I’m working on a comforter

a quilt of patchwork, bright

To decorate the bed I’ve made

and keep me through the night

I’ve spent my life collecting

each lovely patterned square

They each bring something different

Oh, what stories they might share

Some are cut from regal cloth

Such royal integrity

Others are just tattered rags

but precious, still, to me

Colors bright and solid

others floral, silk and lace

Calico and gingham

pieced together in their place

A life of gathered swatches and

some tools to make them whole

Ready for the tailor’s hand

True artistry the goal

The scissors are my character

that true each ragged edge

The needle is a vision with

an eye to draw each thread

Each single square of cloth

is just a photograph in time

of moments in my life

And seasons of my rhyme

All the quilted patterns

Secured by woven thread

They build a life’s grand tapestry

To lay upon the bed

I’m finished with my comforter

This quilt of patchwork, bright

It decorates my bed of life

Pray, keep me through the night

     I just witnessed something this morning that broke my heart on a number of levels. I work in a relatively high-end salon and have done hair for 30 years. When I arrived at the salon today, my client, Roger, was sitting in the waiting area. The only other person up front was a lovely, older black woman, who stood there hesitantly and unsure of herself, while holding her purse and an old plastic bag with several bottles in it.

     I smiled a big grin at her and asked, ‘Darlin’, could I help you?’. She hesitated and said that someone was checking to see if there was anyone who could shampoo her hair and put a rinse on it. She had a lovely little round, white ‘afro’, which was adorable and suited her meek personality. A really sweet grandmotherly type. I said, ‘Why, I’m sure I can find someone to do that for you. What’s your name, dear heart?’.

She said her name was Dorothy, and that she had her own ‘Shimmerlites’ shampoo and her Roux Fanci-ful ‘Steel Blue’ rinse to put on afterward. I asked if she needed a haircut or to have it styled or set in any way, and she replied, ’No, just a shampoo’. I told Roger to give me just a minute and asked Dorothy to have a seat, and I would make sure someone would come up straight away and take care of her.

     There were several stylists in the back room doing nothing at the time, and a couple of them were in the middle of a three hour block of time with nothing on their book. (I had checked at the desk before heading back). I asked if anyone could shampoo that sweet little old lady, and put a rinse on for her. The reply I got was both disappointing and stunning in it’s ignorance and selfish disregard. They said that someone had already talked to her (apparently leaving her hanging with no clarity), and that they didn’t have time to do her hair and didn’t want to set or style it. I said, ’What do you mean you don’t have time? You’re not doing anything for a couple of hours, and she doesn’t even need a cut or set. She just wants her hair shampooed and a rinse put on’. The girl was convinced that the woman wanted her hair fixed also, but I told her that I just spent a couple of minutes talking to her and she assured me otherwise.

     So the girl headed up front (with an attitude) as I got Roger and brought him back to shampoo him. The next thing I knew, the lady is leaving and the stylist said, as she walked by me, that she suggested a salon down the way a few doors. I was incensed. I would have gladly taken 5 or 6 minutes to shampoo that sweet little lady myself. Roger even said he would have been more than happy to wait or even reschedule if necessary (which was very nice of him). But she was gone, and my heart was broken.

     Broken, not for the loss of income (LOL - I wouldn’t have charged her for something so simple anyway). Broken, not for the woman, who, at her age, has probably experienced similar episodes in her life and was mature enough to reconcile the hurt that being brushed off causes. But my heart was sad because I’ll never be able to fully and openly relate to that hairstylist again, knowing she has that kind of spirit.

     You could argue the premise that hair salons seem to embrace and accept a natural segregation process due to the difference in texture and chemistry among the world’s ethnic groups. But I don’t buy that. And after all she just wanted her hair shampooed. Was it class-ism? Racism? The root of these maladies, I believe, is always fear and ignorance. I’m not sure, but the stylist missed out on a wonderful opportunity to learn more about someone who was obviously interesting and probably had a lot to share. She also missed out on being able to serve someone else’s needs and dote on them for a while to give them a sense of love and caring that we crave as human beings.

     Years ago, I had a client whose hair I had done for some time. I liked doing her hair. I liked her as a person. One day, in a total shock to what I knew of her character, during one of our discussions, she leaned into me and quietly said, ‘This city is going downhill. Can you believe all the ‘ni**ers’ and Mexicans that are moving in?’. I was shocked and dismayed, partly because I had thought better of her, and partly because I knew that I would never look at her the same again. She very shortly worked her way out of my clientele.

     I left the salon after I finished Roger’s hair. I went ‘down the way’ and found Dorothy as she was coming out of the other store. I told her how sorry and embarrassed that I was that that had happened. I assured her that I would be glad to shampoo her hair and put her rinse on any time, and I bid her a great day. She was, of course, very sweet, and had the class and maturity that I had figured her to possess.

     I believe that we ‘store up treasures’ by our actions. I also believe that you don’t sow thistle seeds and expect corn to grow. And I believe, ultimately, we all receive the reward that our life’s efforts have built. Karma can be a fearful partner if you walk through life with selfish indulgence, bitterness and bigotry in your heart. I believe that my relationship with several stylists that I work with, has been changed.

