On Thursday I visited a place I often go to for peace and reflection, but it shall remain unnamed here. It is so far off the beaten track that you probably have never heard of it, but it’s possible that you have. Because while it is an obscure and unflashy place, it is also famous to those who love it.
Got your curiosity aroused now, don’t I?
(I don’t mean to be a tease. It’s just that I want to talk about this before my Mother’s Day celebration since I intend to drink moderately, and I want to write this while I am not schnookered. And since the woman discussed here is intensely private, I would never betray her trust. Please read this to the end).
So on Thursday, at this quiet place of reflection, I was approached by the proprietor. I say proprietor because while it’s a non-profit place, this elderly woman with the intense blue eyes is the reason it all came to be. After years of visiting this place, it is astonishing to me that I had never met her.
That changed on Thursday. Here’s the actual conversation:
“Hi.” (She sat down next to me. I shall call her Mildred.)
“Hi.”
“You’re in my seat.”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry.” (I moved down one.)
(She settles into her wrought-iron rocking chair, and begins to rock). “So where are you from?”
“Ocean City.”
“I used to live in Longport.”
“That’s nice.”
“You’re so beautiful.”
“Oh, wow, thanks.”
“Can you help me today?”
“Excuse me?”
“I need help today.”
“Oh, um, with what?”
“Manning the gift shop.”
“Oh, well, I’d love to, but I have to pick up my son from college. I’m on my way there now.”
“How about Saturday?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I have a lot of things going on.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I don’t?”
“No. Nothing as important as what happens here.”
“Oh, well, that’s true, but the traffic will be terrible, and it’s a long drive…”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
“Oh, well, I guess I can give you a call.”
“No, just come.”
“Well, ok, what time?”
“What time can you be here?”
“1:00?”
“Come at 10:00.”
“Um, ok.”
“Can you stay until 5?”
“Mmm, probably not, I’m making dinner, how about 3:00?”
“How about 5?”
“Um, ok.”
We talked extensively after that about our backgrounds, our families and our careers. By the end of the conversation I had purchased a $200 statue, agreed to help her with donations, and learned that her husband was buried in the same cemetery as my mother. She led me to her car, and started giving me stuff from her trunk: a bag of oranges, jarred spaghetti sauce, boxes of granola bars, iced teas. I begged her to stop, to not give me her personal provisions, that I didn’t need them, but she informed me that that’s what old people do: they give their stuff away to their children. We hugged, and I promised to be there at 10 a.m. sharp Saturday.
To describe the seven hours I spent there on Saturday would take more space than a blog post, but let me say this: I am stingy and economical with my time, and I don’t like having it wasted with nonsense. I confess I showed up expecting the worst.
But I got the best.
Throughout the day I met people whose lives were changed by the place. Every person who walked in had a story about love, healing and gratitude. I knew I was in the place I should be in that moment in time, and that no matter what flashy parties were going on, no matter what adventure trips I had coming up, the only thing that mattered in that moment was standing in that little shed, listening to those stories.
I will be returning again. And since Mildred has sons but no daughters, and since my mom has passed, she has decided that I am her daughter now. Not bad for a Saturday, huh? Let me end this story with a bang:
After meeting Mildred, I stopped at the cemetery to place flowers on my mother’s grave for Mother’s Day, and when I looked to the left, there on the headstone, I saw it. I wasn’t surprised because, as I have told you, this kind of stuff happens to me all the time:
Mildred’s husband is buried right next to my mom