ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, May 26, 1996 TAG: 9605240027
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: 3 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: elizabeth strother
SOURCE: ELIZABETH STROTHER
WHEN I returned to my parents' home from college, more years ago than I care to acknowledge, I recall an old neighborhood pal, Paula, asking me to go with her to visit her younger brother, Jim.
That I remember this so vividly reflects the depth of my astonishment. Throughout high school, I had never heard Paula call Jimmy anything but "Porky," a cutting reference to his pudginess. He, in turn, always called her "Ugh," for ugly, a counterattack aimed at her adolescent geekiness - crooked teeth, untamed hair, heavily and inexpertly applied makeup, undeveloped body.
I don't think I had ever witnessed a conversation between them that wasn't spoken with sincere, sneering contempt.
Now Paula, who had matured into a pretty woman, was setting off to see Jim's new apartment. That alone astonished me, since I had always assumed that they loathed each other. I was somewhat less surprised to see that Jimmy had metamorphosed, too, into a tall, slender, good-looking young man. And I was startled to find that his acerbic assaults had turned to a sharp-edged wit that was genuinely funny. I liked the guy.
Often, since then, I've mused about how many lives we live and different bodies we inhabit in a single lifetime. My most frequent recollection of that day, though, is of an old lady I had never met before and haven't seen since.
Jim lived in an old apartment house on a once-fashionable boulevard in St. Louis. The entrance was locked against intruders, and visitors got in by ringing the apartment of the person they wanted to see.
Jim was out.
As we debated whether to wait, a curtain on the door was pulled back and a sweet, wrinkled face peered at us through the barred glass.
We yelled through the door, explaining our problem, and after a moment's hesitation, she released the lock. Our patron was a small, fragile-looking old lady apparently hanging out with a few other oldsters - now alarmed and clucking their disapproval - in the foyer of the building.
No one was supposed to come in who wasn't a resident or visiting a resident, she explained. But she knew Jim; we could be her visitors till he returned.
I demurred, but she had made up her mind, and Paula had no intention of abandoning her plans. So I found myself following them down a wide, worn hallway. I realized that many of the apartments must be subsidized units for the elderly as another old woman approached from the opposite direction and stopped to chat.
Our hostess interrupted, informing the interloper in no uncertain terms that we were her company, then greedily herded us into her apartment and shut the door.
I was taken aback slightly by her vinegar and amused that we were considered such a prize.
The apartment was small, spare and clean, as I recall, and we sat around a metal kitchen table. She joyfully got down a cellophane package of cookies, put a few on a plate, and we nibbled and chatted for a half-hour or so.
She did not reveal to us the wisdom of the ages, or even of her long life. But as we exchanged small talk with this kind woman, I wondered if the people who loved her cherished her, and understood how long an unbroken day could be.
I have thought of her often, and she was on my mind as I drove to St. Louis before Mother's Day to visit my mom. Unlike that lady, Mother's mind has mostly faded now, and we catch only glimpses of the person we love. At Christmastime, the fog lifted briefly from her eyes and she turned to me. "I like your head," she said, smiling hesitantly. "Well, I like your head, too," I said with a chuckle. "I mean," she persisted, "I like your head. Your eyes. Your mouth. Your hair. The whole thing."
No such breakthroughs this time. Just, occasionally, a few seconds' connection when the smile in my eyes was answered by hers. It was worth the trip.
LENGTH: Medium: 77 linesby CNB