I pull the car up slowly to the front of the house. It's a quaint brick house, built in the 1940s and shaded by a large elm tree in the front yard. Addie and Bridgette hop out of the car and get to work. They grab a wrapped sandwich, granola bar, banana and small carton of milk and place the items in a green basket. "Let's go, Dad!" Addie shouts, and my two girls race up the walkway to the faded red front door of the house. We tap on the door, announce "Meals on Wheels," and enter.
Laverne is sitting in a light brown recliner, still in her pajamas with a white blanket draped over her aching knees. The room is dark and a small television set is beaming an old Humphrey Bogart movie. When the girls enter, Laverne smiles. She winces a little as she turns her head to face them, a result of severe arthritis in her neck. She says hello and tries to hide the chronic pain taking over her 96 year-old body. Addie and Bridgette say hi, set her food down on a small table beside her chair, and head into the front yard to play.
"How are you today, Laverne?" I ask. She pulls her body up a little straighter in the chair. "Not bad for an old lady," she laughs. "My oldest daughter will be arriving shortly to stay with me for a few days, so I'll be in good hands." As she says this, I see that familiar look in her eyes. I see her mind start to move. She's drifting west through West Virginia and Kentucky until she settles in St. Louis, Missouri. Today, it's 1948 and Laverne is in the front yard hanging laundry. Her husband is away for the day, working at the railyard, and her youngest son, just two years old, is waiting anxiously for his sisters to return home for lunch. "Back then, in the city, kids came home from school to eat lunch," Laverne says, focusing her eyes on me. I adjust my feet and settle in for another story.
"Kevin," she begins, "my oldest daughter always took such good care of her brother. I remember this one day . . . the girls were home for lunch, and I was outside hanging sheets and towels in the sun." Her red, misty eyes are a little brighter now, and her voice is growing stronger as she speaks. "I heard my boy laughing from the porch. His sister was holding him on her shoulders, and he was so happy." Laverne is smiling now, almost giggling. "He was wearing these blue overalls and his sister had on a bright green dress. Boy, he'd get so mad when they had to go back to school." The arthritis in Laverne's neck is still there, but she's not wincing anymore. She's laughing and pointing straight ahead. She's pointing at that front porch and her two children, and I can almost see them.
Laverne's stories move me every time, not so much for the content as for the vividness and the detail. If I were transported back to the 1940s in St. Louis, I'd probably look around and say, "Yep, that's how I pictured it." Life, Laverne often tells me, was slower then. "We weren't in such a hurry," she states, pointing out her front window at the world she sees as moving too fast. Her words ring true. I want to slow down. I really want to slow down. Last week, Cristina and I had the recurring conversation about how to simplify life a bit and spend more time together as a family with nothing to do but be together. At the pace of our current life, I sometimes wonder if I'm capturing memories or just going through the motions. Will I be able to sit in a recliner one day and weave the detailed stories of my past like Laverne does each time we visit?
Addie and Bridgette come back in the house and wrap around my legs. I look down at them. Laverne smiles, lifts a hand and waves at them. They laugh and wave back. It's a neat moment, and I want to remember it just as vividly as Laverne recalls so much of her life in Missouri. When Laverne tells her stories, she is not sad. She is not longing for those days. I gather that the memories are what keep her going, bring her joy when her aging body is trying to suck it out of her. The memories are the reminder of a life well-lived, and they always make her smile.
I thank Laverne for the story. "Oh, I talk too much," she laughs as we head out. Addie and Bridgette chase each other around the elm tree on their way to the car. Addie's light blue skirt and pink shirt are trailing her as she runs. Bridgette, mismatched as usual in a striped green shirt and polka dot pants, is giggling as she chases her sister. I stop in my tracks. Slow down, I tell myself. I close my eyes and open them again. I watch them run and laugh. It's a moment to remember, a reminder of the wonderful life I live. I look back over my shoulder. Thank you, Laverne.
