Chocolate and Silk

“It is unique to our species that each is bound to the other by a filament, indiscernible yet indestructible. Viewed as a whole, it is the fabric of mankind characterized as much by our individuality as our sameness. Of all God's creatures, it is this cloth of silken thread that sets us apart.”

It is the most unexpected of letters. He receives so much mail and so few letters. Personal communication has been replaced by an endless waterfall of emails, text messages, and LinkedIn notifications. He eschews social media for exactly the reason that the occasional letter delivered by USPS in the 20th century has been replaced by a cacophony of conduits in the 21st. Yet, the avalanche of snippets offers no added information nor wisdom, just noise.

Examining the envelope and given its adhesive mail label and recognizable return address, it could be a “Save-the-Date”. However, he has already received one. It is much too early for the actual invitation as even the most organized would not risk sending seven months ahead of the event. As he heads up Baron’s Walk, the too long governor’s drive, he stops by the recycle bin. Usually, all mail is junk mail - catalogues, flyers, unsolicited charity requests, credit card promotions, and this letter. Unceremoniously, he tears it open, more out of curiosity than interest. It is indeed a form letter, thoughtfully mail-merged to suggest personalization. The subject line is 'Elizabeth (Cox) McIntyre'. Beth is a member of his 50th high school reunion committee, but this is not from her, rather it is about her. The tears well up in his eyes as he reads of Beth’s illness. She is suffering from a rare form of dementia, incurable, and regressive. She is in a nursing home that specializes in providing care for such patients. The letter attempts to console its readers and encourages each to reach out via cards or a holiday visit (“if you are coming from out of town”).

Winters in Western New York are long, windy, cold, and unforgiving. He was traipsing at sunset from his hovel of an urban apartment to his grocery stock boy job at the downtown department store. Traipsing is an odd word, likely correct, but not right. Rather, he was walking, purposefully, through February’s salted snow, a mixture of slush and ice. It was ritual. A full load of college courses filled his days; a quick supper; and then walking to the local Associated Dry Goods department store for the 5 – 11 PM shift. It would be thirty-five years later, at Harrods in London, before he would see another department store with a full grocery section. In 1971, the grocery placement did not seem unusual, but he was young and inexperienced, “off the farm”. Little did he know this vibrant city center would be a corpse a few years hence. On this evening, all was the hustle and bustle of downtown executives and office workers finished with their exertions. His workday was beginning. He did not think about the symmetry of his coming versus their goings or bemoan the series of events that brought him from Georgetown University last month to this place now. It was not his nature to whine. He was not a particularly cheerful person, but he was confident and optimistic, at least about his future. He was excited to welcome the baby, expected when the summer solstice a few days old. Having the frigid wind whip against his cheeks made the end of June feel long away. He loved his wife of six weeks who had been his best friend for the past three years. He was sure it would work out fine.

As he made his way across the pristine plaza fronting the city’s tallest and newest office building, he saw Carol Sheehan walking towards him. Tom had been a best friend throughout high school and Carol was Tom’s steady. He had last seen them at the wedding reception. Throughout their high school careers, he and Carol shared many classes and there were times from freshman to senior year when he was as close to her as Tom. Yet, so quickly, life had swept him off to D.C. He gleefully pushed aside thoughts of that little Erie Canal town, its people, its provincial ways. He knew Tom was studying engineering at Cornell. He had lost track of, or as likely, forgotten Carol’s plans and was surprised to see her hiking in her dress boots, business suit, leather gloves, and full-length wool coat across the freshly plowed concrete. She was many miles from where she should be. It was the sort of moment that befuddles the mind, too many pieces out of place. Among the fragments askew was Carol’s walking companion, Elizabeth Cox. Carol and Beth grew up together in the same little Lake Ontario hamlet, like so many rural communities across New York State. Where once had been dozens of little one room schoolhouses each with a marm teaching all grades, today bright yellow busses transport kids from as many as ten different townships to a single plot of land set aside as a “central school district”. He and Beth traveled in intersecting social circles in high school, with Carol in a college prep program and the equally bright, but practical, Beth opting for secretarial science. That was what made their appearance together incongruent. He later learned, Carol, faced with the the high cost of a university education, had decided to attend the local business institute and pursue the same path as Beth. They were returning from classes and commuting the thirty miles home together. Beth and he exchanged the fewest of words. Any onlooker would have discerned the scene much as it was. He and Carol were good friends, pausing in the cold, exchanging the briefest of pleasantries. He and Beth were only remotely acquainted.

