Happiness is a Choice

Are You Someone's Glue?

Enthusiasm for life and compassion for others have been written about many times and by so many qualified people that I feel a bit immodest approaching the subjects.  I certainly don’t tackle them as any kind of authority, rather I come as an observer of my own experience and bailiwick.  As so many of my essays do, this one began with a conversation, this time over dinner.

My sister-in-law, Peggy, is spending some time with us as she recoups from surgery.  Last night, the two of us went on a girls'-night-out to a favorite Chinese restaurant.  We don’t know each other really well, so we were sharing some stories about our friends and family.  As we all know, a wealth of information about anyone is readily available by looking at his or her friends.  We get to choose those, while family is inherited. 

Peggy told me a story about The Girlfriend Club, a group of women who knew each other since childhood.

“How did the club get started, Peggy?” 

“Well, I’m not really sure how it all began, just seems like it always was.  All of us were born right there in Forney, went to school, graduated, got married, and had babies together.”

“How many of you are there?”

She counted off as she named the original members, names that have escaped my mind now, but people who I could tell mean a lot to Peggy by the way she called their names.

“Well, it began with eight of us, if I counted that right, might have been nine.  But now I don’t know if we really have a Girlfriend Club anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Jackie died almost two years ago, and since then, people have started to drop out.  One called to say she had too much ‘on her plate’ to come anymore.  Another says she has something else to do every time our scheduled monthly get-together comes up.  Still another said she is traveling a lot now and her calendar is full. It’s like Jackie was the glue that kept us together.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that in a lot things.  One person does the organizing and planning, while everybody else just gets on the bandwagon.”

“It was more than that, though.  Jackie was just fun to be around, and it seemed as if she and Carole always had something special planned, or whatever they had planned seemed special.  We took turns deciding what we wanted to do, and no matter whose turn it was or what they determined, Jackie was animated about it.  Even after her cancer was diagnosed, she went on having as much fun as she could and sharing that fun with everyone she met.  We all wanted to get together because Jackie was there.”

We went on to talk about a lot of other things, but that cameo of Jackie’s life crystallized in my mind as I thought of so many people who have provided an adhesive for me, sometimes because of their courage or enthusiasm for living and sometimes because of their compassion.  Most of those people were individuals who were doing no more than living their lives in keeping with their values.  One that quickly came to my mind was the liquor store owner I met soon after moving to Dallas. 

Zora's was on the corner of Oak Lawn and Maple Avenue, and I passed it twice a day walking to and from work.  On November 12, 1962, I had turned nineteen the day before, was broke with another three days to payday and was feeling down and alone.  It was getting dark, it was chilly, and I knew my roommate and I did not have anything for dinner in the apartment. Neither of us would ask anyone for help, maybe out of pride or maybe because we didn't know how.  Tears were near the surface as I approached the liquor store.  She stood in the doorway, and as I walked by, she spoke.

"How's it going today?"

"Okay."  I kept walking, but the tears brimmed over.

"Hey, have you got a minute?  I've seen you come by the store often."

I stopped, and she took out a cigarette.  "Do you smoke?"

"Yes, but I don't have any." 

I had now crumbled into a basket case, but she acted as if all were okay as she handed me a pack of Marlboros.

"Here you go.  You want to sit down for a couple of minutes?"

I sat down, and we talked.  I don't remember what we talked about or who said what.  I do remember that I left there with a pack of cigarettes and five dollars.  On payday, I returned the five dollars, and I don't recall ever having another conversation with the woman.  I always waved when I saw her in the store, and she returned my greeting, but we never became friends.

Five or six years ago, I saw in the Dallas Morning News that she had died.  As I read the obituary that included a story about the number of years her liquor store sat on that corner, I wondered if she remembered me as I did her.  I doubt it.  She was just living her life when she provided the glue I needed to hold my world together on November 12, 1962.

I was reminded again last night that one's philosophies are best expressed by the lives they live, rather than the words they speak.  I made a new commitment to try harder to be someone's glue by living my years here with enthusiasm, courage and compassion.