I read in the obits two weeks ago of the passing of a girl I knew. It seemed to me she was part of a snapshot of my youth.
There were three girls who lived behind their stores, each adjacent to the other. The fathers’ stores reflected a range of professions: one a pharmacist, the other an upholsterer, and my father, the hi fi guru. People from all over the city came to ask him the really tough tough questions regarding electronics, the next wave of music or particularly to probe the depth of my father’s intellect. Whether Bay Bloor or Clairtone, their head hanchos would make their way to our store on Eglinton. But this tale is not about my father, but the girls who lived on either side of our shop, Tele Sound.
In each of the girls’ families, there were two children, perhaps in accordance with the times and the parents of boomers who having survived the fear of an atomic bomb anticipated better secure days for their families cautiously hoping for safer futures. All were hard working, my mother and the upholsterer’s wife supporting their husbands while. working with customers in their stores. They were intense dedicated women with tall and handsome husbands.
The upholster and pharmacist had each, an older child a son and their daughter who were, closer to my age and these girls played together in the lane behind our stores.
Three is not a comfortable number, “ a crowd, “ some would say, so my relationship, particularly with H., the pharmacist’s daughter was more of convenience. Living at the very edge of the borough, We walked to school together, and she, of course, had access to great amounts of chocolate bars and comic books sold in her father’s store so with the after school anticipation of candy and reading material just next store, I posed as her friend. Because we lived behind our stores, we were not considered equal to the rich girls who went to posh summer camps or lounged at the pools at their country clubs so we tended to hang together in solidarity.
The daughter of the upholster was a year ahead of us and at school moved in another circle, but after school or early evening when kids played till dusk fell, she and H. could be found bouncing balls, skipping or darkly chatting in the lane. Often I would observe them from my pink bedroom that overlooked the lane, forced to bed early, sometimes before the stars were out twinkling.
Interestingly all three of us became teachers. H ‘s parents being the most traditional felt pharmacy was the right path for their son. So he unwillingly pursued that path- at least until his future wife motivated him to follow his heart into medicine, where he flourished as a cancer doctor. My parents encouraged my brilliant sister into medicine . My friend’ss parents were intent that rather than following her dream of going to university, that she marry young. Someone’s cousin from the States arrived to fill the bill-although I recall H, days before her marriage grieving he was not “ the one”, but the die had been cast and she felt she had no choice but to marry, barely over 21 years of age. I was off traveling the summer she asked would I be a bridesmaid. With no remorse or particular affection, I packed up my bags and headed off for California.
Back in the 60’s, one might take a year to attend Teachers’ College and viola, you were pronounced ready to teach in an elementary classroom. Poor H, not an exemplary student, pined for higher learning. But a mere female and a gentle compliant soul went along with her parents’ plan..
In the upholsterer’s home,, both daughter and son did go to university, both thriving, although the son veered from his love of athletics to buy a day camp. The daughter became a history teacher, married ,had children and grandchildren. I never saw her again.
I was unsure what path I would follow. Although I had a passion for art. I was never really sufficiently talented to follow that route and my parents had their eyes set on university for me to widen my horizons. I thought I might be a social worker, but took the path of least resistance and also became a teacher. As my interest in art persisted I completed a Masters in Art History. Thinking I might make changes to the educational system if I possessed more degrees, I wrote a doctoral thesis that combined both art and education, believing as I still do: that the visual marries well with all studies, providing a tantalizing perspective to studies that may be dry or heavily pedantic. I married, had three kids and grandkids.
Some time ago through my mother, I heard H and her husband had split up and she had returned to Toronto, to find a way to study teaching at university. We met briefly, and I noted she had gained a great deal of weight, her face looking lost in her body. And years later, my mother received a distraught call from her. Eventually I hear snippets of hormonal imbalance and emotional issues and prolonged stays in mental health facilities. I never saw her again, but I assume she lives- and hopefully well. At heart, she was a good and kind person with lofty aspirations.
From what I surmise , both the upholsterer’s daughter and I have had lead successful lives.
Brought up in a good area by a mother and a father, we fulfilled our roles in society. We went to school, were involved in a helping profession and added to the gene pool. We were typical role models perhaps for our generation. Interestingly, we all considered and engaged in teaching the profession, perhaps unsophisticated enough to veer towards others. We did not live with our spouses before marriage and all were married in a synagogue, although none of us did more than attend high holiday services. As our parents, we were all hard workers, not slackers although the gossip regarding H entwined her with a need for money to subsist as her desire to end the marriage did not provide her with alimony.
Reading the obituary of the upholsterer’s daughter caught me off guard. A small paragraph reduces a life to a handful of sentences that outline 70 or a bit more years.Truly I barely knew those facts , except for my memories that she often was reading, had dark hair and what I considered “airs” back when I was a girl growing up behind a store.
It shook me that people of my generation, ones who had lived closed by, were dying although there had a few surprises earlier – like my first real male friend in high school, Billy Novak , a talented , writer who had gone to New York -along with the names of one or two other classmates. But these moments of epiphany appearing trite ( everyone dies, of course) call into focus the days of our youth, our similarities and our differences, our luck or misfortunes, with those with whom we have shared experiences. They reveal our ordinariness, our conformity ( more perhaps in the post war days), our trajectories, our accomplishments that a demographic alludes to. They are not bad, not good. They just are. That middle class girls of a specific time and place did what unexceptional girls of the time did. In the end, it is the measure of happiness and contentment and even security that speaks to a life fulfilled or not: facts known only to an inner circle of family or friends who truly knew the deceased.
I cannot say about poor H, whether her life was finally acceptable and pleasing to her. In contrast the sketchy details of he upholsterer’s girl suggests- at least outwardly, that she was. And for me, I too, have few complaints.
Some of us are fortunate to ride the ashes of our parents’ exhausting work, to know the unflinching love of the people who raised and cared for us, dreaming a better world for their offspring. But as a parent and grandparent myself these days, I’ve learned not all of our desires are compatible with our children’s, and there are uncontrollable events that can hinder the course. Our lives, our pursuits, our dearest relationships are fragile, gossamer, at the whim of chance and fortune. Here today and whisked away tomorrow. Rest in peace Faygie. I hope your life was sweet, full of happiness, and rewards…