Where do I go from here?

I have no idea how he does it.  I've tried and tried to follow the conversation and notice the change when it happens, but I never notice.  I know that we go from the description of the comfy white leather seats in the ambulance to the renaming of the music school at his alma mater.  But how we get from one to the other is beyond me.  I actually really concentrate, waiting for the change, ready to say to myself, "There it is.  I just heard it."  Instead, I keep listening and keep concentrating and the next thing you know we've gone from his girlfriend on Martha's Vineyard being mad at him because he didn't do what he said he was going to do which was to take a bike ride, but can you imagine her being upset because he didn't take a bike ride in the rain to the book sale at the church last year and how many boxes he carried up how many stairs how many times.  All of this with such a smooth transition that I can't find it.  And I'm really looking.


His name is Donald Larsons.  I'm only changing one letter in his name to protect the innocent.  I like his name.  And I like the name I just made up for him.  He's lived in the same studio apartment for 27 years.  He's lived there alone.  He's 81. I met him two years ago when I opened my new studio.  He lives next door and he doesn't come in everyday, but he comes in a lot.  He ordered some stationery awhile ago with a french horn on it.  He plays in a couple of bands.  (Orchestras?  Symphonies?)   He passes my door with the big french horn case on his back and sighs and says, "I'm off to rehearsal."   Last week he stopped to tell me that he wasn't sure what he was going to do in the fall.  He said the price to participate was $95.  "Well, that just seems crazy.  I could use that $95 to learn something new," he said.  Wouldn't you love to have the spirit at age 81 that you were wasting your money on something you could already do when there was still a whole world of things out there to learn?  Shouldn't we all be a little more like Donald?  And shouldn't we all start thinking this way before we're 81?


He's never been married.  He's had a couple of lady friends.  I think the one on Martha's Vineyard qualifies as one.  His real lady friend died last year.  She was 93.  She never told him how old she was.  He saw it on the papers when she died.  Her name was Ethel.  Donald and Ethel.  I'm not making this up.  You have no idea how many times (and sometimes how many times in one day) I heard the phrase, "blah, blah, blah with Ethel, you know, (voice lowered a bit) my lady friend."  I cracked up every time.   Sometimes I filled in the blank for him.  When he got to the "You know" part,  I'd say (voice lowered a bit), "Yeah, your lady friend."


So, why have I decided to tell you about Donald?  I guess I'm still not really sure.  I get something from him and maybe I thought you could get something from him, too.  Or, maybe I'm thinking you should go and  find yourself a Donald.  I'll admit.  He drives me crazy sometimes.  But after I think that he's driving me crazy, I always feel guilty and I think back to our conversation and I smile.  Maybe he's teaching me patience.   


When I first came home from Paris and Italy, I avoided the studio a bit.  I've been trying to ease back into it.  Should I close?  Should I turn it into something else?  A little 7 year old friend said, "Well, if you close it, what are you going to do?  Stay home all day?"  Good point, Siloe.  I don't know.  When I asked her for suggestions she said that maybe I should just build something out of Legos.  Maybe.


When I think about closing the studio, I think about Donald.  And the photographer down the street that comes over to chat for hours.  And the teenage boy next door that I saw smoking and told him it wasn't cool.  And the little girls that live around the corner that I heard on the sidewalk just as they were getting close to my door say, "She's back!" with such fascination.   And the couple whose daughter was having major surgery at Children's Memorial that just had to get out for a walk.  They came in and sat down and stayed for an hour.  That was the first and last time I ever saw them.  But I think their little visit made a difference.  For all of us.   And I think of the little girl that saves her money until she has enough to shop and she comes in and buys something.  And the guy that stops by on his way home from work to play my piano.  Or how about the maintenance supervisor that spends much more time than he should standing in my doorway?  He even left a chololate bar in my mail slot to welcome me home. And the older lady that brought me a giant bag full of old cards because she thought maybe I could do something with them.  I did something with them.  I read them.  They were all Get Well cards to her. She had cancer. And I learned something.


Am I like Olivier, the owner of my old neighborhood cafe in Paris?  I don't serve coffee, but my little place is a place for the people to come.  Maybe they come when they feel good.  Maybe they come when they don't feel so good.  But, they all come.  Sometimes I even see them walk up, peek in and keep walking if I'm busy with someone else.  Guess what?  They almost always come back a little later.  If I close up shop, what are they going to do?  Build something out of Legos?  Do they need me as much as I need them?   Where else am I going to find a job with a Donald next door that starts a conversation with, "That bike helmet looks nice on you" and finishes it an hour later with, "I just love those shoes!"   Maybe tomorrow's the day to put the OPEN sign back out on the sidewalk and get back to business.  (which has several definitions in the Random House Webster's College Dictionary.   #2:  the purchase and sale of goods with an attempt to make a profit. (not me)   #3:  a PERSON, partnership or corporation engaged in commerce, manufacturing or a SERVICE.  (me) )  That's it.  I'm a person with a service.  Even if the service is nothing more than just being there.