4.15.2013

rolly’s diner

Rolly’s diner kills me every time.

We arrived early and were seated at one of the few available tables, one in the far corner near the windows. We carefully threaded our nine-year-old son, Calvin, into an infant high chair next to Michael. I sat across from Calvin feeding him snacks as he banged and arched and squealed and coughed. An elderly couple was seated next to us, though within minutes—and not surprisingly—opted to move. The woman, wearing her Sunday best under a silver coiffure, got up to leave and told us, in a kind, French Canadian accent, that Calvin didn’t bother her, that it must be hard for us (with a kid like Calvin) and that she was sorry. Michael and I both smiled in appreciation.

As Calvin continued his antics, I fed him cut-up pieces of strawberries, breakfast sausage and almonds. I was glad my back was to the restaurant. I wasn’t in the mood to witness copious diners gawking at our crazy kid. Between bites, Calvin reached over to give his dad hugs. I glanced back to see where the couple had moved to and caught the gaze of another woman, probably in her late seventies or early eighties, with a tame, dark blonde hairdo that matched her ensemble. Within moments she appeared at our table, the soft scent of her perfume like rosewater radiating from her beige sweater. She leaned in to tell us what a wonderful father she thought Michael was then added, “and he's handsome, too.” She went on to ask Calvin’s age then we told her about his deficits, his epilepsy, the drugs he has to take which seem to make everything else worse. She said that her youngest son, now fifty-two, had worked for years with developmentally delayed children and adults at Pineland, a nearby facility since converted for recreational use. She mentioned how he has no children of his own because in his words, she explained, “he’s had plenty.”

Though her visit was brief we learned that she was twice widowed, has kept both of her husbands' last names, has four children plus three step-children who treat her as if she is their mother. She showered Michael and me with more compliments about our parenting skills, to which our eyes moistened and brimmed. Then she squeezed my arm and told me how lucky I was. I touched her hand, which was warm and soft as rose petals and I said, “I know.”

After we learned that her name is Irene, she left us to finish our breakfast. When the hostess came to warm our coffee she told us that our bill had been paid by someone who had admired our patience with Calvin, someone who had already left the restaurant. As the words came out of the hostess' mouth, we quietly wept then dabbed our tears away with Calvin’s ratty washcloths—not the first time we've cried at Rolly's.

While Michael finished his meal I scooted in next to Calvin and he turned his focus to me, wrapping his arms around my neck and slipping his little hands down my collar to rub my back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the first woman standing next to me again. She leaned down and, in broken English, said how sorry she was for us and that she hoped that it would change. “I like kids,” she said, “even other people’s kids,” to which I smiled.

As we gathered our things Irene came over. I took down her address so that I could send her this post in the mail. She told us that if we are ever in her neighborhood we should stop by. “I have a big house and I live alone,” she said, then gave me a warm, motherly embrace and added, “I love you guys.”

On the drive home I asked how Michael felt having our meal paid for. He said it was nice, but then paused and described some slight unease being the object of someone’s pity. “Pity gets a bad rap,” I said, and went on to explain that feeling sorry for another’s situation and wanting to do something kind for them is nice. “Pity doesn’t mean that we are being looked down upon,” I added, then sat silently happy for the rest of the ride home smelling Irene’s rosewater perfume on my cheek.

photo by Michael Kolster

7 comments:

  1. Beautifully written as always, Christy. I'd say I agree with your conclusion. It's so bitter sweet to be the object of pity, but in this case it sounds like you were more than the "object." Sounds like Irene really appreciated you all. I remember a time when I was hooked up to an EEG for my seventh day at MGH. I was having seizures all the time at the point in my life, but for some reason when I was in the hospital I wasn't having them. So it was day seven. I was on the low glycemic index treatment at the time and it was the first time that I was able to have sugar in five years. I was helpless hooked up to the wall. The only thing I could do was hope for little visitors (I made some friends who were 10 and 12 years younger than I was, because I was on the pediatric floor). But my mom told me that she would get me some Emack and Bolio's ice cream. (For anyone who lives in Boston check it out--it's the best). It was a hot summer day and she started running back down Charles St. to bring it back to me. On the way back a taxi driver asked her if she needed to get somewhere. She asked how much it would be to get back to the hospital. He responded $9. She told him never mind. "Get in," he said. "We'll get your daughter her ice cream before it melts." And I was so goddamn grateful for this stranger because my first chocolate in five years tasted so good. I hated pity, but sometimes it's nice.

