The Window

Memories Are Made of This The Bunnies Want To Stay

The Window

I went to an estate sale on Saturday and acquired some

items that mean the world to me. No one knows why. Here’s why.

A few years ago, the woman who gave birth to me had a stroke that

changed her personality so drastically that I found myself an

orphan in mid-life. She had always been a difficult person, and I

had labored for my whole life to have a place in hers. I had

acquired all the academic bells and whistles, had become a

respected professional, and had done a sometimes heroic job of

raising three children as a single mother. But nothing I ever did

impressed her or was enough for her; and in the end she showed me

the door because I was, in her terms, a poor specimen of a human

being.

She survived the stroke; but our relationship did not. And

that is enough said about that. I found great freedom in accepting

my situation and moving on with my life. She wanted me gone; I gave

her what she wanted. For the first time, there was no voice whining

in my ear that I wasn’t good enough.

A few months later, a story on Good Morning American snagged my attention.

A lovely young woman in her mid-thirties, also cast out by her birth family without

justification, had actually put herself up for adoption. And she

had found a lovely second family. I considered the ad I would have

written. “Lovely little family of four, all outstanding over

achievers, seeks parents and grandparents. Looking only for love

and companionship, holiday celebrations, loving phone calls.”

It was only a fantasy, of course. But fantasy has often gotten me

through some of the harder places in life.

Perhaps the central difference in my birth mother and myself is the ability

to nurture. I’m not quite sure how an Earth Mother like me sprang from an Ice

accept her as she is.

Queen, but I did. I don’t fault her for what she didn’t have. I

But as a born nurturer, I have to have someone or some thing to take care of.

Of course there were my children when they were little. And even now they

are adults, I can still give them some nurturing, although not as much.

But now they are on their own, my days are bracketed by the need

to care for my two Golden Retrievers, Melody and Rhythm. Every morning

and every afternoon, I feed them and walk them to the enchanting

little pond that some of the condos in our development back

up to. And this routine was especially comforting in the days

when I was still hurting from my mother’s ultimatum and

wishing I could advertise us for adoption.

The path to the pond winds through a grove of lacy

eucalyptus trees, past a condo in our development with a greenhouse

window facing the path. Now all these units are rather old. They

were built in 1978 when greenhouse windows were quite the “in”

thing. As Melody and Rhythm and I passed by day after day, month

after month, I noticed that this particular window’s display

changed with each month and often featured ducks, a tribute to the

mallards that inhabit the pond. At Christmas, the window had

caroling ducks in tiny Dickens outfits holding tiny song books. At

Easter, there were ducks and bunnies and pastel eggs. For July,

teddies dressed in red white and blue and lots of those .99 cent

flags. At Thanksgiving the window held a blend of pilgrims, ducks,

and autumn leaves. Then Christmas and the web-footed carolers would

come round again. In between, the window defaulted to a display of

tiny lighthouses, rustic bears, bald eagles with spread wings, and

a pair of tin lanterns. And now and than a new trinket appeared.

The person responsible for this fascinating whimsy was a tall,

thin, grey haired woman, well over eighty. Just about the age of my

former mother. She lived alone, dressed elegantly in expensive

subdued slacks and blouses, and always wore pearls. There were skis

in the garage and a set of golf clubs. In those days, she still

drove. Her regular routine was a trip to the grocery store around

four o’clock each day to decide what to cook herself for dinner.

She first noticed me because she loved my beautiful Goldens, and we

often passed by just as she was beginning or ending this daily food

shop. She’d wave when she saw us and would smile and say something

sweet to Melody and Rhythm.

I learned that her name was Lenore. I caught glimpses of her mahogany Windsor

chairs in her dining room as I passed each day. I saw the tiny beautiful

antique table in the perfect spot in the hall, the tiny spoon

rack above her miniature sideboard, and the glass-fronted

curio cabinets in the living room. I guessed she was a collector,

and that she was not from California. Her condo was an exquisite

blend of Williamsburg-style furniture that few people in

California are drawn to. But I, of course, loved it.

She was just the sort of mother I would have chosen.

Her monthly displays inspired me to decorate my own front

entrance each month. I didn’t have a greenhouse window, so I made a

front door wreath for each month and hung appropriate wooden signs

and ornaments on the tree by the door. Even the grumpy Homeowners

Association wrote me a letter complimenting my charming entrance.

Little did they know it was all because of Lenore and her

greenhouse window.

Lenore seemed to draw people to her. Most afternoons when the weather

was nice she would put off the store trip, and she would sit at the table

on her patio with several of the ladies who lived in the condos. They

would sip white wine from thin-stemmed crystal glasses and chat.

Their ritual included feeding the ducks who would come up to

her patio, flapping their wings if Lenore was late throwing

out their food. Often, Melody and Rhythm and I would be

walking by about this time, and Leonore and her friends

would wave as they threw food to the ducks.

Then, a couple of years ago, Lenore had a stroke. A widow from Connecticut,

she had moved to San Diego when her husband died to be close to her

children living here. So she had plenty of support from children

and grandchildren. She recovered enough to go on living in her

lovely condo with a live-in care giver; and even though she no

longer drove, she steadfastly maintained her old routine. Store in

the afternoon. Friends and duck feeding on the patio. Waving at me

and the retrievers. Church on Sunday. Always beautifully dressed

with pearls, but now she used her ski poles for support instead of

a cane. And the window changed each month just as before.

I came to count on that window. Her creative additions were mini surprises in

my day. Sometimes a new duck. Sometimes a single flower in a vase.

She was obviously a woman of great charm and creativity. Then, this

October, a month after she turned ninety, she died. I didn’t know

for a long time because nothing changed at the condo. There was

even a Christmas tree at Christmas. And the window displays went on

as before.But in early January, I began to see lots of picture

frames in the trash and a woman in the garage going through albums.

Eventually, I learned that these were her children deciding what to

keep and what to let go of.

I was profoundly sad, but her daughter staying at the condo kept

up the old ways. Window decorated. Afternoons with the ladies and

white wine on the patio. Ducks fed. I half hoped Leonore wasn’t really

gone but was on a long visit and coming back. Silly fantasy.

But the day I saw the blue glass vases were no longer in the window

in her bedroom, the truth became very real to me. She and I had loved blue glass vases.

This Saturday, I was one of the first to arrive at the estate sale. I knew exactly

what I wanted. And there they were, still in the greenhouse window,

with tiny price stickers on each one. I don’t know where the

caroling ducks went, or the bunnies or the patriotic teddies, but I

bought the default bears and lighthouses and lanterns. And a tiny

little Limoges heart box to remember her by.

Lenore didn’t really adopt me. But it was a fantasy that got me

through a sad time in my life. I don’t have a greenhouse window,

but I rushed happily home from the sale and arranged my treasures on

shelves in the guest room. And I go in often to stand

in front of them and smile. They mean the world to me.

And something else came from the estate sale, too.

I met Lenore’s son and his wife, and I got to tell them how

much Leonore inspired me. Yesterday I was out walking the

retrievers at the usual time, and they were leaving after closing

up her house for the last time. They made a point of waving to me

just as she would have done.

So prayers are answered. A part of my own family reconnected with me

after my wish went out to the Universe to belong. And now I will always

be able to look at Leonore’s little treasures and remember how

much she inspired and cheered me during a sad time in my life.

The ducks, too, are being looked after. One of her friends comes

by each afternoon about four to feed them as Melody and Rhythm and I go by on our walk.

[captionid="attachment_474" align="aligncenter" width="500"]

Lenore’s patio just as she left it[/caption]