(I hope you had a great day, Dorothy)

     Charles solemnly ran his worn fingers around the edges of the forty year old photograph. Two young faces beamed back at him, frozen in a moment of time that his memory regarded as happy and indulgent. The careworn simple wooden frame, that he had removed it from, was still lying in the middle of the night stand among a box of tissues, various medication bottles, a half-empty glass of tepid water and an old pocket watch. He studied the picture of his children for a fond few moments more before slipping it into the right breast pocket of a tattered blazer that lay neatly at the foot of the bed. He was preparing for his morning routine. As was his custom, he preferred to dress and stroll the musty halls of the Autumn Breeze retirement home, wandering lost in his thoughts for an hour or so, while the other residents ate their predictably bland breakfast in the dining hall. He felt more like a prisoner than a resident. It had been months since he had been outside the walls of the aging facility, and even longer since anyone had visited, save the occasional children’s church choir or community do-gooder lecturing on indigenous wild birds. He didn’t participate anymore in arts and crafts time, movie night or any of the other regular activities the home offered. It always made him feel like a child and never kept his attention for long, anyway.

     The two smiling faces from the photo, now grown, with complicated lives and children of their own, hadn’t been to see him since Christmas past. The very day of his ‘incarceration’, they each issued their solemn assurance that they would see him every week and that he would obviously be coming to family gatherings, children’s ball games and birthday parties. That was several years back, before their lives became a cacophony of responsibility, out of control schedules and the doctor’s diagnosis that their father was beginning to experience the onset of dementia. And besides, look at all the great activities and all the people your age that you’ll have so much in common with, seemed to seal his fate as he watched them drive away that day. He felt abandoned and unwanted. As the months slipped by, the visits and birthday parties diminished as routine gave way to obligation.

     He rose slowly and unsteady from the side of the bed, as arthritis and balance challenged his effort to stand, and prepared to slip on his natty sport coat. ‘Chucker, are you coming or what?’, a voice from across the room called out. ‘The night’s not getting any younger, and there’s action to be stirred up’. It was 1942 all over again as Charles sat nursing the first drink of the evening. It was his birthday, and his friend Dallas, a young ambitious corporal from Texas, was anxious to get the evening started and wasn’t waiting for Charles to finish his scotch and water. ‘Come on, you dandy’, he pleaded. ‘You’re such a lightweight’. Chucker, as his pals dubbed him, was not some endearing diminutive of his name, but rather, was born out of a night of carousing weeks earlier, when he had over indulged, at the persuasion of his buddies, and ended up in the ‘head’ the rest of the night, retching his insides out. The lot of them had gone through boot camp together, and become inseparable. They would ship out, in a weeks time, to see their first combat action and that would change their lives forever. Eddie and ’Stinger’ were killed in the first month overseas. Dallas returned home missing his left leg and the innocent spirit that had made him the fun-loving gad-a-bout he had been. Charles, for all the fortunes of fate that were laid out, had gone on to officer candidate school and eventually retired as a Lieutenant, years later, and started a family. A part of him seemed to be missing, as well, on his return from duty.

     He reached down and picked up his blazer from the bed, donned his fedora, and gently slipped an arm into each of the sleeves. It smelled vaguely of mothballs, but was clean and still fit him well. He turned and picked up the old pocket watch his army buddies had given him as a birthday present that last night on the town. He wound the spring gently and carefully popped the cover to check the time. 8:30, he was behind his time, and he slipped the old watch into his jacket pocket. One last look around the spartan room, to see that everything was in order, and Charles doddered toward the apartment door. He patted the breast pocket to assure himself that the only valuable possession he owned was securely ensconced. The worn photo was close to his heart as he stepped into the long hallway of the east wing.

     The dining area was to his right, up the hall, and left to the common area. Charles turned the other way and nearly upset a very unstable Millicent Van Martin, creeping along on a walker. His neighbor, Millie, dressed in a loud floral sundress and reeking overbearingly of ’Midnight Gardenia’, was on her way, carefully, to the breakfast hall. As he stepped around her, with a nod and a tip of his hat, he chuckled slightly as he knew that Millie would be aggravated if she missed out on sausage links, because it took her about twenty minutes to navigate the short distance to the dining hall. She paid him never mind and he shuffled gingerly down the long hall, towards the back of the home, away from all the residents, and right to the back door. It was his first stop every morning. The door, which leads to the back parking area and the dumpsters, was always locked without fail, in a clandestine effort to protect the boarders of Autumn Breeze from harm. Charles felt it was more of a cell door and checked it every morning to be sure it wasn’t left unsecured by a clumsy night custodian. His habit was to then to turn and follow the long hall all the way back to the common area and proceed with his morning rounds.

