Flora

By Harris Cummings

The first time Harris met Flora (though they shared friendly looks and teaching techniques, as they were only a room apart), he saw no indication that her past was fraught with tragedies and heartaches. They were teaching at the same Sunday school and hit it off very quickly. But she did not return for the next school year, and they didnt see each other again for nearly ten years.

Floras reappearance into Harriss life was the start of a beautiful friendship, which turned into a romantic relationship, and then into a marriage that was founded in trust and a deep love for one another. To Harris, Flora had become the calming angel in his life, something he didnt experience with his ex-wife, which made him strive to give Flora the strong support she needed. As for Flora, Harris had become the rock that she could lean on, steadfast as he was, and something she didnt feel with her ex-husband. And through Floras debilitating sickness, Harris was there for her up to the last moment, sharing in her courage, suffering, and happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524592141

Harris Cummings

He had been in the advertising industry for over forty years and is now enjoying his retirement years in Tallahassee, Florida with his wife, Lenore.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Harris Cummings.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017904079

ISBN:            Hardcover            978-1-5245-9215-8

                      Softcover             978-1-5245-9216-5

                      eBook                  978-1-5245-9214-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 04/13/2017

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 Chattahoochee Town House

Chapter 2 Samson Heights, Vassar, And The Pennsylvania Turnpike

Chapter 3 Under Investigation

Chapter 4 Jeffrey’s

Chapter 5 Murray

Chapter 6 Kicked Upstairs

Chapter 7 Tennenbaum Vs. Tennenbaum

Chapter 8 Choose Life!

Chapter 9 Harry

Chapter 10 The Wedding

Chapter 11 The Honeymoon

Chapter 12 Into The Ranks Of The Unemployed

Chapter 13 Struggles

Chapter 14 Birmingham

Chapter 15 Tragedy

Chapter 16 Staying Alive

Chapter 17 Off To Alaska, Las Vegas, And London

Chapter 18 Troubles

Chapter 19 Donald

Chapter 20 Roller Coasting

Chapter 21 I Want To Stand Up.

Epilogue

Poetry, Flora’s Legacy

A woman of valor, who can find?

For her price is above rubies.

Strength and dignity are her clothing;

And she laughs at the time to come.

Extol her for the fruit of her hand;

And let her works praise her in the gates.

from Proverbs 31.

PROLOGUE

There was no hint of her troubled past when I met her. I was entering my 6th grade Sunday school classroom as she was greeting some of her 5th graders next door. She smiled at me as we both began a new teaching year at Temple Sinai in Atlanta. Less than five feet tall with wavy, shining blond hair, brown eyes under lighter brown eyebrows, thin lips, and a svelte figure, she was lovely. There were many friendly looks between us that year. Our classrooms were only moveable partitions with white-board on one side and thumb-tackable fabric on the other, about six feet high, grouped into rectangles. There was only some ten feet of distance between our teaching spaces. We had to keep our students relatively quiet or the noise level would disrupt the other’s class. We managed, often sharing some teaching techniques, mostly games, to keep our students interested and enthused, but not too loud. Other teachers told us that year that every time they came by our area it was the quietest part of the synagogue’s education wing.

The next year she did not return to teach. I asked about her and learned she was very ill with cancer, was undergoing treatment in California, and hopefully would return soon. She didn’t. At the end of the year, I resigned from teaching Sunday School because my regular job had begun to require too much of my time. The following year, I learned she had recovered and was back at Temple Sinai, this time teaching 6th graders, the class level opening created by my departure. I felt good about that.

I was a member of Temple Sinai but she was not. She only came on Sundays to teach. I didn’t see her again until one evening nearly 10 years later. I had been a member of the choir for many years and suddenly she appeared sitting right in front of me in the alto section at a rehearsal. We exchanged friendly looks. She said she found out she didn’t have to be a member of the synagogue to join the choir. So here she was. It was that simple. But it wasn’t.

When she showed up that evening she had learned of the dissolution of my marriage and that I was living alone. She told me months later that when she learned of my divorce she decided to see if she could join the choir so that she would be in a position for me to notice her. I definitely noticed her but I was still going through disorientating mood swings and depression after my failed 21year marriage. For over two years, I’d fallen into a pattern of carousing nearly every night, drinking too much, and haphazardly struggling to reenter the dating circuit. Only at the end of the summer’s rehearsal schedule, at a party to commemorate that event, in the basement of the home of a choir member, did I feel sufficiently confident to approach her. She had arrived a little late and was helping herself to the buffet. Sitting with one of my fellow tenors, I motioned, Come sit with us. She did. All I could think to say after she settled at our table was, How long have you been single? Realizing how crass I sounded I added what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

Fourteen years, she said, with a blank face.

Tell me about your divorce, I said, modulating my voice to a softer tone. I had a difficult time. Did you?

Her face took on a solemn expression. I don’t want to talk about it.

Why not? I said.

Because I get too upset when I think about my ex and bad words come out of my mouth.

Really, after all this time?

Yes.

You should be over it after 14 years. I’m an idiot, I thought. What a dumb, tactless thing to say. You’ve offended her. But, she ignored my barb and changed the subject to how nice the house was and what a spacious basement room they had for the party. I asked her if she was dating anyone.

Not really. She smiled.

