Moments that Mattered

By Pamela Hull

Moments that Mattered When I was young and slept sweet dreams, how could I know God's plan and the mystery of breathing in and out? Childhood - Youth - Young Adult - Adult The span of our lives. Within each segment are disparate, illustrative stories of routine, everyday occurrences. Insignificant at the time, they eventually proved to be life-altering in forming character, direction and inclination, and with awakened insight, pivotal in coming to a deeper sense of ourselves. And yet, how often, if ever, do we assess or unravel these small moments, thinking them too trivial for permanent effect? Reflection may transform our emotional history and make our lives more generous, and purposeful. Let us then consider the people and forces which have determined and shaped our fortunes. And let us find the significant connections that have brought us to this day. Moments that mattered. Read Moments that Mattered by Pamela Hull for her artist's eye and sensibilities, and for the wisdom found in her elegant, quotable language. Her storytelling is a pleasure for the imagination, compelling words that may reshape a lifetime of yesterdays. Mahala Yates Stripling, Ph.D

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644624357

Book preview

Time, Here and Gone

Begin as far back as you remember.

Let memory ramble through time, your mind, adrift. Moments that you have not thought of in years will unfold like dreams from another life.

Large, dramatic events enter our consciousness first, and easily - an accident, a death, marriage, childbirth.

But think further. Many such occurrences are quiet and small, slow to emerge. You wonder why they have come back at all.

Why now awaken that memory of the afternoon your father took you fishing or you befriended a blind boy. When you stole a lipstick or lied to your mother. Or that one pure moment of perfect happiness when your lost puppy ran through the door looking for you.

Because any of these small moments are more than what they first appeared. And might have significantly altered your life in ways you never considered at the time.

A child sees what is before it in simple colors, directly. Impressions fiercely root, and these may contain more truth and wisdom than appear later when our brains reconstruct memory most congenial to current thinking and time’s passing has set down layers of emotional heft. How has this procession of life’s unfurling formed our attitudes, behavior, values? With the perspective of age and experience and some fair effort, we might finally unravel perception and settle upon a proper understanding of matters that may shock or surprise as the heart circles and purrs its way into its final life phase.

An ordinary Tuesday night. I was a young teenager.

My mother and I were watching Milton Berle’s Texaco Star Theater on television, a never-miss Tuesday night event. She sat in the far corner of the sofa while I sprawled beside her.

My father, as usual, was at his desk stacked with files. He had another few hours of work after the daily twelve at the store. On the floor sat his briefcase, like a small suitcase, bulging with more files, more papers, too full for the latch to hold. Relentless in his efforts to stay ahead of his competitors in the furniture business in this small town, he read all the daily newspapers ads then reviewed office paperwork should a wayward number have gotten by his secretary. My mother and I would go to bed at ten while he worked another three hours, the neighborhood long asleep before he finally climbed the stairs.

It seemed another typical evening. But as it turned out, unlike any other.

My father gently, hesitantly, asked, files heavy against his chest, Pundy- his endearing nickname for my mother - would you please get me a drink of water?

A rare request, and so trifling.

No, I’m busy. Get it yourself, she answered.

My heart jumped furiously. My tears a whiplash response.

For heaven’s sake, look at him I wanted to shout, that burden of papers on his lap. He’s working night and day for you, for us. Not even a glass of water?

Yet in her off-hand way, a bit lazy, a bit pampered, she did nothing.

I did nothing.

Why not?

Was I a self-absorbed teenager taken up with a stupid television program? Would my mother think me insolent for doing what she would not? Her refusal felt so hostile, I was afraid to intervene yet I considered myself a mindful person and adored my father.

But I didn’t get up.

Even worse. From that day on, forevermore, I longed to apologize but never did, too distressed to resurrect my shame, hoping he had forgotten.

I was a young married woman when he died, pregnant with the son who would bear his name. I sat in the pew, his coffin before me and cried bitter tears. Others thought, poor Pamela, such a loss, this good father, this good man.

They could not know I cried for never having said I was sorry.

For never bringing him that glass of water.

I can write long stories about afflicting episodes such as these, the circumstances under which they occurred, the judgment of positions, right and wrong, mine and others. Amends proffered, or not. And if so, why. And if not, why not. The painful residue that lingers, embedded. Everyone would shake their collective heads: Yes, sure. Of course. I know what you mean, they would respond. Something similar has happened to me.

But why revisit moments that either might pass with pleasurable nostalgia or painfully sting our conscience, you might ask. The present offers its own challenges.

Because a reckoning could transform our emotional history. Resolve elements of confusion and regret, affirm those that are triumphant, joyful.

