Making it back to the train station with minutes to spare, we’d settle in the top deck once again, thankful for the train’s stuffy warmth and each other’s shoulders to nap on.
Sadly, in a major corporate buyout in 2005, Marshall Field’s became Macy’s department store, and a host of similar traditions for thousands of other families changed. The decades-old custom of the Christmas windows went the same route. They have never been the same.
In the end, perhaps it doesn’t matter, for it was really never about the windows. It was about the opportunity to share a good meal, talk of future dreams, hold hands, walk arm in arm, laugh, and love. Windows of time and togetherness. The best gifts of the season.
Partings Well Made
Embraces that speak volumes in their silence. Kisses and tears. Whispered words of parting. Finally, the agonizing moment of separation.
Security checkpoint, Midway Airport, Chicago. No ticketed passengers beyond this point. Because my son’s arrival was delayed, I became a wandering voyeur, canvassing a sea of constantly changing faces and farewells.
Parents, college students, lovers, dear friends, and aging parents in wheelchairs all created farewell scenes that would far surpass any Hollywood dramatizations.
Before September 11, airport goodbyes consisted of curbside air kisses, as no-nonsense cops swept the traffic along. For those who took the time to journey with their loved ones to the gate, a light hug and a happy wave had to suffice, as passengers grabbed their carry-ons and hurried to their seats.
Post–September 11, the added security barriers at different checkpoints throughout the airport limit time and access with loved ones. Even in the relative calm of those few months following the terrorists’ attack, the barriers were a constant reminder that things had changed, that the ordinary is sublime, and that when those we hold most dear are leaving us, these are not occasions to be taken lightly.
And indeed they are not.
I’m embarrassed to admit that I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the farewells. The moments were too riveting, too poignant, and I found too much of my own heart being drawn in.
I knew that these were no casual airport goodbyes when I saw the parents of a college student hold each other and their son in a long three-way hug before letting him line up for the passengers-only security check. He was almost past the guard when his parents called him out of line and repeated the whole embrace again.
Trying not to stare at this scene, I looked to my left only to find a mother-daughter farewell. The daughter, sporting long, straight hair, a nose ring, shiny red shoes, and a backpack flung across her shoulder, was clasped closely to the chest of her conservatively dressed mother. After several long moments, the mother finally let go, held her daughter by the shoulders, and studied her face as she spoke softly to her. The daughter nodded patiently, as if she’d heard this speech before. And she probably had. But I knew the mother was only trying to prolong the moment, to memorize the youthful beauty of her child.
At last they parted, and as the daughter sauntered away, the mother stood watching with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if still trying to feel her daughter’s presence.
I turned away from this sorrowful separation, only to be pulled into the romantic drama of two young lovers. He was loaded down with a huge pink-and-white-striped Victoria’s Secret bag, which he dropped unceremoniously, pulling his girlfriend into a passionate kiss. This was followed by long hugs, soft cheek caresses, and more kisses.
With great difficulty, they finally broke apart. Leaving him at the security checkpoint, she turned away first and headed up the nearby escalator, her face contorted in anguish and tears.
Drawn into the suspense, I silently pleaded, Oh, please smile. This is how he’ll remember you. As I watched, she looked away to find that she was almost to the top. Turning back, she broke into a brave smile, blew him a kiss, touched her heart, and then disappeared over the top of the landing and out of sight.
Her lover took a deep breath, discreetly wiped his eyes, and headed to the security line, the Victoria’s Secret bag a lonely reminder of their parting passion.
Perhaps my most profound observation was that most people left behind at the security point did not leave immediately after their loved ones had departed for the gates. Instead, they stood like players unwilling to move offstage after their part was over. They watched as their loved ones strode away. They waited even when their loved ones were long out of sight. They wished, in longing body language, for the unlikely chance that their loved one might return for one more embrace.
Solitary statues left in a swirling sea of rushing departures.
There is a wonderful line in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar when Brutus and Cassius must go their separate ways and head off to battle and unknown futures. Brutus says:
Forever and forever, farewell, Cassius!
If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;
If not, why then this parting was well made.
Cassius repeats the farewell to Brutus.
Here in the sterility of an airport terminal, the most exquisitely beautiful “partings well made” were taking place over and over again.
I would have unabashedly continued my role as audience for these mesmerizing moments but, oh, joyful recognition, I spot a tall figure heading down the concourse toward me. It is my son, safely returning from his business trip. I have offered to pick him up just for the subtle gain of having a good one-on-one visit. Our eyes catch and we wave cheerfully.
As he crosses the line of security demarcation, we exchange warm greetings and a happy hug and kiss. Around us, glad tidings, laughter, and joyous words of welcome burst forth from other united families.
Heading toward the baggage claim area with my son, I take one last look around at my fellow actors, who are also exiting this human theater with loved ones by their sides.
Shakespeare would be pleased. Our smiles could light up a stage.