Linda was a year older than him. They started dating when he was wrapping up his sophomore year and she her junior year at a neighboring high school. They met at a religious retreat of sorts, a preview to a two-week summer mission trip to Haiti. They became fast friends and lovers (in that bumbling way that teenagers “make out”). Although he was too young to be falling in love, he was more experienced than he probably should have been. There had been Bobbi and Becky and then another Becky and Joyce and Terri and Erin. He was not popular in the conventional sense. He was too smart in that way that runs contrary to common sense and empathy. He did not make up for it by being the funniest or the best looking or the most athletic or the sweetest, but as a package, he had enough of all those things to be attractive to the opposite sex. He also took every romantic encounter seriously and respectfully. “Don’t date a girl you wouldn’t marry”, were the sage words of his father, a man he loved and revered. It seemed good advice and so he dated a certain type of “good girl” - pretty, smart, proper but not too proper.

He and Linda welcomed their healthy baby boy exactly on schedule. The next three years were a blur of working and schooling. His schedule as full-time student, father, and employee left him little practice with social interactions. The summer before Tom embarked on the grown-up life, Tom and Carol visited him at the apartment. Coincidentally, he and Tom were both off to Pennsylvania. Tom to Philadelphia as a junior engineer. He was on his way to Pittsburgh to work on his graduate degrees. Tom and Carol shared the good news that they were engaged. It was an odd visit, each couple a stranger to the other. The awkwardness underscores the truth that you can’t go home. They were there and gone, never seen again. Linda was pregnant a second time and she would flawlessly deliver another baby boy the day of Nixon’s resignation – two reasons for celebration.

The lesson learned from Tom and Carol’s visit is that even the closest of friends will drift apart in absence of shared experience. He missed his ten-year reunion much as he would miss every high school reunion. Reunions are a bit of a mystery to him. Some people relish them, others are embarrassed by imagined judgments, and still others are indifferent. He did not enjoy high school enough to suffer meaningless chit-chat with strangers, as who else could they be? How can four years on the fringes of teenage angst hold up against ten, twenty, or fifty years of real life? Friendships did not even last the few years that separated high school and college graduation. For the upcoming fiftieth reunion, it is likely that he would be more prosperous, more accomplished, with children and grandchildren of greater talents. It would give him no pleasure to tell the truth of his life to classmates, they hearing only a braggart. Reunions are like cocktail parties. Every cocktail party risks a soliloquy answering the question “So, what do you do?”: an inquiry of courtesy, not real interest. He had learned the wisdom to make up some lame title like COO or CFO. It is why he avoids cocktail parties. He is humble, not boastful. Each day, he gives thanks and appreciates his good fortune.

He plops down in his worn, ancient brown leather desk chair and wonders how to respond to the news of Beth’s dementia. One obvious answer is to do nothing. He wonders to himself if he sends her a Christmas card, the only one ever sent, would even a lucid version of Beth remember him. Why does it matter so much to him? He settles on sending her a box of mail-order chocolate almond toffee wrapped with Thinking of You gift paper and the most straightforward greeting – Merry Christmas. He digitally signs the bottom of the card with his full name. To do otherwise would compound confusion.