So let’s return to where we started. Then all that came after. A journey to recall seemingly unremarkable yet life-altering happenings that simmer in our minds and hearts, that bob and weave our human, spiritual threads into discernible patterns. Eventually, perhaps, to span chasms, then to fly off, meddlesome no more.

Moments that mattered.

Childhood

Bubbe

Was I four-years-old?

Or was I three?

My grandmother Rose, my Bubbe, said I was three, but I’m sure I was four because I had just celebrated my birthday and the next day she accidentally locked herself in our upstairs bathroom. A burly fireman had to break a window and carry her in his arms down a tall ladder while the neighborhood kids whooped and cheered. Merely unlocking the door so she could walk down the inside stairs would not do for the audience of youngsters who waited below.

Who could forget that? Even as young as four?

Near the end of every summer, I visited my grandmother in Far Rockaway, New York. A determined water creature who lived a block from the ocean, she swam daily through late fall. This year’s visit would be special - she promised to teach me to swim. A surprise for your father when he comes for the weekend, she said.

On the chosen day, my mother and sister were asleep. But not me. And not Bubbe, of course. I never knew when she slept. Just as I was rubbing my eyes and having a stretch, she had already returned from shopping at Shifrin’s, her pal Max’s deli that sold bagels to the men who swept the boardwalk. She called him old man Max though he was five years younger than she. After she set out fresh strawberries and sour cream for our lunch, she quietly opened my door and beckoned impatiently, fingers to her lips - shush, shush - towels and dry suits in a crocheted bag over her arm.

There was a fine bright sky as we walked out together. Her posture was regal, as if she were greeting God this very morning. And I was her consort, swinging my pail and shovel. She was chubby and short, my Bubbe, maybe five feet, but her scant height made me feel she was a pal almost my own size.

Her gray hair was the same length as a teenage boy who needed a haircut. Skin dark as copper from the baby oil she used to keep it soft. Her bathing suit was one-piece with a frilly skirt. She had three the same in different colors.

Mrs. Finkelstein lives over there, she pointed, with her cat Mindy who catches mice from the cellar. And next door, Harry Blum who plants cabbages across the front lawn where petunias should be.

Far distant, the sun was slowly rising right up from the water, a pink line running across the horizon, the pink slowly turning orange as we moved closer. Then blue. Like the blue in my paintbox. An intense, dazzling blue. A full, beautiful blue sky.

Hardly anyone was around—not Don who sold hot dogs, not Lou who rented umbrellas. Not even the lifeguards Jakey and Billy who would appear at their posts precisely at 9:00. The beach was empty but for a man in a wet suit throwing a red ball to his black dog.

A loving early childhood memory, Bubbe and I wandering along, her arm on my shoulder, watching the world wake up.

I remember thinking that in two years or four years, I would remember this day as special. And it would make me happy. Not an early recall of falling off a wagon or getting scratched by a mean cat that would give me bad dreams for the rest of my life.

A thin young woman in a bikini, not a common kind of suit in those days, passed by, smiled at me with my grandmother. Bubbe took a long look, then turned away and began a new story.

"When I was a girl, she mused, it was fashionable to look like a woman in a Rubens’ painting. A great artist he was, his women a little zoftig, a little plump. The men liked that look in those days. I never worried about an extra rugelach, not a single bite. Your Zayde always said, ess gezunterhait, eat in good health, Rose. Enjoy. Not like the women today, like your mother, afraid of some chicken fat in the kugel."

A last low apartment building and then, suddenly, there it was.

The wide, wonderful ocean, so wide I could not see the end of it. The waves rose toward the sun in great white peaks, then crashed and rolled their way to shore, dwindling into soft ruffles as they spread their fluff over the spotless beach. Far off, a sailboat drifted towards an island, a barge seemed to fall off the horizon.

Our footsteps made hollows in the hot sand as we stepped off the boardwalk. I thought of my blue glass jar shaped like a lantern holding a dozen shells of my sea rock collection. Missing were two I especially desired, the lion’s paw, shaped like a geisha’s fan, and the other, a marble cone with white spots on a shiny black ground.

Perhaps I would find them this scented morning, the air smelling of fish and salt and lemons as soon as we turned the corner and left behind the odors of gasoline and tires and fertilizer spread over Mr. Blum’s cabbages.

Let’s look for your shells before our swim, Bubbe suggested.

It was harder work than I thought. My shovel and hands were small, and the dry grains fell back into the hole again and again.

After a while, Bubbe took my gritty fingers in hers and together we walked to the water.