Moving Muriel
It’s the screen porch she’ll miss the most, and I don’t blame her. Sitting in one of the porch’s vintage, white wicker rocking chairs, one can watch the flutter of newly green crabapple leaves and smell the sweet perfume of the backyard lilacs wafting on the breeze.
Always flying, the American flag flaps gently from the porch’s corner post. Spring birds call sweetly to each other. It is peaceful and calm—a perfect place to watch the comings and goings of the neighborhood and listen to the music of children’s laughter as they play in each other’s yards.
This is my mother-in-law’s home of forty years. It is where her two older sons trekked home from college to visit and where her youngest son completed junior high and high school. It is the last home she shared with her husband of forty-eight years before being widowed. And although she has successfully lived alone and independently here for the past twenty years, it is now time to go.
At almost eighty-nine, Muriel has made her own decision to move to a retirement home, and we (her sons and daughters-in-law) are grateful. Some of the tasks that once seemed so simple to her are becoming a little harder: getting groceries, doing laundry, fixing dinner, driving. We worry about her falling, the quality of her meals, and her spending so much time alone.
Despite the fact that she is intellectually strong, an avid reader and skilled bridge player, it takes a lot of effort and responsibility to maintain a house. So when a lovely apartment at a nearby retirement community opened up this spring, she announced to our surprise that she was ready to move.
And in the blink of an eye, the house went up for sale.
It is a daunting task, both mentally and physically, to break up a home of forty years and decide what to do with a lifetime of possessions. Even though Muriel took her favorite things to her apartment and graciously allowed her sons, daughters-in-law, and grandchildren to take what they could use, there is much left behind.
And what do we do with it? My father-in-law’s navy uniform from World War II? The trunk my husb
and’s great-grandmother brought over from Germany? The myriad of family photos, travel souvenirs, newspaper clippings, and other paraphernalia that were treasures at the time?
Does it go to another family member’s basement for another forty years, or do we get rid of it? There are a multitude of not-so-easy decisions to make. Who should make them? My husband and his brother take leading roles in this process, with my sister-in-law, myself, and nearby grandchildren filling in where needed. We are extremely grateful for each other’s help.
And so I find myself sitting on the porch, enjoying the breeze and the smell of lilacs, and waiting for the auctioneer to come. This is one of my jobs.
Because my mother-in-law and father-in-law were avid and knowledgeable antique hunters, there are quite a few vintage items for the auctioneer to peruse: books, collectible glass and dishware, my father-in-laws clothes iron collection, lanterns, frames, brass candlesticks, milk bottles, and cabinets, to name just a few.
We can’t help but wonder if there isn’t some Antique Road Show treasure worth thousands in the mix. On the other hand, we feel a great need and desire to just get rid of the stuff. Who has the time, energy, and know-how to figure it all out?
We can only put our heads together, do our best, and count on the expertise of others. Hence, the auctioneer.
As I sit and wait for his arrival, I can only imagine what my mother-in-law must feel. We discussed the possibility of having our own garage sale for these things, but that presents an emotional challenge for all.
The items she and her husband collected were never as important as the garage sale and flea market experiences they shared: sunny Saturday morning browsings, the excitement of a find, learning and appreciating the history and craftsmanship of an item. No matter the value of a piece, how does one put a price on all those memories?
There are no easy answers. And so we decided to have the auctioneer haul off the leftovers rather than try to bargain away all of Muriel’s happy collections ourselves.
Thankfully, by this stage we have already moved my mother-in-law into her new apartment, so she is spared this process. I don’t find it so easy myself, and I don’t even live here. I think about her walking out that door for the last time and my heart weeps.
It takes a lot of strength and courage to leave a home and neighborhood you love and adjust to a different environment and new faces, especially in the advanced years of life. I wonder if I could do it.
We already went through this physically and emotionally wrenching process two years ago, with my own widowed mother, moving her from Ohio to the same wonderful nearby retirement home where my mother-in-law has just settled. They are friends and both know other people there, so it is a good start.
It goes without saying, however, that there are a few pitfalls along the way in this life-altering process. Everything does not always run smoothly. Fatigue, impatience, and worry can create communication problems for all involved. Yet, efforts at peace, perseverance, and compassion ease the journey.
It is music to our ears, therefore, when we hear Muriel say, “I just love it here,” and my own mother happily proclaim, “I think of this as home now.” How grateful are we all for that?
Now when our mothers visit our homes and those of their grandchildren, they are thrilled to see their lovely things in use. And for us, their possessions are sweet daily reminders of their lifelong passions and personalities.
But the best gifts both mothers have given us in this moving process are not their earthly treasures, but their examples of dignity and grace under trying circumstances. They have made huge transitions with optimistic fortitude, moving forward in life’s journey with poise, grateful for the new beginnings that are offered even in their late eighties.
For their children and grandchildren, this legacy is priceless.
Barn Wood Harvest
The barn is coming down and it is a beauty. It has sat on its foundation for well over a hundred years, its numerous coats of red paint faded and mellowed to the soft hue of a rooster.
For various reasons—structural, practical, and otherwise— the family reached the difficult conclusion that the barn was no longer serviceable. Not an easy choice, but not many are in a farmer’s life.
