Greatness, Part 1 (Or, Greatness on the Corner of Main and Market Streets)

It's been almost 5 years since we permanently moved from one of the busiest, most populated cities in North America to a rural area, where to quote myself, “the livestock outnumber the humans.” Usually Practical Husband has well adjusted to the less crowded, slower paced, laid-back kind of lifestyle. However, when it comes time to attend an event in one of the small towns outside of Privatopia, he slips right back into big-city-mode. He wants us to leave early to “get a jump on traffic” and to secure a “parking place” because in his mind there will be, not only gridlock, but nowhere to park. I’ve acquiesced to just going along with his needless fret and worry.

Sometime after buying our home in Privatopia, we began to attend an annual Memorial Day remembrance at one of the nearby towns (about 12 miles southwest of our home.) I know there are other such services in small towns around here, but this one is our favorite.

We arrive, oh, I don’t know exactly, but probably at least one hour early (having secured “primo” parking before the arrival of “throngs of people”). To pass the time we stroll about the small town. It’s quite a quaint little place.

Usually Practical Husband suggests we get some coffee from the newer ice cream/coffee shop/bistro on the corner of Main and Market streets. It’s in a newly gentrified building. An eager young lady, dressed in the latest, hippest fashion patiently awaits our perusal of the menu.

Standing closer to the counter, Usually Practical Husband begins, “I’ll have a regular coffee.” He turns to me and asks, "How about you, Hon?” 

“Uh, em, I’ll have the iced chai tea. Small, please,” and as I am half-way through my order, Usually Practical Husband begins chatting with the young lady. I discern that it’s perhaps somewhat difficult for her to follow the both of us talking at once. But, she does her best, taking in our words and simultaneously entering the two orders on the fancy computerized register.

Without missing a beat, she looks at me, “And you did say ‘small’ correct?"

I smile at her, “Yes.” She nods in acknowledgement as her finger hits the corresponding key.

“That will be $4.75, please,” she says. After Usually Practical Husband pays, she smiles and with a wave of her hand, gestures to an area with tables and seating, “Have a seat, please and I’ll bring out your order shortly."

We choose a small round table, next to a shelf of discarded, hard cover books on sale from the town's local Carnegie Library. After I glance at the book titles, I sit and pronounce to Usually Practical Husband, “She is freakin’ adorable!"

He laughs aloud and agrees. She is young, about 9-10 years old, or so, I’d guess. Yet her mannerisms had perfectly imitated the most capable adult waitress/barista I’ve ever encountered. We watch as she completes the order preparation herself (standing on her tiptoes to utilize the coffee urn pump), with only minimal verbal guidance from her parents. She delivers our order, producing a straw for my iced tea from her pint-sized waitress apron. Later, Usually Practical (and often fussy) Husband pronounces the coffee as “surprisingly very good.” I find my iced chai tea to be comparable to anything I’ve gotten from Starbucks.

At some point the cafe’s telephone rings and the girl instantly zips across the room to answer the call. Her mother and father are meanwhile busy overseeing the mixing and flavoring of ice cream, overseeing the updates that are still being completed in the rehabbed building and keeping one eye on their pint-sized assistant.  

This, I think, this is it, this is what it means when I hear the much-ballyhooed, political banter of American “greatness.” A family, working together, trying hard to make a living. It takes courage, toil and teamwork. You pour your funds into purchasing the wares you’ll need, put your best foot forward and hope that buyers will come, you hope that you can make a “go of it". 

As we leave the cafe, there is a lull in the action and I see the little girl off at a small, two-person window table, pulling a little cash out of her tiny apron. I smile at the familiar sight of a waitress tallying her tips.

“Are these your tips?” I ask (as there had been a tip jar at the counter.) She nods as I hand her some cash. “Thank you, that was one of the best iced chai teas I’ve ever had.” She adds the money to her coins and few singles.

On our stroll to the Memorial Day event, I beseech Usually Practical Husband, “Promise me we will make an effort to come here on the first Saturday of every month this summer (when the town has their artisan display/farmer’s market) and have breakfast.” He smiles and says, “Good idea.”

***

Check back in a couple of days for Greatness, Part 2.

our adorable barista

Once...

Once upon a time there was a girl who loved Elvis and Gene Pitney. The girl was only three years older than me but to me she always seemed wiser and more worldly. Urbane was a word I'd read as a young kid. Back then I'd looked it up in the dictionary. And, yes, back then I thought of her as urbane.

I’d often asked her for advice, or sought her approval. Depending on her mood she would either begrudgingly comply, defiantly ignore me or snickeringly mock me for my jejune concerns. This did not deter me from following her around like a needy puppy.