Tickling froth puddled around my feet, my toes sinking into sandy ooze.

Pamelke, she said, be careful. Don’t cut yourself on the shells. And that seaweed can wrap around your ankles and pull you down.

But the sharp shells did scratch the bottoms of my feet. And the stringy seaweed did twist around my ankles. Tiny minnows raced by. Would they bite?

I wanted to go home.

But no. Step by step, deeper into the mud. When the water got to my knees, I thought, far enough. But Bubbe would have none of my holding back. She quickly scooped me up, kissed my cheek, and carried me out.

A small wave broke against my shoulder. Drops of water filled my mouth, my eyes, nose. I coughed, wiped my face. Bubbe made circles of comfort round and round on my back.

It’s fine, sweet girl. Just a bit of water, she said.

Just a bit of water, I thought? Everywhere I looked there was nothing but water. I didn’t believe her soft talk although I loved her almost more than anyone in the world. How could I not sink down, down with the fishes?

How could my mother save me if she was still asleep? Would she even try if she were awake?

The sun was hot, the sky, endless space. Everything was too big. I couldn’t see any edges. There wasn’t even a bird. I didn’t want to learn how to swim. I wanted to go home. How could I tell my grandmother I was afraid? She who loved me, took care of me? She who put out fresh strawberries she bought from her friend Max before I opened my eyes?

Suddenly I was on my back, Bubbe’s arms a light touch somewhere underneath. All the while, she murmured softly - "I’m holding you, Pamelke. Look up at the sky. Keep your arms out. Move them in little circles. Now your legs, make them straight. Do little kicks. The water will carry you, shayna maidel, pretty girl."

Keep your arms out, that’s my girl. Kick your legs.

Slowly, I relaxed my fists and breathed through my nose. Opened my eyes. She gently let go, her hands hovering nearby. Arms way out, legs making small kicks like she told me. Suddenly, I floated like a swan.

All at once, the water felt friendly, comfortable.

All at once, I found the fun.

Just like a water bed, I thought, checking the sky for a bird, a plane.

Pamelke, enough for one day, Bubbe finally said. It’s time to rest.

I wanted to stay forever.

Come, taking my hand, helping me stand.

I looked about. I felt as if we had crossed the ocean but we were so close to land I could see the red stripes of our towels. As we made our way back to shore, we played with the seaweed. Threw it as far as we could, laughing when it tangled around our arms, our hair. The minnows swam furiously in circles when I chased them with my hands.

I bent to pick up some shells, sorted out the bits and fragments, and there it was, an unbroken lion’s paw!

Holding it tightly in my fist, we headed for our blanket. Is my mother still sleeping? I asked. Will she sleep all day? Does she know I’m gone?

I didn’t even know if she liked the beach. Or if she was afraid of the ocean. Could she swim?

Bubbe wrapped the big towel around me, and in a snap I was in a dry suit. As we gathered our shells and lotions, she promised to sprinkle sugar on my strawberries. A treat, sweet girl, for your first swimming lesson. Won’t your father be pleased.

The beach was now stirring.

Everyone knew my Bubbe.

The coffee vendor was making change. Lou was renting umbrellas, throwing us kisses. Don waved from his grill, hot dogs already crackling and spitting.

A motorboat pulled a water skier. Birds circled joyously.

Jakey the lifeguard was mounting his perch. Good morning, Mrs. Lefcourt, he hailed. I see you have already had your swim. You should wait for me. It’s dangerous out there.

Wait for you young fellas and miss the best time at the beach before everyone shows up? she called back. No sir, Jakey, but thanks for worrying about me.

Everything had changed.

And tomorrow I would learn how to tread water. Bubbe promised.

Did Jakey know my secret? That I had learned to float in the ocean? That Bubbe let go and I didn’t go down to the fishes?

That on this day, when I was a small child, I learned that fear was not always to be feared. That I was braver than I ever thought. That sometimes saying yes even when you are afraid can be a good thing.

That with a little luck, the ones you love will not betray your trust.

Slowly we walked home, back to my mother turning over in bed, back to my sister lost in dreams.

But I was a different little girl from the one who was coaxed into the water earlier, from the one who had searched for the lion’s paw, the marble cone.

Bubbe, I asked, the fringe on her bathing suit dripping water onto her rubber shoes, the towel around her neck catching drops from her hair, Aren’t you pleased at how brave I am?

Patterns

It was summer, and the lilacs were blooming in the garden when I saw them for the first time.

I was playing on the porch looking for clouds in a cloudless sky when I noticed high up just below our roof some wooden carvings that looked like roses, same as the satin rose on my