This barn will die a slow, peaceful death, which is a good thing. Because some family members have decided to harvest its beautiful, worn, and weathered yellow pine boards for furniture, it is being dismantled one stubborn plank at a time.
And it’s putting up a good fight. I should know. As a sissy city slicker, I have joined my daughter-in-law’s family on this chilly March day to help harvest some wood.
It is Bernice’s barn. She is my daughter-in-law’s grandmother, and for all of her eighty years, she has lived on a farm. She knows the cycles of the natural world and this is one of them.
Always a cheerful and optimistic person, she is happy that some of the barn wood is being recycled to make a table and bench for my son and daughter-in-law’s new home. But as I help with the labor, I think about the memories it must hold for her.
It is where her tall, ruggedly handsome husband, now deceased for twenty-eight years, milked the cows. It is where her four children pitched in with the chores, assisted with the milking, and fed and watered the livestock. It is where she helped out whenever needed, adding to her own farm responsibilities, not the least of which was preparing a huge midday dinner for as many as twelve farmhands, in addition to her own family, during harvest time.
Positioned right across from the tidy, white farmhouse, the cow barn was the nucleus of the farm’s life—the orb around which the day’s work circled. It was the centerpiece of a bucolic landscape.
Already my son and daughter-in-law have a beautiful hutch made from the barn’s cow stalls. It was a wedding gift from her parents, and now these boards that we harvest today will form the table that matches.
My husband and I have come to help. My son, daughter-in-law, and her parents are already working when we arrive. We can locate them by the pounding.
“Pound here,” shouts a voice.
“Try this corner,” answers another.
“Good job!” shouts a third, as the groan of a loosened board cracks the silence.
“Hello!” we shout through the racket.
“Come on up!” they answer.
This is not as easy as it sounds. To make our entrance onto the second floor hayloft, we must climb up a wobbly ladder that leans through a hole in the second floor of the barn and then squeeze under a makeshift railing that surrounds the opening.
Our coworkers stop their work momentarily to greet us, and we are stunned by their appearance. All four smile out from grime-coated faces, with wood chips in their hair and coats and jeans smeared with dirt and dust.
What have we gotten ourselves into? In a few short moments, my husband and I will look the same. We divide into pairs: one person pounds upward from underneath the floor with a large log while the other uses a hammer to pry up the plank from above.
These tasks look way too hard for me, so I happily volunteer to pound the nails out of the boards as they come free. Not having swung a hammer very often in my life (I prefer to wield a pen), I consider success to be hitting the nail and not my hand, as evidenced by the souvenir bruises I took home.
When the nails are out, I carry the fifteen- to eighteen-foot boards over to a growing pile and sweep off the dirt with a big push broom. Believe me, no workout in a gym can equal the physical labor on a farm. And our work is nothing compared with the daily labor of real farmers. I can feel all my muscles in action, and it isn’t long before they start to protest. But with the others doing the grunt work, I can hardly sit down and take a breather.
Still, I pause between boards to watch the activity around me. It is obvious my daughter-in-law’s mother grew up on this farm. Having helped her father with the milking years ago (and having inherited his bright blue eyes), she goes about the pounding and the pulling with a sense of easy strength and goo
d cheer. She is home.
Clearly her daughter is of the same vein. This farm family raises strong and powerful women, and she is one of them. I recognize Grandmother Bernice’s optimism in a third generation as I listen to my daughter-in-law’s musical laughter echoing throughout the hayloft.
My husband, as usual, bursts with energy, tackling each ornery board with gusto and enthusiasm. He loves being outside and working with his hands. I think he missed his calling as a farmer.
My son and his father-in-law, the conservative and the liberal, work side by side in affable unity and humor. Despite their political differences, they always enjoy each other’s company immensely. They epitomize constructive collaboration. Despite the occasional frustration and disappointment when a board snaps and is no longer usable, neither man places blame on the other. Patience and harmony rule the day.
Amid all the hustle and bustle, I am occasionally able to stop and catch my breath as I wait for the next board to come my way. An ethereal scene surrounds me. Decades of dust motes float up into the airy light of the rafters. The symmetry of the beams causes the barn to resemble the hull of an ancient ship. A spring snow drifts softly through the windows, showering the straw floor with frosty flakes and adding to the peaceful quiet. High up is the loft’s open peak where the summer’s hay harvest shot through its opening. Over in the corner rests the loft’s door, a huge red puzzle piece waiting for placement.
Looking out the window to the barnyard, I admire the Black Angus cows whose gentle, brown eyes gaze back at me. Some gather under a shed’s roof for protection from the snow. Others stand in defiance and let the flakes settle on their shiny black coats.
My daughter-in-law’s uncle, the one who now farms this land, climbs the ladder and pokes his head through the floor opening to say hello and check out the action. He tells us that a pair of eagles has been circling over the nearby fields and several newborn calves are over in the side pen, if we want to take a look. Of course, we do.
On a Clear Night Page 9
