Younger Than Springtime
A work acquaintance of mine told me today that her boss used to work with my dad.
I was stunned. Stunned that my colleague didn’t seem to remember that my father died just a few months ago, and stunned that I might work in the same building as someone who knew my father as a colleague.
“Really?” I asked her. “When did they work together?” She said she didn’t know, but that he told her he remembers when I was born.
I was deflated. “I was born in New York,” I told her, and so I doubted it was possible that this man might have known my father. Still, remembering the guy I recently met who grew up in the neighborhood across the Expressway from my family on Long Island, I knew that stranger things could happen.
And so I told my colleague:
“If he happens to mention it to you again, please ask him to come see me.” I would have to tell him that my father died in December.
Not more than 15 minutes later, Ed Munroe approached my office looking as if he were a funeral attendee. His face was pale and his body was doubled over as if he had been punched repeatedly in the stomach. I realized that my acquaintance had done the deed for me.
Looking at his face, I sensed immediately that he had, in fact, known my father. I invited him to have a seat and he said, “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. It’s unbelievable. He was so young.” And while “young” is certainly not a word I would have used to describe my father, I could tell that this man, who could have been about 10 or 15 years younger than Dad, had today come face to face with his own mortality.
“Yes, it was very unexpected,” I could hear myself say as we fought back collective tears.
“Your dad was a really nice guy,” Ed told me. “Always laughing. Really bright. Never had an unkind word to say about anyone.” It wasn’t the first time someone had shared these insights about Dad. A description of Dad that was so alien to me, it continues to bring tears to my eyes that I was never able to see that side of my father.
I asked Ed how he knew my dad, and Ed told me that "he and Myron worked together at the Edwards Cinema in Fountain Valley."
My face froze as I contemplated his words. And then I started to giggle.
Myron.
He worked with Myron.
My. Brother.
I explained to Ed the misunderstanding: he worked with my brother who, I assured him, was very much alive. We both had a great laugh about it and Ed’s face came back to life. He spent a few more minutes hearing an update about my brother and his family, and he was quickly on his way.
I called and emailed my brother, excited to share the hysterical narrative. I was still chuckling about it on my way home from work tonight, and when I recalled Ed’s comment to his employee that he remembers when I was born, my laughter became uncontrollable:
Myron’s daughter Kimberly was born when he worked at the theatre. Ed thought I was Kimberly, my 21-year-old niece!
Not bad for someone who turned 40 on Friday.
I was stunned. Stunned that my colleague didn’t seem to remember that my father died just a few months ago, and stunned that I might work in the same building as someone who knew my father as a colleague.
“Really?” I asked her. “When did they work together?” She said she didn’t know, but that he told her he remembers when I was born.
I was deflated. “I was born in New York,” I told her, and so I doubted it was possible that this man might have known my father. Still, remembering the guy I recently met who grew up in the neighborhood across the Expressway from my family on Long Island, I knew that stranger things could happen.
And so I told my colleague:
“If he happens to mention it to you again, please ask him to come see me.” I would have to tell him that my father died in December.
Not more than 15 minutes later, Ed Munroe approached my office looking as if he were a funeral attendee. His face was pale and his body was doubled over as if he had been punched repeatedly in the stomach. I realized that my acquaintance had done the deed for me.
Looking at his face, I sensed immediately that he had, in fact, known my father. I invited him to have a seat and he said, “I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. It’s unbelievable. He was so young.” And while “young” is certainly not a word I would have used to describe my father, I could tell that this man, who could have been about 10 or 15 years younger than Dad, had today come face to face with his own mortality.
“Yes, it was very unexpected,” I could hear myself say as we fought back collective tears.
“Your dad was a really nice guy,” Ed told me. “Always laughing. Really bright. Never had an unkind word to say about anyone.” It wasn’t the first time someone had shared these insights about Dad. A description of Dad that was so alien to me, it continues to bring tears to my eyes that I was never able to see that side of my father.
I asked Ed how he knew my dad, and Ed told me that "he and Myron worked together at the Edwards Cinema in Fountain Valley."
My face froze as I contemplated his words. And then I started to giggle.
Myron.
He worked with Myron.
My. Brother.
I explained to Ed the misunderstanding: he worked with my brother who, I assured him, was very much alive. We both had a great laugh about it and Ed’s face came back to life. He spent a few more minutes hearing an update about my brother and his family, and he was quickly on his way.
I called and emailed my brother, excited to share the hysterical narrative. I was still chuckling about it on my way home from work tonight, and when I recalled Ed’s comment to his employee that he remembers when I was born, my laughter became uncontrollable:
Myron’s daughter Kimberly was born when he worked at the theatre. Ed thought I was Kimberly, my 21-year-old niece!
Not bad for someone who turned 40 on Friday.