the time that her children were growing up, she described the neighborhood in very much the same way as the one she grew up in. A strong sense of community bound the families together in a way that doesn't always exist anymore. The children all played together, everyone knew each other, and families were always welcomed into each others' homes. There were church socials, town meetings, and other local events that drew people together and helped form a different, but nonetheless valuable, type of extended family. People could count on each other to be there, whether it be for a celebration or a crisis.
"All of the kids would always end up at our house," "V" explained with a smile. She talked proudly about being a stay-at-home Mom for a number of years before going to work at the local school district. And even then, the hours of her job made it possible for her to be home when the children were through with school. She described her backyard as being a football field, which was the favorite sport of the all the local kids at the time. And as we looked out the sliding doors of her dining room onto "V"s property, the Hummingbird feeder dead center in our view, the image grew clearly visible in my head. The yard was wide, filled with nothing but well-maintained green grass, bordered by trees and shrubbery on one side, and a rock wall on the other. It really did look like a football field of sorts!
As "V" described the way her two sons played in the backyard with the other neighborhood children, I began to think of my own childhood. Come to think of it, I grew up in very similar surroundings, only my sprawling suburbs were way on the "other side" of the Hudson River. And even though the Hudson is nothing like the "Mighty Mississippi," it can certainly hold its own in terms of its distinctiveness and division. Not to mention absolutely astounding beauty. People on the Eastern side rarely interacted with people on the Western side, at least not until the many beautiful bridges of the Hudson Valley were built. And even then, it was as though a great chasm separated two very different societies, a situation which still seems to exist today, although perhaps to a lesser extent.
I shared with "V" that like her, my mother also worked in the local school district, returning home shortly after my sister and I got out of school. And although our rocky, terraced corner yard looked absolutely nothing like a football field, the adjacent street served as the playing field for the kids in my neighborhood. Except in my case, the game was baseball. And I was the only girl on the team, my younger sister preferring to watch from the sidelines. Luckily for us, it was a somewhat isolated street, with not a lot of through traffic to endanger our safety, or interrupt the game.
Although many of the similarities between "V"s story and mine stopped after the backyard football field of her children and the baseball games of my own childhood, one thing was happily becoming evident. "V" and I had a lot in common in terms of our family heritages, and I was thrilled that this was helping to solidify the bond beginning to grow between us.
"My husband and I went back to our old neighborhood once," "V" told me during one of our after breakfast conversations. "I wanted to go," she said, "but he didn't." I asked her why, and her voice became almost inaudibly soft. "He knew it had changed, and he wanted to remember it the way it was." She went on, "I was persistent, though, and we finally went back." Her voice actually drifted off as she told me how the area had severely changed, and not for the better.
I suddenly recalled my Grandparents, who I greatly adored, in a memory that I hadn't thought of in at least thirty years. They described a visit to their old neighborhood in the Bronx in much the same way as "V" just had. I shared this with her, hoping she would know that I could truly relate to her own story in some way.
She looked at me then, our eyes connecting, and I knew in my heart that she did. At that moment, I felt completely comfortable and at home with "V", and decided to tell her about about how I had left my home town on the Eastern side of the Hudson Valley as a young adult to live on the West Coast for ten years. Upon my return, I sadly discovered that my own home town had turned into a commuter nightmare, the once forested hills filled with tree-less rows of manufactured houses that all looked the same. "It wasn't anything like I remembered it!" I exclaimed.
"V" nodded understandingly, and we shared the first of many laughs that sixth Saturday morning of our acquaintance. Even though the Bronx neighborhood she grew up in and my own hometown in the suburbs were two distinctly different places from very separate eras, I knew that both of us could empathize with the other about how it felt to "go back." Although the cement in the bond between "V" and me was becoming much stronger, I also somberly realized that I couldn't go back to the relationship I had with "M".
But I could share it with "V" by telling her some of the adventures I'd had during my travels with "M". The two of them could meet, so to speak, and in that way, all our lives would become indelibly intertwined. Plus, I could also continue writing stories about "M" in this blog, keeping her and her stories alive and well for anyone who is interested in reading them.
I greatly look forward to forging ahead in getting to know this magnificent ninety-five year old woman named "V", with her own unique history full of delightful and enlightening tales just waiting to be told... and read.
I am on the "other side" of the river now... and I know that this is exactly where I am meant to be.
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