     As he pushed the handle down, it gave way with a gentle ‘click’, and the door swung free a couple of inches. He stood startled for a moment, gathering his senses, as a burst of fresh clean air and bright sunshine teased him. He looked around, as a school boy would, who expected to be caught from some impish activity. There was no one in the hall. He turned back to the door and gave it a gentle push as it swung wide and revealed a bright, fresh morning, and a freedom he hadn’t known in years. One last glance over his shoulder, and he stepped into the sunshine and quietly eased the security door closed. He stood a moment, eyes closed, face turned toward the morning sun, and let the warmth and freedom embrace him. He breathed more deeply than he had in months, and felt a rush of clean air fill his lungs, devoid of the odor of musty halls, liniment and death. Charles was not aware, that as he carefully slipped his jacket on, a short time ago, he hadn’t bothered with anything else, and stood clad from the waist down in long cotton pajama bottoms and plush navy blue slippers. He gently patted his breast pocket, for assurance, and he was off, not sure of where he was heading, but relishing the freedom and the fresh air.

     ‘Where do you think you’re going?’, a stern voice called to him, ’You can’t go in there!’.

     ‘Oh, but I’m her husband.’, Charles declared to the grumpy ward nurse in charge of the night shift. ’Hmm’, was all she replied, and turned back to her paperwork, as he pushed open the door to room 317 at Brighton Memorial Hospital. It was 1987 all over again. His beloved Connie, devoted companion of forty-two years, lay unresponsive and plugged into every manner of machine conceivable. She had suffered a massive stroke the night before. Charles hadn’t slept in nearly two days and had maintained a prayerful vigil at her bedside, in the ER and now in room 317. He had just stepped out for a cup of coffee, for several minutes, and felt guilty for leaving her side. He was weak from lack of food. The coffee, while slightly acrid, was warm and familiar. It reminded him of the terrible coffee from his days in the army, but, just as then, he was grateful to have it. He took a long draw and swallowed hard. He felt empty inside. Connie never regained consciousness, and his life was changed, again, forever.

     The wooden slats of the old park bench, worn smooth from years of receiving weary sojourners, felt warm to the back of Charles’ legs, as he sat down wearily from his long walk. He carefully pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time - 10:42. It meant nothing in the larger scheme of his life. He wasn’t aware how far he had come. He didn’t know where he was. A young boy of four or five, was playing on a slide a few yards away. He sported a face full of impish freckles and a flock of unkempt red hair, roundly defining him as a pack of trouble to his mother. To Charles he was wonderfully full of life and mischief. Charles reached into his right breast pocket and retrieved the photo of his children. His oldest, a boy of about the same age when the picture was taken, stared back at him. He was taken away, back through memories of ballgames, fishing trips, picnics and bedtime stories, that warmed his heart. The years of youthful innocence had quietly slipped away, and before he could imagine, Charles was an old man and his son had children of his own. ‘What’s your name?’, came the question that jolted him back to reality. He sat, dazed for a moment, and tried hard to focus on the small child in front of him. ’I’m Kevin. You look old!’, the boy offered. Charles chuckled out loud, in spite of himself, as he had no defense against the obvious. ‘I’m Charles’, he heard himself say to the boy who had quit playing on the slide, and now stood before him.

     ‘It’s a boy.’, the woman whispered in his ear, as he stared through the nursery window. A neatly lined row of bassinets filled with bundled sleeping babies, in skull caps and mittens, lay before him. The only distinguishing feature for each, was a neatly tied pink or blue ribbon on the front of each crib. ‘That’s your son, the third from the left.’, the ob ward nurse proclaimed. It was 1948 all over again, and Charles felt such a sense of pride and obligation that welled up from deep inside him. He had a son! Connie was resting comfortably, one floor up. The nurse declared what a beautiful boy he was, as Charles realized his life was inexorably changed forever in that moment.

     ‘Where do you live?’, came the inquisitive reply from young Kevin, as his mother arrived, slightly alarmed that her son was talking to a complete stranger, and somewhat embarrassed that she had let him out of her sight. ‘I’m sorry if he bothered you.’, she offered, as she stalked off with the skinny red head’s wrist firmly grasped in her hand, and tugging him along behind.

     As the morning passed, Charles felt tired. Not so much from all of the activity, but more from the memories that played through his mind. Wonderful events, tragic moments and significant points in time, played out like the resonant strains of a violin, and framed the footprint of his life. So many instances that alter life’s course, flooded his mind. He realized that life was actually the threads of mundane everyday events which build the bridge of continuity between all the defining moments. He wondered what was happening in their lives the day the photo was taken. He wondered what they were doing a day later, and a week, and a month. And the memories began to come in waves.

     The sun hovered above the silhouette of the trees as a young paramedic stood over the park bench. The EMT reached down and gently took the photo from Charles’ still hand. He studied the picture for a time and thought of his own young children as he turned it over. Neatly written in ink, on the back, was simply -

My children , whom I love very much

- All in life was worth every effort because of you

     ‘Make sure his family gets this watch and this photograph’, the paramedic said to one of the police who had arrived at the park. Charles had finished his journey, as one last defining moment put an exclamation point on a rather common life.