Which leads us to the picture above. I'm in the kitchen, checking my phone for any messages, when I see this scene out of the corner of my eye. Cristina and Addie are practicing on the keyboard. The sun is pouring through the window, shining onto a small pink chair where Addie has her right arm draped around Cristina. I stop what I'm doing and watch the two of them. I quietly snap a picture. It's a moment I don't want to forget, one I want to see years ahead as clearly as I do right now. These are the stories of my life, and, if I don't slow down, I may miss some of the best ones. The big memories, the ones that stick, are often disguised as small moments easily overlooked. It's a lesson I learn each month. Just two miles down the road, sitting quietly in her brown recliner, Laverne is smiling.
"How are you today, Laverne?" I ask. She pulls her body up a little straighter in the chair. "Not bad for an old lady," she laughs. "My oldest daughter will be arriving shortly to stay with me for a few days, so I'll be in good hands." As she says this, I see that familiar look in her eyes. I see her mind start to move. She's drifting west through West Virginia and Kentucky until she settles in St. Louis, Missouri. Today, it's 1948 and Laverne is in the front yard hanging laundry. Her husband is away for the day, working at the railyard, and her youngest son, just two years old, is waiting anxiously for his sisters to return home for lunch. "Back then, in the city, kids came home from school to eat lunch," Laverne says, focusing her eyes on me. I adjust my feet and settle in for another story.
"Kevin," she begins, "my oldest daughter always took such good care of her brother. I remember this one day . . . the girls were home for lunch, and I was outside hanging sheets and towels in the sun." Her red, misty eyes are a little brighter now, and her voice is growing stronger as she speaks. "I heard my boy laughing from the porch. His sister was holding him on her shoulders, and he was so happy." Laverne is smiling now, almost giggling. "He was wearing these blue overalls and his sister had on a bright green dress. Boy, he'd get so mad when they had to go back to school." The arthritis in Laverne's neck is still there, but she's not wincing anymore. She's laughing and pointing straight ahead. She's pointing at that front porch and her two children, and I can almost see them.
Laverne's stories move me every time, not so much for the content as for the vividness and the detail. If I were transported back to the 1940s in St. Louis, I'd probably look around and say, "Yep, that's how I pictured it." Life, Laverne often tells me, was slower then. "We weren't in such a hurry," she states, pointing out her front window at the world she sees as moving too fast. Her words ring true. I want to slow down. I really want to slow down. Last week, Cristina and I had the recurring conversation about how to simplify life a bit and spend more time together as a family with nothing to do but be together. At the pace of our current life, I sometimes wonder if I'm capturing memories or just going through the motions. Will I be able to sit in a recliner one day and weave the detailed stories of my past like Laverne does each time we visit?
Addie and Bridgette come back in the house and wrap around my legs. I look down at them. Laverne smiles, lifts a hand and waves at them. They laugh and wave back. It's a neat moment, and I want to remember it just as vividly as Laverne recalls so much of her life in Missouri. When Laverne tells her stories, she is not sad. She is not longing for those days. I gather that the memories are what keep her going, bring her joy when her aging body is trying to suck it out of her. The memories are the reminder of a life well-lived, and they always make her smile.
I thank Laverne for the story. "Oh, I talk too much," she laughs as we head out. Addie and Bridgette chase each other around the elm tree on their way to the car. Addie's light blue skirt and pink shirt are trailing her as she runs. Bridgette, mismatched as usual in a striped green shirt and polka dot pants, is giggling as she chases her sister. I stop in my tracks. Slow down, I tell myself. I close my eyes and open them again. I watch them run and laugh. It's a moment to remember, a reminder of the wonderful life I live. I look back over my shoulder. Thank you, Laverne.
Which leads us to the picture above. I'm in the kitchen, checking my phone for any messages, when I see this scene out of the corner of my eye. Cristina and Addie are practicing on the keyboard. The sun is pouring through the window, shining onto a small pink chair where Addie has her right arm draped around Cristina. I stop what I'm doing and watch the two of them. I quietly snap a picture. It's a moment I don't want to forget, one I want to see years ahead as clearly as I do right now. These are the stories of my life, and, if I don't slow down, I may miss some of the best ones. The big memories, the ones that stick, are often disguised as small moments easily overlooked. It's a lesson I learn each month. Just two miles down the road, sitting quietly in her brown recliner, Laverne is smiling.