The Bench

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.