(Continued from previous post . . . )
I suppose there were things I could've told Eric and Angel about myself that would have explained, at least a little, why I was hanging out with strangers at the grocery store on a Saturday morning. Like how I must've subconsciously missed being a Girl Scout in the South, helping folks cross the street and carry their groceries. Or how I worshipped my parents, who were always involved with stuff like Meals on Wheels and the Vaughn House, an organization in Austin that helps people with multiple disabilities. Maybe I could have talked about how when I was a little kid, Mom, Dad, and I adopted a fluffy stray cat from an alley behind a club and named it Hearne, after our friends Bill and Bonnie Hearne, a couple of folk singers who had been playing there and who were both legally blind and physically challenged. And I definitely could have talked for hours about Joe B. Friedel, the great-grandfather who was larger than life to me until he died when I was 16 and whose eyes I never got to see.
I had always known Grandpa Friedel to be completely blind, since he was shot by a friend in a hunting accident in his 20s. Some of my fondest childhood memories include him: going for walks in the tiny town of Graham, Texas, when my family visited every summer, him using a cane like Eric and me holding on like Angel; playing dominoes together at the kitchen table (the black pieces dotted by white indentions Joe. B. could feel); buying hair metal magazines from the Woolworth's and reading them in the living room while Grandpa sat in his easy chair; listening to his famous stories of running a soda stand at the county courthouse downtown; laughing hysterically when he returned from the town square one day with my tiny sister Meg, boasting of how he had asked the clerk for a marriage license for the two of them (who were not only related but about 80 years apart in age). Once, the town newspaper, the Graham Leader, published a photo (near Meg's and my favorite section, the police blotter) announcing with joy that my sister, my cousin, and I were coming for a visit.
I could have told Eric and Angel all that. (I also could've told them that sometimes I wonder if I'll ever fit in anywhere like I used to in Texas and that helping people makes me feel like at least I'm doing what I can to be a good neighbor.) But I really just wanted to hear their stories and bask in such a beautiful friendship, so I kept myself to myself. I didn't even really think about all of the above until I finally made it home from the gym.
My time with Eric and Angel today wasn't some epic event. I doubt I changed their lives at all -- they were doing just fine together without me and I'm sure they still will. But meeting them was special to me, more than words can say. A beloved family member is nearing the end of his life right now -- this post is already too long, so I'll save that for another day -- but suffice it to say that lately I've been thinking a lot of about disability, illness, and how we handle life's challenges. I've also been thinking, as I tend to do, about how to make sure this life is lived to the fullest. Eric and Angel were a ray of sunshine in my day, an example of what's really important in this too-short life. I hope they made it to the park today. I hope Eric feels at home in Texas. And I hope Angel gets to visit him there.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Eric and Angel, pt. 2
(Continued from previous post . . .)
After hustling to catch up with the two friends at the intersection, I said hi, and we exchanged the usual neighborly pleasantries. The tall man was named Eric and he had one clear, dark eye and one cloudy, white eye with bloodshot veins like red lightning cross-crossing the blue iris. The smaller man, Angel, had two eyes that looked like his friend's stormy one. They could have been about 30 like me, but lacking all the usual Wicker Park trappings -- Art+Science hairdos, skinny jeans, "vintage" tees, and too-cool-for-school expressions -- it was truly hard for me to tell.
When I remarked about what a beautiful day it was, I was half talking about the breeze and half talking about these two people, holding onto each other in such an unselfconscious, public display of friendship. As we crossed Milwaukee Avenue to the store, Eric grinned and said, with no self-pity or sadness in his voice, "If I had the fare, I'd take Angel on the bus to the beach." It was so sweet, my heart could barely take it.
I didn't need anything from the store and I didn't want to be a (bigger) weirdo, so we said our goodbyes and again I started walking away. Again I made it only half a block. Our minute just didn't feel like enough. What if I was supposed to meet Eric and Angel for a reason? I raced back across the street to the Aldi, said an awkward "hi, I'm back and I'm procrastinating on going to the gym," and offered to take over for the security guard who was going to help them shop. Of course, I'm really glad I did.