I called her the next week and asked if she played bridge. When she said yes, I invited her to play at my condo with my brother and his wife that coming Saturday evening. She said o.k. That night was wonderful. We couldn’t lose a hand. She got so excited she slipped off her shoes and pushed her toes under my pants leg, playing footsy under the table. At the end of the evening, after two or three winning rubbers, I walked my guests out to their car. Flora surprised me by coming back in with me after my brother drove off and, without saying a word, began helping me clean up. Being with her, working together like that, suddenly seemed natural, as if we had done it many times before. When we finished I escorted her out to her car and asked if I could give her a hug.

Oh, I like hugs, she said.

I wanted to kiss her, but it was only our first date and I didn’t want to scare her away or do anything that might discourage her from seeing me again.

She was on my mind every day from that first date on. Nothing I thought of for our second date seemed right, but I asked her to a movie and she agreed. By our third date, I felt secure enough to call her and tell her I just wanted to be with her.

I feel the same way, she said.

We went to the Galleria mall, looked in the store windows, held hands and talked.

What took you so long to ask me out? I had just about given up, she said.

I mumbled something like I don’t know. I’m not too smart.

She smiled knowingly, and squeezed my hand.

I had to go to California the next week on a business trip. I was in the advertising business and trips to make business presentations and entertain prospects were a regular routine. This trip involved golf, one of my favorite things to do. When I returned, I called her. She said she was disappointed that I hadn’t called her on Saturday night while I was in Indian Wells. I was impressed that she was thinking of me enough to want me to call. I said I’d thought of calling her that night but I’d gotten into my hotel room late after a dinner I had to attend and I thought it was too late to call. She said she was up and reminded me of the three-hour time difference. I said I should have thought of that, knowing that it was a lie and a lame excuse. What really happened was I’d had too much to drink and had collapsed on the bed as soon as I got into my room.

She invited me to her place for dinner. She lived in a two story townhouse condominium much like mine, but hers was near the Chattahoochee River where she often walked, stopping sometimes to feed the Canadian geese that frequented its banks. Some of her furniture obviously was not originally purchased for her townhouse. The Steinway baby grand in her living room, the huge chandelier chain-swagged above it, and the ninety-three-inch sofa in her den must have come from a larger place. She also had a beautiful seven-foot long brass baker’s rack that took up the entire wall in the breakfast nook off her kitchen. Over dinner she told me that nearly all the furniture came from a nice house she had once lived in near the Fairview Country Club with her ex. She’d had to sell it at a big loss because he’d claimed bankruptcy and she needed income quickly. Gradually, that night and in subsequent conversations, I learned her story.

CHAPTER 1

Chattahoochee Town House

We sit on the sofa in her den, a rectangular room off the kitchen. At one end is a sliding glass door that opens to her small back deck. In front of the door is a bright orange Danish easy chair with a matching footstool. The fabric is worn and the color a little dulled, but the chair’s lines are sleek and modern. The other end of the room opens to a central hallway. On the wall opposite her sofa is a teak credenza on top of which sits her TV. She asks if I want to watch it. Without answering, I put my arm around her. Her hair smells fresh and sweet as I draw her close. I tilt my head to kiss her. She doesn’t turn her head immediately and so my lips land a lopsided, sloppy buss partially on her chin. I am embarrassed. She laughs and with an amused look says, Now, let’s do it properly. We do, slowly. Our breaths quicken. We stop abruptly. It is our first kiss and we are both taken aback by its intensity. I lean back to regain control and slow my breathing. She does the same.

Then, breaking the silence, I say, Tell me about yourself, Flora.

What do you want to know? she says with a flirtatious wink.

Where were you born? What was your childhood like? I want to know all about you.

I was born in Cleveland, Ohio, she begins. As the evening progresses she tells me much more and in detail. She had researched her genealogy carefully. Her maternal grandfather, and grandmother disembarked with their infant daughter, Helen, Flora’s mother, from the Friedrich der Grosse ocean liner at Ellis Island, arriving from Bremen in June 1904. She had found a copy on the Internet of the ship’s passenger list showing his name on the handwritten pages. Although he spoke German, he was born in what was then Austro-Hungary under the rule of Emperor Franz Joseph. He had previously immigrated to the United States and worked in the coal mines near Pittsburgh until he earned enough money to return to the old country, marry, wait until after little Helen was born, and return with his new family to America. A year later, his wife gave birth to a second daughter, Sarah, the first of their family to be born in America.

All she knew about her fraternal grandparents was that they were from Poland. She had not been able to find any record of their immigration. This, she says, is due to the many times Poland’s boundaries were altered by wars in the late 19th and early 20th centuries and names of places were changed and records destroyed or lost. I’m still researching, hoping to find more information somewhere.

You’re third generation American, I say. I know my father’s family was descended from four brothers who came from Bavaria in the mid-1800s. I know I’m fifth generation American, but I never had to do any research. I was given a book with all the information in it, but you’ve spent a lot of time learning about your family. It must be important to you.

Well, my parents divorced when I was about five. I remember him sitting in an easy chair, reading the paper, but he wasn’t around much. My mother told me that he was a manic-depressive and that in his manic stage, he lived with us. In his depressive stage, he just took off and no one knew his whereabouts. My mother never remarried. She raised me and my sister, Ruthie – she’s a year and a half older than I am – by herself. I wanted to know more about my roots. My mother wasn’t interested. My sister wasn’t either for that matter.

Did you get to know your father at all? I ask.

"Not until I was in my teens. My mother told me he still lived in Cleveland. Once, when I was about 15, I found out that he was working as a clerk in a local department store and I went to see him. I never told my mother. I asked him if he would loan me $10. I don’t remember now what I needed it for. He showed no affection, was very brusque, and was willing to spend only a little time with me. He refused to loan me the money. To this day I know of nothing he has ever done