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| The bench I saw on my ride |
I love riding my bike. On my bike; I can get away from “Mom”
and “Where did you put…” I can listen to my music, get some exercise and just
get away. Usually, I try to ride as fast as I possibly can, only stopping for
big trucks (but now they put in a crosswalk, so I don’t have to stop…right?)
So,
imagine my surprise when I saw this had been erected on my bike path. I passed
it and wasn't sure that I saw what I thought I saw. Was there really a bench
there? I reluctantly turned my bike around and went back; stopping abruptly
when I saw it.
I got
off my bike and put the kickstand down. I took off my helmet and put it on my
bike seat, took out my ear buds and moved my sunglasses to the top of my head.
I walked to the bench and at first I was kind of offended that someone would
place it here; disturbing the natural beauty. I sat down on it and found that
it wasn't so bad. And it reminded me of one of my mom’s favorite stories.
I love
my mom; she is my lifeline and has picked me up and dusted me off many, many
times. She has taught me when to stay quiet (her favorite advice is “Shut Up”)
and when to stand up and be heard (“Even the monkeys in the zoo, when they see
somebody go oo oo.”)
And I
love my mom’s stories. She was born in Italy; where life was less complicated
than it is now; but I digress. This story is about that bench.
I guess
it was a couple months after mom and dad were married; they had a huge fight.
My mother walked out of their apartment and stomped to the car only to find
that she had left her keys in the apartment with my dad; and she sure wasn’t
going back there. So, she headed for the park (Where else would a woman go in
the middle of December in Chicago?)
She
walked a couple of blocks to the park. When she got there, she saw that the
bench was occupied by an elderly couple, holding hands. My mom turned her back
and started crying; thinking how could her husband be so stubborn and such.
When
she turned back around, she saw that the old man was walking away, and the
little old woman on the bench was waving her over and patting the empty seat
next to her. My mom looked around, but she was the only one in the vicinity.
She pointed to herself and the old woman nodded and beckoned to her again. So
my mom walked over and sat down.
The old
woman started talking and mom listened. She told her that she had been married
for 47 years to that little old man there, and there were still days that she
wanted to kill him. But she couldn’t imagine life without him. My mom sniffed
at that and the woman put her arm through my mom’s.
“Let me
tell you one thing. You want to know how I support (it’s a different word in
Italian; means to put up with or stomach someone, but in a more loving way)
him?” She leaned away from my mom and waited for her to respond.
My mom
asked, “How?”
Her
face got that typical “Italian” expression (If you’re Italian; you understand.
If not, the best way I can describe it is if you taste something that is just
average and someone asks you about it)
“Mmmm…I
don’t listen.”
My mom
laughed at that and the woman went on.
“He
talk; he talk. Don’t do this; don’t do that. I don’t listen.”
“Doesn’t
he get mad?” my mom asked.
She
shrugged, “He get mad, so what?”
My mom
looked a little doubtful, “But he’s the head of the house; I have to listen.”
The
woman pulled her closer and lowered her voice, “He is the head, yes, but you
are the neck.”
My mom
pulled back and she winked and pulled her close again; they now sat huddled;
their heads together.
The old
woman whispered, “The head cannot hold itself up; he needs the neck.”
My mom
smiled; seeing the truth in what she said.
“So,
when he say, ‘you don’t do this right’ and his face she turn red, I say, ‘Oh,
you can show me? You know how, so you show me then I do right’, then he say,
‘Yes, I am the head; you must listen.’ And he show me. Next time, he say, ‘you
do the way I show?’ and I say, ‘ma sure’ and he say, “see, is good now.’”
She pulled mom even closer, “But
you know what?”
She
looked at my mom with the same “Italian” expression and my mom; wide eyed
asked, “What?”
“I no
do his way; I only say I do his way.”
My mom
was shocked, “But what if he finds out?”
She
gave my mom the Italian hand gesture (put all your fingertips together and
shake it a couple of times), “What find out?” she pulled her closer, “He no
care; he just want to know I do his way.”
My mom
pulled back and looked at her.
She
nodded and winked holding her head up.
“He
want to be the head. You say okay and don’t listen. But remember” she shook a
crooked finger in mom’s face, “no argue; only yes, I do your way.” She winked,
“You are the neck.”
My mom
thought about the fight she had with my dad and wondered if she had followed
this woman’s advice, would it have gone this far?
The old
man came back, “Come, we go now, I’m cold.”
The
woman winked at her then rose, “Okay, we go.”
She turned
back and grabbed her purse. She lowered her head to my mom, “Remember, the head
can’t hold up itself; the neck she is more important.”
My mom
watched the old couple walk away. She took herself home and from that day on,
she followed the woman’s advice.
I smiled;
lowering my sunglasses, putting my ear buds back in; strapping my helmet on. I
put up the kickstand and mounted my bike. As I kicked off, I looked back, yes,
that’s a perfect place for that bench.