It's not like anything superspecial happened. They didn't whisper the meaning of life to me while we picked out flavors of chips (original Pringles for Eric, sour cream and onion for Angel), and I had to run and ask the security guard where the chicken legs were while the guys waited in the aisle for me, holding onto the cart as other shoppers maneuvered around them. I felt a little stupid. But still. If I had just gone to the gym, I would have always wondered about Eric and Angel.
Turns out they'd been friends a long time, since they'd met at a job that had since laid them off. Eric lives near me but he's moving to a tiny town ("only 12 blocks long!") outside Lubbock, Texas, next week. He's got family there. Angel lives in another area of Chicago and was just coming to Wicker Park for the day to visit his friend. "Maybe I'll take Angel to the park today," Eric said. Angel vowed to go to Texas to visit, too, even though I'm not sure how he'd afford it. He told me about living in Florida for two years and losing his house because of a girlfriend. "People don't help each other enough and sometimes they try to take advantage of us, even though we don't have anything." "But we get along fine," Eric added. I wanted to know about why they were blind and where they lived and all that stuff, but I knew it would be crossing the line, even for me, to ask all that.
(To be continued . . . )
After hustling to catch up with the two friends at the intersection, I said hi, and we exchanged the usual neighborly pleasantries. The tall man was named Eric and he had one clear, dark eye and one cloudy, white eye with bloodshot veins like red lightning cross-crossing the blue iris. The smaller man, Angel, had two eyes that looked like his friend's stormy one. They could have been about 30 like me, but lacking all the usual Wicker Park trappings -- Art+Science hairdos, skinny jeans, "vintage" tees, and too-cool-for-school expressions -- it was truly hard for me to tell.
When I remarked about what a beautiful day it was, I was half talking about the breeze and half talking about these two people, holding onto each other in such an unselfconscious, public display of friendship. As we crossed Milwaukee Avenue to the store, Eric grinned and said, with no self-pity or sadness in his voice, "If I had the fare, I'd take Angel on the bus to the beach." It was so sweet, my heart could barely take it.
I didn't need anything from the store and I didn't want to be a (bigger) weirdo, so we said our goodbyes and again I started walking away. Again I made it only half a block. Our minute just didn't feel like enough. What if I was supposed to meet Eric and Angel for a reason? I raced back across the street to the Aldi, said an awkward "hi, I'm back and I'm procrastinating on going to the gym," and offered to take over for the security guard who was going to help them shop. Of course, I'm really glad I did.
It's not like anything superspecial happened. They didn't whisper the meaning of life to me while we picked out flavors of chips (original Pringles for Eric, sour cream and onion for Angel), and I had to run and ask the security guard where the chicken legs were while the guys waited in the aisle for me, holding onto the cart as other shoppers maneuvered around them. I felt a little stupid. But still. If I had just gone to the gym, I would have always wondered about Eric and Angel.
Turns out they'd been friends a long time, since they'd met at a job that had since laid them off. Eric lives near me but he's moving to a tiny town ("only 12 blocks long!") outside Lubbock, Texas, next week. He's got family there. Angel lives in another area of Chicago and was just coming to Wicker Park for the day to visit his friend. "Maybe I'll take Angel to the park today," Eric said. Angel vowed to go to Texas to visit, too, even though I'm not sure how he'd afford it. He told me about living in Florida for two years and losing his house because of a girlfriend. "People don't help each other enough and sometimes they try to take advantage of us, even though we don't have anything." "But we get along fine," Eric added. I wanted to know about why they were blind and where they lived and all that stuff, but I knew it would be crossing the line, even for me, to ask all that.
(To be continued . . . )
Eric and Angel, pt. 1
Today I met two people who reminded me that friendship is what makes life worth living. Their names are Eric and Angel, and I hope someday I see them again -- even if they won't ever be able to see me.