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  2. You are wise. Pity is multidimensional, not all of one stripe. Like so much in life.

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  3. Christy, this post is beautiful and I'm so happy that you got an extra side of kindness and empathy at Rolly's. I'm sure you all have experienced a thousand different shades of pity, and I hesitate to share an experience from my life because I feel like I can never really know what it must be like. But the basic facts brought to mind another story. A few years ago, right when we started dating and shortly after he quit drinking, the bf ended up eating Thanksgiving dinner alone in a restaurant far from his family. At the end of his meal, he found that a family dining a few tables over had paid for his dinner before they left. He had mixed emotions at the time. It brought him happiness to know that others cared to brighten his day, but he felt embarrassed to be pitied and I'm sure it also stirred up some loneliness. Every Thanksgiving since, though, we think of that family and their generosity and we are grateful for their kindness. (We also think of them every time we bake German Chocolate cake because he took me to the restaurant a few weeks later to show me where this all took place, we sampled the cake, and he discovered a new favorite dessert... and we are very grateful for that!) I wonder if discomfort with pity is universal, or if it is born of a culture that condemns vulnerability and where hierarchies prevail. I know misguided pity can be an ugly thing, but empathy can also be so very beautiful, and I am grateful you shared these contemplations about empathy, pity, and kindness with us.

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    1. aspen, i think you hit on something about condemning vulnerability. thank you for sharing your story. another wonderful one coming from your heart. xo

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  4. Christy: a beautiful post. One comment: according to the Oxford English Dictionary, pity used to mean "The disposition to mercy or compassion; clemency, mercy, mildness, tenderness"--something that is different from how we use it today. I think Carol is right; pity isn't all of one stripe. Love, Matt

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  5. As I sit, and read some of the wonderful comments, with tears in my eyes, my heart aches. I had the pleasure (yes pleasure) of waiting on Christy, Michael, and Calvin today. When you walked in, there was a special aura about you, a kind soul, a loving mom and dad, and the most beautiful boy I have ever had the pleasure of getting a hug from. I have never felt a connection to anyone so soon as I did with you folks today. He melted my heart right to the core. Christy, I have always felt that God doesnt give us anything we can't handle, and I sometimes question why God has continued to test me. My co-worker once told me, it's because he has you go through this so that I may help others in the same position. That made so much sense to me, i am always trying to do for others, and for the most part, lose myself in the process. But it makes me feel great knowing I helped at least one person. You are amazing, and this blog sure shows it, I look forward to many more times of getting to know each of you. I don't think people actually feel pity, just compassion for your strength and courage. My offer still stands, really anytime you need a break, to just got out and breathe some fresh air, or to walk down the street, holding your husbands hand, and have some me time, I am right up the road in Auburn. I know who paid for your breakfast that day, and I will now tell you, it was an 11 year old boy, who recently lost his mom to cancer, and every now and then, when they went out to eat, his mom would pay for some unsuspecting souls breakfast just to make their day, and now Jacob does the same thing to keep the memory of his mom alive. You are a remarkable women, and I hope that soon you will come to Rollys and not have tears in your eyes, but that great big smile knowing you are all loved by many.

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    1. dear christine, thank you so much for writing. michael and i are amazed to learn who paid for our meal that time we visited rolly's. whoa. thank you for sharing that. i'll be writing another post about rolly's very soon. thank you for your warmth and compassion. xoxo, christy

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