Mrs. K and Me: The Helen Chronicles

Stoic:  A person indifferent to pleasure or pain.

I found out yesterday that the mother of one of my oldest friends recently died.  I wanted to send my condolences so I wrote the following letter and emailed it to the family.   I'm not the greatest guy at touchy-feely things like funerals.  I'm not overly emotional.  I'm a good, stoic German.  I wouldn't have been much of an addition at the wake.  I wouldn't have dressed right and I wouldn't have been sad enough.  This woman was 95, for god's sake, and she led a rich life.

My buddy sent the note to all of his family members and they all responded warmly.  My buddy said he wept at the remembrances, which were real and heartfelt on my end.  Mrs. K and I were two peas in a pod - fiercely competitive, passionate, stubborn, loud-mouthed.  It was inevitable that we would clash from time to time, but I really did feel the genuine concern hidden beneath our wars.

I want to be the Funeral Guy.  You know this guy - good at funerals, appropriate, sad, and all that.  But I'm the Write a Note Guy.  It doesn't feel like all that much because it isn't a grand gesture, but it's what I'm good at.  We all just get to offer what we can offer, I guess.

There are some people who have made a big impression in my life.  There are a few who have made a very big impression.  And then there is Mrs. K.

   When I was growing up I made some poor choices in my personal life, and by “some” I mean “a lot.”  Most adults looked away or got angry.  I knew how to deal with these people – I could manipulate them or hide from their disapproval.  Then there was Mrs. K – she got angry but she didn’t look away.  Frankly, I was flummoxed.  I hated being called on my behavior but I think I craved the attention – I could see the concern behind it even though I couldn’t put a name to it at the time.  I knew I wasn’t heading down the right path and it felt appropriate to have an adult holler at me.  And she was relentless in her disapproval.

   When I was getting dried out and cleaned up I was visiting Ricky one day.  Mrs. K walked into the kitchen and handed me a very nice piece of luggage - this at a time when I didn’t have any money to spend on nice things.

   “I always knew you were a good person,” she said simply.  “And I’m glad you got your life back on track.  I wanted to get you something nice.”  It was the greatest display of support I ever received as I was going through the early days of my recovery.  I’m never at a loss for words but I couldn’t think of a thing to say.  I hope I thanked her.  I used that luggage for years, finally throwing it away when it was too shredded and worn and soiled to be taken out in public.

   I always enjoyed looking in Mrs. K’s refrigerator – it was a solid wall of condiments.  It was not possible to put one more grape in that refrigerator and there wasn’t a thing to eat in there.

   However, there was The Dining Room Table.  Ricky and I would come in after playing Space Invaders in bars until we couldn’t focus our eyes more than 18 inches away.  I’ll never forget walking into the dark, quiet house, and flicking on the lights in the dining room.  There, stretching as far as the eye could see, deep and wide, were mountains and mountains of Servatti’s baked goods.  It was like she was a bootlegger or a smuggler – there was one of everything they made on that table.  I think I got on my knees and said a little prayer of thanks every time I set eyes on that bounty.  And there is nothing quite like eating 5,000 calories of unrefined white sugar at 2AM.

  I was still smoking at this time and – if you can believe this – I would try to light up in the K family room after my sugar binge.  I would light a match, take one puff, when the intercom would shriek: “Ricky!!  Is something burning out there?!”  If those smoke particles had traveled through two closed doors, down a long hallway, and into her bedroom at the speed of light she couldn’t have detected them that quickly.  But, incredibly, when I didn’t light up the intercom would remain silent.  I still don’t know how she did it.

   One bright fall day Mrs. K picked up the phone when I called.  I was usually polite but still didn’t want to extend the conversation too long.  I wasn’t clear on what to say.

“Are you enjoying the sunshine on this beautiful day?” I asked.

“I don’t enjoy the sunshine,” she said.

Again, the loss of words thing.

   Another time Mrs. K took Ricky and me out to lunch.  She was . . . ahem . .  . an interesting lunch companion.  Again, the facts are that if I were to add up all of the times all of the parents of my friends ever took me out for a meal it wouldn’t equal the dinners that she bought and paid for.  I can’t imagine I was much of a dinner companion but she was always generous.

   We walked into this restaurant and sat down.  After the waiter brought menus Mrs. K started grousing about being too close to a AC duct.  We changed tables and the waiter told us about the specials, then left us to ponder our choices.  We were now seated at a table near a young man who was playing an acoustic guitar.  Mrs. K began to complain about the noise.  We waved over the waiter and were re-re-seated.  She began to fidget.  We were under a skylight.  We tensed.

“The light is too bright,” she said.

“No!” Ricky and I shouted in unison. 

  Mrs. K calmly put on a pair of those huge black sunglasses with the huge side-car panels wrapping around her temples to prevent any sun from ever getting in to bother her eyes, and ate her lunch.

God speed, Mrs. K – you will be missed.