I'd just seen Patrick off to work after our morning walk, during which I'd been lamenting again about how people can be such jerky drivers. It never fails that someone almost mows me down on Wabansia Street even though they have a stop sign AND had just had the same sign a block before (meaning they'd gone from zero to daredevil speed in just a few feet for no good reason other than, I don't know, wasting gas). I was tired from rockin' out last night with the Hidden Mitten -- indeed fairly convinced I'd given myself whiplash thrashing around during the "Meltdown" outro -- but I was dragging my ass to the gym anyway. Another spacey Saturday, waiting for Patrick to get home from work.
And then I saw them: two blind men trying to navigate the bustling, construction-clogged streets of my neighborhood. One was tall and black and lumbering, tapping condo walls and parking meters with his cane. The other was smaller, Hispanic, with curled wrists and a labored gait, the results of some handicap or illness I couldn't place. They linked arms and held onto each other, smiling in the sunlight as they walked, slowly but surely, down my street. Other people whizzed by on their weekend jogs or coffee runs, and as I passed the men in the crosswalk at Wabansia, I heard one say kindly to the other, "We're almost to the Aldi." Apparently, they were going grocery shopping together at the discount store down the way.
I walked half a block in the other direction and had to stop. I know it sounds crazy, but I was trying not to cry. I wish you could have seen these two -- so good to each other, just in a simple act most of us take for granted, walking to the store. I don't know if it was the writer in me or the whole daughter-of-a-social-worker thing, but my heart absolutely ached to know these men's stories. I knew turning around was ridiculous, but there was no way I could go to the stupid gym now. Not by myself, on such a gorgeous day. Not to bop up and down to vapid dance remixes and futilely obsess over those five last mythic pounds every woman wants to lose. Not with my emotional wiring.
I have recently, officially come to embrace my mantra -- that everyone we meet can teach us something, impact us, maybe even change the course of our lives or the world. Of course, it helps that I like to talk to people, and that I believe strongly in following your heart and going with your gut. So I turned around.
(To be contined . . .)
I'd just seen Patrick off to work after our morning walk, during which I'd been lamenting again about how people can be such jerky drivers. It never fails that someone almost mows me down on Wabansia Street even though they have a stop sign AND had just had the same sign a block before (meaning they'd gone from zero to daredevil speed in just a few feet for no good reason other than, I don't know, wasting gas). I was tired from rockin' out last night with the Hidden Mitten -- indeed fairly convinced I'd given myself whiplash thrashing around during the "Meltdown" outro -- but I was dragging my ass to the gym anyway. Another spacey Saturday, waiting for Patrick to get home from work.
And then I saw them: two blind men trying to navigate the bustling, construction-clogged streets of my neighborhood. One was tall and black and lumbering, tapping condo walls and parking meters with his cane. The other was smaller, Hispanic, with curled wrists and a labored gait, the results of some handicap or illness I couldn't place. They linked arms and held onto each other, smiling in the sunlight as they walked, slowly but surely, down my street. Other people whizzed by on their weekend jogs or coffee runs, and as I passed the men in the crosswalk at Wabansia, I heard one say kindly to the other, "We're almost to the Aldi." Apparently, they were going grocery shopping together at the discount store down the way.
I walked half a block in the other direction and had to stop. I know it sounds crazy, but I was trying not to cry. I wish you could have seen these two -- so good to each other, just in a simple act most of us take for granted, walking to the store. I don't know if it was the writer in me or the whole daughter-of-a-social-worker thing, but my heart absolutely ached to know these men's stories. I knew turning around was ridiculous, but there was no way I could go to the stupid gym now. Not by myself, on such a gorgeous day. Not to bop up and down to vapid dance remixes and futilely obsess over those five last mythic pounds every woman wants to lose. Not with my emotional wiring.
I have recently, officially come to embrace my mantra -- that everyone we meet can teach us something, impact us, maybe even change the course of our lives or the world. Of course, it helps that I like to talk to people, and that I believe strongly in following your heart and going with your gut. So I turned around.
(To be contined . . .)
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