Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Life Lessons, via the Post


Sure, I could have used the drive-thru. Easy access. Drive through, drop it off, move on with life. But the gold Volvo couldn't be ignored. And, I just needed to see her. I squeezed my car in between two yellow lines and walked in.

* * *

As I look back, I'm amazed at the times she's magically appeared in my life. Like she knows. Lots of us say she does - that she just knows. It's the end of The End (I'm sure of it) and, on cue, it's a phone call to Mom that I just happened to answer; a run-in at Top Stop, or she's across the lawn at Jim's submitting her taxes. Everything that is thick and cloudy; all the haze and confusion of life, is at once unmistakably translucent. Evident. Undisguised. Solved. And with but a few words. Words. After all, she is the Queen of them.

Perhaps these short sentence-life's-lessons came about in the interest of time. Because anyone and everyone seemed to be calling to her. They needed help. And, even if they didn't know they needed help, they needed help, according to her calculations, and I wouldn't mess with her calculations. Once, she knew I had a crush on a boy even before I knew I had a crush on a boy. "Oh, don't think I haven't seen those glances across the room!" (in that great inflection of hers - so signature: when she's out of breath, but she keeps reading, managing an inhale and half a sentence all at once). A finger shake, and the evil-eye: She raises her eye-brows, squints at you and hunches over the podium. I gasped, feeling oh so wrongly accused. Then, realizing I wasn't so innocent, I gave her that look - the look she's watched curl across droves of faces - in a "but-how'd-you-do-it?!" fashion, leaving all to wonder where her eyes-into-the-soul- spectacles are stashed in that silvery hair).

* * *

Just as my envelopes slipped into the outgoing mail slot, she slipped out of line, the postman finishing her order and calling, "Next!" at the five-o'clock rush queue. She gave me her usual salutation and a big hug. I confessed that I'd side-stepped the drive-thru hoping for a happy accident. Silly me, in all her queen-like clairvoyance, she already knew. We had all of a few minutes of a conversation as she tucked her always-sandled feet into her Volvo. I got in my car, drove passed the row of blue mailboxes, and followed her down the hill. Refreshed. Replenished. Ready for It.

Seeing her is like seeing a best friend, a fortune teller, the most royal of subjects, just the cynic you need at five pm on a Monday, a wise philosopher on all things Life, your teacher, your mentor, your kindred spirit, your biggest fan...your very own Suzan, all to yourself at the post office, on a Monday.

6 comments:

lbb said...

Martha:
I knew as soon as you said "gold volvo" who you were talking about! We are soul sistahs because I feel exactly the same about SL. I, too go out of my way to see her b/c she is a breath of fresh air! Love the sandals, the eyebrows, the podium, etc. She has influenced me more than most.
I hope you share this post w/ her! It would make her day!
Take care, Liz B.

M said...

Liz,
Suzan is Mother Hen to so many of us, isn't she? I love that woman! There aren't words to express how much I owe the woman who taught me to love words in the first place!

M said...

p.s.
Some favorite phrases:
"Well shut my face!"
"My hen."
"My night." (Reminds me of the way Nate says, "Goodnight" as a response to something shocking or unbelievable)
"Get over here. I've missed your FACE!"
"Come here you cute thing!"
"My gadfrey!"
(not to mention all her trademark cynical phrases!)

E, (or others)
Can you think of any others?

E. said...

You know, A and I actually took to keeping a composition book full of Lake witticisms, though I can't remember any one of the classics at the moment. "My gadfrey" is an absolute favorite, as is her intonation simply when saying "seriously?"

Oh, Suzan Lake! She should be written into everybody's history.

Ali said...

She's like coming home. She either brings me to tears or smiles --- both out of sheer joy. She truly is that Mother Hen, isn't she, M?

M said...

Yes, A. I think she brought me to tears of shame at least once, though. But I love her for it!