The weeks pass and although he does not forget his gesture, life’s other demands take precedence. His trips to the mailbox would seem a journey to many others. For him, it is the opportunity to catch some fresh air. Was that not his motivation, its contents would provide little reason to take the jaunt. Today, though, there is a small envelope, his name and address handwritten, with a return address completely foreign. He does not know the name – Dr. Melissa Calhoun, nor the Buffalo address. He has a couple of friends and a few cousins in Buffalo, but Melissa is neither. After he recycles the “junk”, he wanders to the library, throws himself into one of the overstuffed, too large chairs, letter opener in hand. He studies the imitation sterling silver utensil and muses to himself, “Professor Plum in the Library with a Letter Opener”. His is an anachronistic life, indeed. He is all tweed jackets, wool slacks in the family plaid, crystal scotch glass with a single miniature ice cube and this month’s single malt selection. It is carefully specified by his son who has encyclopedic knowledge of scotch whisky. Only a fireplace and window break up four parallel endless streams of tomes. Many he has read, but many more are books-in-waiting. He has every intention to read them all when he retires, but it appears he will never retire. Single malt, black truffles, German cars, and landscaping a baronial estate all require cash. So, he works. Work is not an apt description, which is why he can continue to do it. By contrast, his Dad worked. His Dad’s job was tough, physical, and demanding, requiring him always be “on” – friendly and personable. In contrast, he is a cantankerous economist who thinks and analyzes and writes and cajoles and encourages.

All this is on his mind as he stares at the letter opener and the still unopened note. As he inserts the tip in the crease, he reflects that his years working as a stock boy with box cutters and later as an amateur chef, perfecting knife skills, makes the opening of a letter nearly an art form. He finishes with a bit of a flourish as he retrieves the card inside. It is more than paper and less than cardboard. On the outside are the words “Thank you” in the most readable of typeset script surrounded by some springtime wildflower, the name of which he never knew. His proper British mother would be abhorred. She would never send a note on paper, unseasonal. On the inside of Melissa’s card, is a handwritten note with no Hallmark platitudes to interrupt the flow of the words on the page. At the top of the page, he sees his surname with the preceding requisite “Mr.”. “Five years of underpaid, overworked bullshit to get that doctorate” he thinks to himself. That is the thought he always has whenever he suffers the slight of not being referred to as “Dr.”. His son has it worse. He had put in seven years to get his master’s and then Doctorate in Divinity at Harvard. There are the few who call him “Father”, but too many neither affix the “Rev.” nor the “Dr.”. The son seems unconcerned. He is of that generation that embraces casual work dress and Taco Tuesday. The father, confident in his superiority, scowls.

He reads, or rather gulps down, the words in a single skim. There are no surprises. Seems Melissa is Beth’s daughter. Her mom has moments of clarity but seems confused as to who he is. The family enjoyed the chocolates. It was a very kind act. Melissa speculates that he went to high school with her mom but does not hazard to hypothesize further. A pleasant closing with wishes for the New Year. It is a short note, obligatory, except its tone suggests curiosity. He reads it again, more slowly, and there it is. Who writes a Thank You note with the “between-the-lines” question, “Who are you?” More often, the correspondent writing on behalf of an infirmed loved one would choose to feign recognition. This is not a mere Thank You note. He surmises that Melissa is on a treasure hunt.

In 2020, with a name, an address, and a maiden name, it doesn’t take much sleuthing to learn quite a bit about another person. He has little enthusiasm for many of the changes of the 21st century, but he loves certain technological advances. A little Google searching and Facebook browsing, he knows as much about Melissa as he is guessing Melissa knows about him. Perhaps, fifty years from now, there will be no mysteries. The thread that connects one person to another at any point of time will be memorialized in bits and bytes. The names of two people spoken into an iPhone 101Plus will reveal all. In the current era, what he knows about Melissa and what she knows about him are “facts”, the fiction of résumés, and photos, carefully edited. It can be the bare minimum unless one wants it differently. He is thankful that he was a young man in the last century when photos required expensive developing. He does not want to be held digitally accountable for all his youthful failings. Reliving the movie of one’s life is best left for meeting one’s maker.

He rarely writes with a pen anymore, but for this exercise he goes into his office file drawer. He pulls out a box with a bit of dust on the lid, opens and retrieves a piece of personalized stationery. He unscrews the Mont Blanc fountain pen from its desk stand and with nip in well, carefully slides the pump to suck in some of the blue-black ink into the barrel. The motions come naturally to him, “like riding a bicycle” he thinks. He cannot remember the last time he shunned his keyboard for this ritual. He begins to write.

Dear Melissa,

I take from your note that you and your family are curious why someone you view as a stranger would send a box of Colorado chocolates to your mom in New York. The most literal answer is that everyone I know loves those chocolates and their giving never fails to elicit delight. I discern from a bit of Googling that you are an anthropologist, so I am guessing that you are searching for a deeper explanation not so much related to the form or nature of the gift, but rather the truth of the giver and the giving.

