happy meal

The rounds of Christmas holiday parties left me satiated with food, and by nightfall all I really needed was a coffee fix.  My usual hangouts were closed, so I threw on my comfortable sweatshirt and sauntered down to the local Mc Donald’s. The place was pretty empty, just a family with several adult children gathered around a large table and myself.

Through the door came a young boy of maybe seven years old with his parents. He had bright blue eyes and hair so blonde it was nearly white. He was wearing a navy blue dress suit- probably his first, with brown sneakers. He walked up to the counter and ordered a Happy Meal while his parents watched. While waiting for his order, his Mom disappeared into to the ladies’ room and his Dad took him aside and told him, “I just want you to know that you were really good today and I’m very proud of you.” The little boy broke into a wide smile, picked up his Happy Meal at the counter and the three of them scampered out the door. I’m betting he’ll remember this Christmas for a very long time.

I’m still sipping my coffee as the family at the big table start to head for the exit. The father, who is probably in his late 60s struggled with the zipper on his winter coat. One of his daughters, a pretty young woman with flowing black hair, knelt down in front of him and very lovingly zipped up his jacket. No doubt he did the same thing for her hundreds of times over the years, but tonight the roles were reversed.

I tossed out my coffee cup and walked out to the car, smiling.

My Christmas gifts came late in the day.

lower deck poolside

Like many families in the Space-Age 1960s, we spent summers zigzagging the country on the interstate highway system. Rocket travel to me meant the luxurious back seat of Dad’s Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight. We rode in air-conditioned comfort while the big Olds ate up huge stretches of superhighway in exchange for a few tanks full of refreshing Gulf No-Nox, and at night our Highway Host was the Holiday Inn. They had almost everything- a familiar layout surrounding a giant inground pool for my brother and myself, a predictable standard of cleanliness for Mom and the handy-dandy Holidex reservation system for Dad, and of course, the best signage in the history of the world, the immodest Great Sign. Call it win-win-win-win.

Each morning, we would look at the map and plan the day’s mileage, so that Dad could telex ahead for that evening’s reservation while he checked out. He always made the same request- “lower deck poolside.” That way that my folks could unwind while my Brother and I would only be a few steps away. Child abduction was a rare thought in the sixties, I honestly think they just didn’t have the energy to have to go around and herd us up. So Dad’s three word request made everyone happy.

What they didn’t have, oddly- was consistent food- most had their own lounge/restaurant and/or coffee shop, but they varied widely in decor, menu and palatability, and at eight I wasn’t a lounge lizard yet- so mealtime more than likely meant a trip to the nearby Howard Johnson’s for clam strips and orange booths. Needless to say, my travel memories are happy ones.

I haven’t written at all about the new condo, but having just passed my third anniversary here I decided it was time. The complex is a bit bigger than I wanted- four low rise two-story buildings, each surrounding a swimming pool. I saw it and instantly nicknamed it the Holiday Inn. My own unit is on the ground floor in a corner just steps from the pool gate. Yep, Lower Deck Poolside. I laughed out loud when I realized that. Mind you, it’s considerably larger than a motel room but the flavor is indelibly the same. What’s more, I’m perfectly happy in my own Holiday Inn. And yes, most evenings I’m splashing around in the pool like I did when I was eight years old.

Now, what time are we going for clam strips?

a thousand julys

Six years today.

No tears this year, just memories. The shock has disspiated and we have, collectively, pretty much dealt with things. Life is resilient, whether we expect it to be or not.

When you lose someone, there is a terrible shock.

But at least you are spared the anticipation and dread which becomes part of the anniversary.

Everyone says the first year is the hardest- it's a year full of firsts without him. Birthdays, holidays, important days to be gotten through somehow. We all got together on the first anniversary, I wrote about at the time as one year later. We knew we would all be thinking of him, so we had a bowling party in his memory. It was very theraputic all in all.

I must admit the burden eased that day, the fact that we all survived a year together without him made it easier somehow. And I was very fortunate- I unknowingly got the chance to say goodbye. You can read about it here.

But he's never very far away from me. As his childhood friend Betty reflected, our summer will always have a thousand Julys.

For Betty, and for John, whom we miss today and always

stan and judy

I used to see her walking in the late afternoons in my neighborhood in Lake Balboa, up in the valley. I estimated her to be in her early eighties, although I later learned that both she and her husband were eighty-six. She was of smaller stature, with a neatly styled beehive of silver hair. She walked briskly past the little Kaiser Victory homes almost every afternoon. Her name was Judy, and she seemed to know the names of everyone she encountered on her journey.

She was married to a man named Stan. He sold Cadillacs, a second career he had started out of boredom after retiring from his first job. He was kind of a cranky old guy, but in a likable enough way. Gruff, but smiling. Theirs was the second marriage for each, and even after close to 30 years, they seemed devoted to each other. We didn't know all that much about them. They were good neighbors who lived quiet lives. We waved when we noticed their silver heads driving by in their big Cadillac sedan.

The little fifties neighborhoods in this area were all laid out similarly. To minimize the number of little streets exiting into the major ones, there was one egress per block which then fed the other neighborhood streets. The downside was that fifty years later, it could be quite dangerous exiting the neighborhood from the tiny streets, the vast majority of which still lack traffic lights.

It was the first Sunday in December. They decided to go out for breakfast and made the same left turn they had made ten thousand times, although this time was different. A city bus obscured Stan's view and for whatever reason he didn't wait for it. He didn't see the speeding Corvette with the two young men inside. It all happened so fast. The police estimated the Corvette was travelling 60 mph just prior to the time of impact.

I wish he hadn't been conscious after the crash, as I can't imagine what it was like for him to see his world shatter before his eyes. A more perfect universe would have spared him from that. Keenly aware that his beloved Judy was gone, witnesses said that he sat in the ruins of his once-proud Cadillac and held her hand. He himself was transported to a local hospital where he died later that morning. Both men in the Corvette were seriously injured but survived. The driver faced charges relating to his reckless speed.

I learned so much about them at the service. The family had created large display boards with many photographs. White-haired cranky Stan had been a hunk wrestler at UCLA in an earlier life. I was struck by a picture of him circa 1936, handsome, broad-shouldered, smiling, with his first wife, the gorgeous blond actress. They were seated in leather club chairs next to a rustic fireplace, and they looked like the King and Queen of California. Judy had been a dancer and model and had a beaming smile. She and Stan had travelled the world in their almost three decades together- riding Elephants in India, on Safari in Africa, riding in a gondola in Venice. I was amazed at the fascinating lives this quiet couple had led, and how eighty six years of living all ended in the fraction of an instant, during the execution of a seemingly innocuous left turn.

Outside the chapel, one of his coworkers shared a conversation he had with Stan a few months back. Stan, concerned about one having to get by without the other, had told him that when their time came, he just wished to God that they could go together. It was merciful of Him to grant the wish.