Charm



A rose by any other name...circa 1980

My father was a charming man.  Or rather, he was good at charming people- to call him always "charming" would be a serious overstatement.  He was the president of the international division of a prestigious insurance company and traveled around extensively- by the time he retired when I was eight years old I had already been to more than 25 countries with him on business trips.  He quickly made friends with all the new people he would meet, from the foreign businessmen to the hotel clerks.  At my young age, it seemed as though everybody was catering to Mr. Jackson and his wife and family.  I remember elaborate parties for his birthday in Japan, private cars driving us around London, and participating in special local festivals in Thailand.  His lifestyle took a dramatic shift when he retired- instead of people giving him rides on elephants he was carting two kids to gymnastics, piano, and horseback riding. 

I think it was a difficult time for him- the retirement wasn't entirely his idea- but he did the best he knew how to.  He would pick me up from school on his bike, with our neurotic dog Rusty riding in the grocery basket.  My friends loved going home for lunch with me because he would make the best grilled cheese sandwiches on sourdough bread, and as a special treat he made stove-top hot chocolate.  In the morning he would cut up plates of fresh fruit and bring them to Mom, my sister, and me while we were getting ready as an "appetizer" before  breakfast- before he made his own famous fruit bowl with a huge scoop of cottage cheese on top.  Many years later, when he could no longer figure out how to cut a grapefruit by himself (and we didn't trust him with a knife), I made sure the caregiver or myself always started his breakfast with fresh fruit. 

I remember taking Dad to Old Navy a couple of years ago to stock up on basic clothing.  Fortunately, I didn't have to get him to try anything on in the dressing room- for as long as I can remember he had been a size 32w x 34L so shopping for him was easy.  While we waited in the checkout line he laughed at the doggie costumes they had set out for Halloween and we imagined trying to get Rusty into one of the ladybug suits.  When it was our turn to check out, he smiled at the clerk and glance at her nametag.  "Michelle," he said.  "That's a beautiful name!"  She smiled, and in his perfect tenor voice he started to croon out his best Paul McCartney.  "Michelle, ma belle.  These are words that go together well...my Michelle."  The young clerk blushed, but she was delighted.  "My parents named me after that song!" she exclaimed.  Dad started beaming, obviously thrilled that he had made her happy.  We walked out humming Michelle and talking about the Beatles.  While this scenario wouldn't have worked out so well in every circumstance- I can imagine it would be different and slightly awkward if I had been the one singing or if Dad had been 30 years younger- in this case the clerk was obviously charmed by the gentle octogenarian on an outing with his daughter. 

I was reminded of this story last Sunday morning as I was driving to work.  I was listening to Breakfast With the Beatles, a show dedicated to all things Beatles on WXRT.  Although Michelle won a Grammy in 1966, I think it sometimes gets overshadowed by their even bigger hits so when I heard it on the radio I was taken by surprise.  My mind immediately went  back to that October day in Old Navy, how happy the clerk was to be acknowledged, and how happy Dad was to make her smile.  While he had a horrific temper and it was easier for him to swear than say "I love you," I choose now to remember the softer, more charming side of my father that was beautiful when he let it come out.

Fresh Air

Somewhere in Pennsylvania this morning, after much prodding and poking a groundhog stepped out of his resting spot and somebody decided that he could see his shadow.  According to folklore, that means that we will have six more weeks of winter.  Here in the Midwest we're not sure what that means.  On the second day of February, the temperatures are predicted to reach 48 degrees today.  Yesterday was the anniversary of last year's Snowmageddon, which dropped 26 inches of snow in two days and shut down Lake Shore Drive for the first time ever in Chicago.  This year I've only used the snow scraper once and it almost wasn't necessary.  As Tom Skilling likes telling us repeatedly, this is the warmest winter Chicago has had in 80 years.  I've only lost one pair of gloves (so far), in large part because there have been so many days I haven't needed to wear them.  I was worried that the cute pink coat I got for $30 at a secondhand store in October would only last for a month or so because it's not lined in down; instead, I've been able to wear it all but five days this year. 

What does this all mean?  Putting aside all the practical worries of global warming and confused birds messing up their migration plans and flowers coming up months early, I am loving this weather.  I find I have much more energy and motivation when the thought of doing an errand isn't sidetracked by "ugh, but it's so COLD outside!"  I'm walking more, not using the heat in the car as much, and haven't had to fight with layers of long underwear.  Mostly, I'm reminded of how much I love to be outside.  I love fresh air.  I work in a stuffy, dry, hot building and it's so refreshing to get outside at lunch even just for a quick walk around the block.  Having the wind blow my hair and getting a little chill when it goes down my neck.  Squinting from the sun and getting some natural vitamin D.  Feeling the softness of the ground under my feet- not frozen as it usually is at this time of year.  It's all a reminder of the might and potency of nature and it's somehow both humbling and empowering.

As I was driving out to Dad's on Tuesday afternoon, the thermometer on the car read 59 degrees and I rolled the windows down a little to feel the breeze.  I was planning on bringing him into the library and show him some of his favorite videos on YouTube- Singing in the Rain, Kick Your Knees Up Steppin' Time, Billie Holiday in concert, the What a Wonderful World hand-puppet show.  Okay, that last one is my favorite but I tell myself that he likes it too- I don't have a good way to tell for sure.  When I got to Maryhaven, however, I had a much better idea.  I walked up to Dad, wiped up the drool on his chin from the meds the nurse had just fed him, gave him a kiss, and asked him if he wanted to go outside.  He responded with a blank stare, but I thought maybe I could see a twitch in his eyes.  I got some blankets from the laundry room, piled them on his wheelchair and pushed him off the unit.  As soon as we went through the front doors his face softened and I realized that it's probably been four months since he had been outside.  I get stir-crazy after being inside for three hours, and that trait was definitely handed down from my father so I can't imagine how restless and claustrophobic he feels trapped in the nursing home day after day.  I asked him if it felt good to be outside and he nodded his head ever so slightly.  We only stayed out for 10 minutes- he started shivering- but I could tell the whole experience brought him a lot of joy.  Driving home, the sun was starting to set and it was getting cooler but I put on my scarf so I could roll the windows down anyway and feel the fresh air.  Whether or not Puxatawny Phil was right, you'll hear no complaints from me this winter.