Leetle luff stories

I'm at a ladies' lunch to wish one of our fellow swimmers farewell as she moves away to her retirement home. Except for one of the people who works at the pool, I'm the youngest person there by far. Our hostess, a young sprig herself, is about ten years older than I, and the others are as old as, or somewhat older than, my mother.

I know some of the ladies fairly well and like them a lot. They're funny and adventurous, and I've enjoyed our breakfasts and lunches over the years. There are other ladies I know by sight and name, but with whom I haven't spent much time.

Our hostess has gone to town, making salads, laying out some of her best china, and setting a beautiful table. She seems calm and collected. She tells a few of us that she returned the previous day from Michigan, where she was visiting her mother and step-father. Her mother has just been diagnosed with cancer and has perhaps a few weeks left. She knows the ropes (she used to work in cancer management) and sounds comfortable talking about it, but still, it's her mother, and it's hard to think about losing her. I think her mind is spinning.

We're all sitting in the family room next to the kitchen, and we assemble and reassemble into smaller groups and are having delightful conversations.

Around dessert time, the hostess asks a few of us "Can anyone recommend a light, easy book? My mother would enjoy having some new books to read." I recommend two series by Alexander McCall Smith -- short stories, funny as all get out, and each self-contained enough that you don't have to read the entire book. Those sound satisfactory, and I'm about to turn back to my conversation, when I become aware that L is sitting next to me.

L is, as my friend Mark would say, "Rode hard and put away wet." The inside of her mouth looks like it was designed by Frank Gehry. She has bags under her eyes that are not grey but purple. She's tall, but very lean. And she has straight white hair that looks like it obeys no master, regardless of efforts to tame it.

In her thick German accent, L says that she is a political junkie. She is absolutely addicted to learning about what's happening in the world today. She occasionally reads a book, but only if it dissects a political era or event. She came to this country because she was tired of war and in search of peace. But this is not a peace-loving country, despite what our leaders say. We have been at war ever since she got here. Her staccato delivery makes her sound like she's spitting in anger as she speaks.

She started out in East Germany, and somehow got out to the West. She sold her own blood to survive. She couldn't visit Berlin because she could not even travel through East Germany. She somehow met her husband and told him that she didn't want children. She had three, and not to brag, but she's very proud of all of them, or at least of their accomplishments.

On the day that she brought her first child home, she was exhausted and lying in bed when her husband came in to tell her that President Kennedy was shot. She used to admire him a lot, but now that more is coming out about him, she's disappointed in him.

She goes on for a while, basically telling me without using these words that her heart was broken early and has stayed that way for the rest of her life. She hates popular culture, and doesn't see movies. In fact, it sounds like she does very little that's enjoyable, ever. I am reeling from hearing all this information, feeling some sort of compassion mixed with horror. I will admit, though, that despite a calm outward appearance, a very small part of me is contemplating slitting my wrists just to get away. And now that she's really worked herself up into a lather, she says "So that is why I cannot enjoy your leetle luff stories."

So that's what this is all about. I feel like I've been slapped. I'm confused, too. If I read funny books to help heal my own broken heart, how does that hurt her? She reminds me of a magpie, swooping in and stealing tiny amounts of joy wherever it sparkles.

I suddenly remember that our hostess recently had a knee replaced and that there are some heavy dishes needing to be brought back into the kitchen. I excuse myself and clear off most of the buffet table, and then bring all the dirty dishes over to the sink. The hostess works alongside me putting food away and she and I chat a bit. It is good to spend time with her.

And as I am leaving and saying goodbye to my friend J, I hiss that if she *ever* sees L near me again, she has to promise to rescue me. I will remind her, too, should the occasion ever arise again.