My Aunt Eve.
More summer tales: My first Coca-Cola.
In the fifties, my salad-and-vegetable-conscious Mother was rightfully proud of what she put on the table, and of course I’m grateful for that. Not only did I learn to use my knife and fork correctly, and to keep my elbows off the table and my napkin on my lap, but to prefer choosing whole wheat bread at the school lunch counter, and to make healthy choices for beverages. Mom made wonderful cookies, loaves, frosted layer cakes for our birthdays, fruit pies, and puddings, but before dessert we were taught from youth to eat a balanced meal, at regular hours. And seated at a table.
But then it happened, the dam had to burst at one moment or another. I was still just a kid, probably 8 or 9 years old, the screen doors and windows were all wide open and it was high noon by the clock over the kitchen sink at Eve’s house on a glorious summer day, after a morning of playing outdoors.
We kids were seated noisily around the mid-century modern table, with its chrome legs, in wooden high backed spindle chairs that were painted bright red to match the table. Eve was making lunch for the raft of us, me and my cousins, because I was staying over for a few nights while my folks took a trip up north to the mountains.
I sometimes wonder who else can actually remember the exact moment when they tasted a Coca-Cola for the first time? I mean, the exact moment of discovering a whole new sensation that is so refreshingly ice cold, with its tiny bubbles and effervescence magically frothing across your warm lips – especially when savored straight from the neck of a vintage glass bottle covered with sensuous droplets of condensation – and served right out of the ice box? The richly dense caramel taste complimented the buttery grilled-cheese sandwich in ways I could not have imagined at that age. In fact, this grilled cheese sandwich had a slice of ham in it, a savory combination from which I had been shielded and deprived! I think I was overwhelmed. No, I was side-swiped.
My cousins, both younger than me, didn’t get it, they couldn’t possibly understand the glimpse of a new world that had just occurred for me: Coke for them was practically their mother’s milk. Eve just smiled and put both of her elbows on the table. Soon she was at work cutting us large hunks from a Pepperidge Farms coconut layer cake for our dessert, then lit up another Phillip Morris cigarette, inhaling with pleasure and casually blowing out the smoke with consummate art. My poor mother’s efforts had all been foiled.
Eve had a great soul, even though she strictly avoided all churches. She worked hard at her job, and was reliable in all possible ways. At crucial times she was there for me. In 1977, I was summoned back from Berlin when my Dad’s health was taking a serious turn for the worse. When I got to Boston I called from a pay phone at the airport to check how things were going, to announce I’d be there in just a few hours, and it was Eve who picked up the phone at my Mother’s house. I asked how Dad was, and I’ll never forget the warmth and simplicity of her tone with which she said to me, after a moment of silence, “Well, Greg, he died last night.” Just so matter-of-fact, so real, yet so compassionate.
A few years later, again it was in the summer, I came back from Paris with a demo cassette tape for a new CBS release, where I sang the big aria ‘Nel mondo e nel’abisso’ from ‘Tamerlano.’ I hadn’t heard it yet myself, and suddenly Eve had the idea to put the cassette in their new car’s audio player, which was parked just outside. So good old Uncle Leo proudly drove us around Pavilion in his brand new red Ford LTD Crown Victoria sedan with red leather seats, and with all the chrome options, as the other-worldly Baroque sound of secco recitatives and a full da capo aria, while exotic early oboes, plaintive bassoons and gut string violins accompanied my voice to the invigorating, uplifting tune. It was glorious. Leo, more an adept of marching bands and the local drum and bugle corps, was stunned, and barely drew on his cigar; we were, each of us, silently contemplative of Handel’s genius, booming from the advanced multi-speaker system. Afterwards when Eve told me it was really good, this was a moment that made me feel more humble – more down to earth – perhaps than I had ever felt before.
And finally, Eve was there for the local recital I gave in Batavia, back in August 1997. It was after Leo was gone. Not only she showed up but was seated right in the second pew of the church, beaming. Her health was bad, she had trouble breathing, but she was beaming. So many people signed the guest book that night, so many folks made a point to pay their compliments, but what is most outstanding to me is the moment when Eve came up to me just after the applause of the last encore had dimmed. Just as in a silent newsreel, played in slow motion, time and all noise seem to have stopped, frozen. I recall her slow steps and then how with both of her tremendous arms outstretched, she put them around me with a bear hug and gave me a big, wet smooch just like when I was a kid. It had nothing in the world to do with how I had performed that night, nor my fancy suit. That unconditional love said it all, and that was the last time I saw her.
I remember in the old days, how with her great truculence she used to tap the ashes from her cigarette and say loudly “Geez, if I ever get old and loose it, I hope they just take me out in back and shoot me!” I loved the style, the grand manner. In those days, absolutely no one had a gun, it was all just for fun. In fact, she endured a lot of suffering before she left us.
Eve, I still smile when I think of you, even though I hardly ever drink a Coke these days. And believe me, you are sorely missed.