It starts with empathy and compassion. I was so deeply touched by what each of you must be suffering. Your mom is so young and vital, it must be devastating to persevere this tragedy. Who are we if not the sum of our experiences and memories? What would be the point of sending a lengthy Christmas greeting with my signature? Beth would not have remembered me. In fact, after fifty years, a different classmate, receiving a note, out of the blue, would probably have no recollection of who I am. Thus, a box of chocolates, which I figured you all could enjoy. Maybe it might brighten an otherwise difficult day.

There are still deeper truths. Recently, I met and fell in love with a young woman, only a bit older than you. I love her as deeply as you can imagine but she has only a certain filial affection for me. She and I correspond at length. She wrote to me once that my longing for her was the result of either not having known a woman like her or I did not deem myself worthy. Her assessment was so on target that it frightened me a bit. I never shared with her what I am going to share with you now.

In Beth’s and my sophomore year, I had what others would describe as a teenage crush. Unlike many fifteen-year-old teenagers, I had been dating regularly and seriously for three years. It is that way for kids brought up in adult families living on the farm. I felt things for your mom I had never felt before, things I wouldn’t feel again for half a century. She was light and life and beauty and extraordinary. When she walked into the room, my knees literally went weak. I finally got up the courage to ask her out. The Titanic was a midnight cruise compared to the disaster of a young man so overcome with emotion and anxiety that he did everything wrong on that date. Most of my stupidity I have thankfully forgotten. It is the outcome for which I will never forgive myself. Everything I knew about Beth suggested we might have been ideal together. I spent the rest of my life with no choice but being content to compromise. About six months after the Great Debacle, I met my future wife in what turned out to be the ultimate life-defining rebound moment. In the meantime, I continued to pine (I tried to come up with a better word but concluded that “pine” about covers it) for Beth. All my friends knew, but my girlfriend, a senior at a high school in a neighboring town was clueless. Over the next year that girlfriend became my best friend and I decided to share that which should never be shared – my affection for your mom. Our relationship survived my piece of very bad judgment, but only just barely. A dozen years and three kids later, we did not survive that truth or many others. My wife had all my friendship and I hers. What was squandered between the two of us was the passion. A portion of my passion was reserved for the memory of what might have been had I the courage to be the best man I could be for Beth.

And so, my young prophetess had discerned the truth of it. I never thought myself deserving of anyone like your mom. I certainly knew that women existed who can shake one to the very core, but apparently not another for me. I had given up on the thought I would meet a woman like Beth. When I did, older and wiser, I vowed I would be selfless and only care about what is best for her. I would do everything in my power to maintain some relationship, any relationship. That was my failure with Beth. I was too young, arrogant, and starstruck to figure out a path of friendship with her. At fifteen, it is hard to maintain friendships with people you want as lovers. It might be a skill mastered through life’s experiences. I am not sure. I struggle with it every day. The woman I love so deeply makes me as awkward as that boy on his first date with Beth. She makes me cry, sometimes tears of joy, other times not. Those are feelings I would never trade whether young or old.

One more piece of truth: I was amid writing my annual birthday note for that special person and trying to make sense of a commitment I make to her each year. I promise to be there for her no matter the malady. It all sounds so honorable and noble in the abstract, facing a distant, theoretical, low probability event. The stark reality of your mom’s condition provided clarity and focus. If I had made that same commitment to Beth, I would have been by her side that same day. There would have been no box of chocolates, just me. I would have relished even the slightest glimmer of recognition. You see, Beth and my prophetess are joined through space and time by an eternal fiber, a silken thread. For all the ways I failed your mom, I will not repeat that foolishness. It became so easy to recommit and to know I would follow through. I wrote her as much in the birthday note with renewed confidence.

Melissa, there is no moral to this story, no lesson learned, only feeling. When I read the group letter of your mom’s illness, it all came rushing back. I don’t know what words you imagined or if you imagined a response at all. Truth-telling is hard work; therefore, we rarely experience it. That is the gift my prophetess gave me. By striving to convey the unfettered truth, it has become habit. It is generally well-received if delivered respectfully, so I close:

With respect,