Flora

A woman of valor, who can find? For her price is above rubies. Strength and dignity are her clothing; And she laughs at the time to come. Extol her for the fruit of her hand; And let her works praise her in the gates. from Proverbs 31. There was no hint of her troubled past when I met her. I was entering my 6th grade Sunday school classroom as she was greeting some of her 5th graders next door. She smiled at me as we both began a new teaching year at Temple Sinai in Atlanta. Less than five feet tall with wavy, shining blond hair, brown eyes under lighter brown eyebrows, thin lips, and a svelte figure, she was lovely. There were many friendly looks between us that year. Our classrooms were only moveable partitions with white-board on one side and thumb-tack able fabric on the other, about six feet high, grouped into rectangles. There was only some ten feet of distance between our teaching spaces. We had to keep our students relatively quiet or the noise level would disrupt the other’s class. We managed, often sharing some teaching techniques, mostly games, to keep our students interested and enthused, but not too loud. Other teachers told us that year that every time they came by our area it was the quietest part of the synagogue’s education wing. The next year she did not return to teach. I asked about her and learned she was very ill with cancer, was undergoing treatment in California, and hopefully would return soon. She didn’t. At the end of the year, I resigned from teaching Sunday School because my regular job had begun to require too much of my time. The following year, I learned she had recovered and was back at Temple Sinai, this time teaching 6th graders, the class level opening created by my departure. I felt good about that. I was a member of Temple Sinai but she was not. She only came on Sundays to teach. I didn’t see her again until one evening nearly 10 years later. I had been a member of the choir for many years and suddenly she appeared sitting right in front of me in the alto section at a rehearsal. We exchanged friendly looks. She said she found out she didn’t have to be a member of the synagogue to join the choir. So here she was. It was that simple. But it wasn’t. When she showed up that evening she had learned of the dissolution of my marriage and that I was living alone. She told me months later that when she learned of my divorce she decided to see if she could join the choir so that she would be in a position for me to notice her. I definitely noticed her but I was still going through disorientating mood swings and depression after my failed 21year marriage. For over two years, I’d fallen into a pattern of carousing nearly every night, drinking too much, and haphazardly struggling to reenter the dating circuit. Only at the end of the summer’s rehearsal schedule, at a party to commemorate that event, in the basement of the home of a choir member, did I feel sufficiently confident to approach her. She had arrived a little late and was helping herself to the buffet. Sitting with one of my fellow tenors, I motioned, “Come sit with us.” She did. All I could think to say after she settled at our table was, “How long have you been single?” Realizing how crass I sounded I added what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “14 years,” she said, with a blank face. “Tell me about your divorce, “I said, modulating my voice to a softer tone. “I had a difficult time. Did you?” Her face took on a solemn expression. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Why not?” I said. “Because I get too upset when I think about my ex and bad words come out of my mouth.” “Really, after all this time?” “Yes.” “You should be over it after 14 years.” I’m an idiot, I thought. What a dumb, tactless thing to say. You’ve offended her. But, she ignored my barb and changed the subject to how nice the house was and what a spacious basement room they had for the party. I asked her if she was dating anyone. “Not really.” She smiled. I called her the next week and asked if she played bridge. When she said yes, I invited her to play at my condo with my brother and his wife that coming Saturday evening. She said o.k. That night was wonderful. We couldn’t lose a hand. She got so excited she slipped off her shoes and pushed her toes under my pants leg, playing footsy under the table. At the end of the evening, after two or three winning rubbers, I walked my guests out to their car. Lois surprised me by coming back in with me after my brother drove off and, without saying a word, began helping me clean up. Being with her, working together like that, suddenly seemed natural, as if we had done it many times before. When we finished I escorted her out to her car and asked if I could give her a hug. “Oh, I like hugs,” she said. I wanted to kiss her, but it was only our first date and I didn’t want to scare her away or do anything that might discourage her from seeing me again. She was on my mind every day from that first date on. Nothing I thought of for our second date seemed right, but I asked her to a movie and she agreed. By our third date, I felt secure enough to call her and tell her I just wanted to be with her. “I feel the same way,” she said. We went to the Galleria mall, looked in the store windows, held hands and talked. “What took you so long to ask me out? I had just about given up,” she said. I mumbled something like “I don’t know. I’m not too smart.” She smiled knowingly, and squeezed my hand. I had to go to California the next week on a business trip. I was in the advertising business and trips to make business presentations and entertain prospects were a regular routine. This trip involved golf, one of my favorite things to do. When I returned, I called her. She said she was disappointed that I hadn’t called her on Saturday night while I was in Indian Wells. I was impressed that she was thinking of me enough to want me to call. I said I’d thought of calling her that night but I’d gotten into my hotel room late after a dinner I had to attend and I thought it was too late to call. She said she was up and reminded me of the three-hour time difference. I said I should have thought of that, knowing that it was a lie and a lame excuse. What really happened was I’d had too much to drink and had collapsed on the bed as soon as I got into my room. She invited me to her place for dinner. She lived in a two story townhouse condominium much like mine, but hers was near the Chattahoochee river where she often walked, stopping sometimes to feed the Canadian geese that frequented its banks. Some of her furniture obviously was not originally purchased for her townhouse. The Steinway baby grand in her living room, the huge chandelier chain-swagged above it, and the 93 inch long sofa in her den must have come from a larger place. She also had a beautiful seven-foot long brass baker’s rack that took up the entire wall in the breakfast nook off her kitchen. Over dinner she told me that nearly all the furniture came from a nice house she had once lived in near the Dunwoody Country Club with her ex. She’d had to sell it at a big loss because he’d claimed bankruptcy and she needed income quickly. Gradually, that night and in subsequent conversations, I learned her story.