Years later my cellphone chimed. A male voice, “Rrrnll? Eeesh mme, Shmm. Shrry furr mm gubbdeegukkk bu I jeshh guch bekk furmm duh dentish offish. Mmm juh ish wwrrdd. Ennyhuh, Yeshshe ish nn duh hoshpidlll. Yeshshe ashdd mm tuh ttlll uuu.”

I made arrangements to accompany her to some of her doctor visits and to some of her chemo treatments, which were given in “rounds” or cycles of four weeks on-two weeks off, four weeks on-two weeks off, four weeks on-two weeks off…

I sat beside her in the waiting room. Were it not for the telltale identification wristband, it would be difficult to discern the patients from the accompanying friends and family. Often hale and robust looking adults were actually in treatment. As I glanced about the room I noticed that the person I sat with was clearly the sickest, most frail person in the room.

She was often handed sheafs of paper, to which she would cast a cursory glance, then pass off to me. On the top of one pack was a beautifully produced booklet entitled, “Dealing with Stage-IV Cancer."

We made the best of our time away from the hospital, going to favorite eateries, visiting the past haunts of our childhood, lazily watching the White Sox or Cubs on television, shopping, sipping wine, reminiscing and laughing until we cried.

*

“How've you been sleeping?” I ask her one day. “Not too well. They give me these sleeping pills, but I won’t take them.” “Why not?” “Well, I’m afraid I’ll become dependent on them."

*

“I was looking through your paperwork and one of the brochures says they have a 'support group' service and they can put you in contact with...” “Sorry, not interested.” “Well, they also have an online group, so you wouldn’t have to actually go in person…” “Thank you, no."

*

“I read somewhere that it’s sometimes less stressful to have your haircut very short, then it is to fret over watching it fall out.” As I tell her this I brace for a rebuff, but she is silent.

*

When I pick her up for lunch, she says, “Do you mind stopping somewhere first?” “No, of course not. Where are we going?” “To a salon a couple of blocks from the restaurant.” As I drive her to the address she seems chatty and upbeat. “Don’tcha wanna know why I wanna stop here?” “Um, to get fitted for a wig?” “No, Silly, to have my head shaved. It was your suggestion you know.”

*

“Are you angry that I asked someone else to take charge of my arrangements and estate?” “No, actually, I’m quite relieved,” I tell her, "I’m not good at that kind of stuff.” “Yeah, I know."

---

Once upon a time there was a group of trees, planted with purpose, the purpose of providing shade, the purpose of providing privacy from neighbors and passersby, the purpose of beautifying, the purpose of improving the quality of the atmosphere… The trees grew strong and beautiful and fulfilled their duty.

One day, while sitting outside my home, I look up and notice that one of the trees looked different, not as full as the others. Her once green leaves are yellowed and falling out at an alarming rate as it's still the middle of summer. An online search turns up info about infestations, mold, canker, fungus, mildew and other tree ailments. I trim her bare branches. I make certain she has sufficient nourishment and fluids, and I wait. But, she continues her decline. I call a tree “doctor,” actually an arborist. He examines just five of our dozen, or so, trees, five trees that his trained eye detects as problematic. The five are probably all sick, but in the tree where my concern began, the problem is the most pronounced. “But, why this tree?” I ask. I listen in a daze as he talks, “the invader seeks out the weakest tree first. This one has the most southern exposure. It’s probably been drier during drought periods…"  Three of his words strike a chord, “invasive” “spread” “aggressive." Why do those words affect me? Did he say “note the crown” or did he call it a canopy? I struggle to remember the biblical passage about a woman’s crowning glory, as he continues talking.

The arborist proposes a strategy of injecting what will basically be a poison…- I stop him, “Wait, will the poison hurt the environment, or the trees, or, or me?” “No,” he assures me, “It will not harm you or your nearby shrubs and greenery. It is safe to use and it targets just the invasive, blah, blah, blah...” I agree to his master plan, which he says will entail injecting annual “rounds” or cycles of poison. He will do the first injection today. He writes out a prescription for me, in the event I wish to have another arborist do the procedure in the future.

Today four trees stand tall, beautiful and strong, protecting our home. But, the fifth tree, the tree that I sat near, and that I couldn’t help but notice that it looked frail and weakened compared to its robust compatriots; that tree was eventually cut down and the wood was burned.

“Your yard looks great!” I hear from a golfer who passes our home. I stand with him and look out at the breadth of the property and force a smile. He doesn’t know that once there stood a tree, a strong and very beautiful tree, and now it is gone.