I know that lady.
And, indeed, I did. Another Sunday. Another opening of a drawer chock full of memories. Being even more redundant, it prompted a memory drawer of...well...three Sundays featuring a memory drawer of another kind.
Confused yet?
Long time readers know the genesis of this weekly feature. I harken back to snoozy Sunday afternoons with my grandmother in her living room. Me lying on her couch. Her sitting in the rocker and telling me stories from the past. Some were about people I knew. Others were about relatives who had been dead for thirty or forty years.
After Grandma died, those Sundays ended. Except, for about three Sundays about fifteen or so years ago. When the memories flowed again. Three thousand miles away from Grandma's rocking chair. Stories from an elderly lady I knew very briefly.
I had only recently moved to Los Angeles. And, in an effort to expand my base of friends, I decided to go back to church. I literally selected a Lutheran church out of the phone book and I have told that tale before. I am still going to that house of worship and I am totally ingrained in its sphere. But, back then, I was the "newbie." And, with my low self esteem totally in play, I was completely self-conscious. Shyness on steroids.
There were two occasions every Sunday where you are forced to be sociable at church. One was at the end of the service where you "shared the peace" with everybody in the congregation. That would then morph into a migration over to the fellowship hall for cake and coffee. Given my issues, the latter was not going to happen. But I could shake a few hands for the former and then disappear into relative silence and obscurity.
The second Sunday I was there, my handshaking was very limited. I pretty much restricted myself to the back pews where I was hiding. I walked over to an older lady who was parked with her walker across the aisle. She seemed harmless enough for me. I said hello.
"What's your name?"
I told her.
"Hello, Glenn. Are you coming in for coffee?"
I didn't bother correcting her on my name. And I told her that I had an appointment so coffee was out.
I then realized that I was going to have to come up with an excuse every week I went to that church. And I did.
I'd go over to this lady, who ultimately told me her name was Florence. We'd have the same exchange every week.
"Hello, Glenn. Are you coming in for coffee?"
And I always had an alibi at the ready.
I'm having my car serviced.
I"m coming down with a cold.
I'm doing something or anything that's a lot safer than me having coffee or cake with a bunch of total strangers.
I knew I was going to run out of excuses at some point. But Florence intervened first. On yet another scary Sunday, I shared my "peace" with her. This time around, she grabbed hold of my arm and squeezed it tightly. I was virtually shackled to the old lady.
"Now, Glenn, I'm not hearing it today. You're coming in for coffee."
I told her that I wasn't going to have coffee till she got my name right.
"Yeah, that's funny, Glenn."
Florence literally did not let go of me until I had moved myself into that fellowship hall.
I learned she was a longtime congregation member and knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. Then she opened her pocketbook which was full of super market coupons.
"You shop at Ralph's? I've got 50 cents off Tide Detergent."
And so it began. I was now fully immersed in this church and I still am to this day. I could worship and be sociable. It turned out to be not so bad. I made lots of wonderful friends. And, as I look back, none of it would have happened if Florence had not dragged me into that coffee hour.
Over the next few years, I found her to be feisty and always good for a laugh. I learned that she did not like our pastor and was not shy in sharing that opinion. I heard from somebody that she had enjoyed some success as an actress but, given this is Hollywood, so has everybody.
One Sunday, I went home and decided to look her up in IMDB.
Holy crap!
The credits scrolled in front of me like the phone book. There was a reference to a Broadway career. I went to the NY theater's version of IMDB.
More credits spilled out.
Holy crap all over again!
At a time when this movie and theater buff got really interested in what Florence was all about, she took ill and stopped coming to church regularly.
A while later, there were some flowers on the altar. Instead of letting them die over the following week, our pastor had a novel suggestion. They should be brought over to Florence. Apparently, she had not received the e-mail regarding Florence's dislike of the minister. The pastor turned to me.
"Can you bring the flowers over to her? You only live around the corner from her."
Sure. And....I do????
Indeed, Florence was within walking distance of my apartment. So, like the dutiful Pro Flowers delivery guy, I mounted the steps of her porch and rang the doorbell.
Inside, I heard the clop, clop, clop, clop of a walker approaching the front door. I seemed to wait for an hour. Finally, Florence opened the portal.
"Hello, Glenn. Are those for me?"
I explained to her that the pastor had asked me to bring them over. Florence waved off the mention of our spiritual leader's name. There was the same hand gesture of disdain that my grandmother had used over and over when she didn't like something.
Florence invited me to sit. I was immediately taken by what was hanging on the walls. Rows and rows and rows of photos. Movie stills and Broadway production photos. I was immediately enraptured. Yes, I had seen her credits on IMDB. But, on these walls, it all came to life. I felt like I had stumbled into the old Brown Derby or Sardi's.
Is that Shirley Booth?
Is that Paul Newman?
Is that you? With James Dean?!!
Yes, to all of that. I was astounded. I asked Florence if she had been this big Broadway star.
"Not a star. A character actress."
She put the inflection on the final three words with pride. She was indeed a character actress.
I spent the next two hours sitting in her parlor. Listening to stories. I didn't have to ask questions. She was supplying me with all the answers already. This was a stellar career. Not one you would likely know about, but a working actor that always managed to have success at her craft.
I didn't want to go home, but ultimately did when it looked like Florence needed a nap. After this excitement, so did I.
I shared the events of this wonderful afternoon with my writing partner, who is ever the skeptic.
"What are you trying to get into her will? Or are you going to be like that guy who married Martha Raye for her money?"
After sharing some more details of Florence's "who's who," he changed his tune.
"Can I come next time?"
There was a next time. A month later, I suggested that the Sunday altar flowers needed another new home. I was headed back for another afternoon of movie and theater memories. I sat. I listened. I took a journey to another place and time.
"You like listening to this stuff, Glenn?"
Yes, please.
She even started to expand her repertoire to include political views. She was strictly conservative and shared with me the words of advice she gave to every young aspiring actress who came to Hollywood.
"Keep your chin up, your skirt down, and always vote Republican."
About a month later, we were in the middle of the Lenten season. There are no decorations on the altar during that six-week period. But I wanted to have another Sunday around the block. So, on my way back from church, I stopped and bought a bouquet to deliver one more time.
"Hi, Glenn. They using a new florist? These are nicer than the last bunch."
I smiled quietly. And sat. And listened. For what would be the last time.
She passed away a few months later and, like most of our congregation, we were invited to the memorial service in the backyard of Florence's house. I looked around. There were so many familiar faces around me. Folks I had seen on TV or in old movies. But I knew none of their names.
They were all...character actors.
There was an urn at the center of the yard. A tacky person went up and removed the lid to peer inside.
"She's not in there."
I smiled. Another theatrical illusion. Or, perhaps, she was going to make her entrance from stage left. A final curtain call.
Glenn was privileged to be there for that.
Dinner last night: Moo shu pork at Hunan Cafe.
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