White Glove

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White Glove

When I married my wife, I found myself with a new extended family, a mirror image of my own family in some ways. My wife and I are the same age, although she would say that since I was born in May and she was born in November that I’m a year older than her most of the time. My wife and I both grew up in seven member families. Our siblings were almost the same ages. As I began to visit them all more regularly before our marriage, I found that they were all a lot of fun to be around. In fact, I didn’t even realize that her parents were staunch Republicans until many years later. Of all the people I became acquainted with in her family, the most intriguing to me was Great Aunt Pearl.

Aunt Pearl was a very curious bird. In fact, she sort of looked like one. By the time I was introduced to her, she was in her late seventies with snowy almost blue hair and a hawk’s beak nose. I always thought her dark eyes were piercing me, instantly knowing my character. Hampered by age, she toddled slowly here and there with a cane. Whenever my wife and I would visit her small two story brick 13^th Street Arlington home, we’d head to the living room while Pearl would make us a cup of tea.

I always thought she was such an elegant lady. Sipping tea with us, she’d regale us with story after story of times far gone. Pearl had lived much of her adult life with her sister right there in that very house. Neither she nor her sister had ever married. Unusual for her time, she held down a government job at the Department of Agriculture offices in Washington, DC. She was so proud of that job and her independence.

“I used to love to travel all over the world,” her voice would shakily scratch. “I’ve been all over, but I remember a great adventure I took in 1928. Back then one didn’t just go off around the country or world by oneself as girls do these days. I had decided to take a vacation from work to visit Florida. You certainly could not fly there and traveling by automobile would take far too long. The only real way to travel was to take the train.”

My wife and I listened carefully. We were already sucked in to her tale. Her voice cracked, rising and falling at special moments in her story. Her eyes looked through us to a place far away and a time still very real to her.

“I loved the train. The way it bumped over the tracks and the trees rushing by. Handsome male attendants would offer me food and drinks all day long. Sitting there in my comfortable seat, all I would have to do was raise my white gloved finger and they’d all come running to me. They looked so elegant in their pressed uniforms.”

Aunt Pearl paused, obviously personally visiting that scene with more depth and clarity. Her eyes were twinkling and a smile turned up on the corners of her ruby red lips. She went on for some time describing the individual stops, the towns through which she passed. Through her hawk eyes, I lived on that train with her.

Her story took a surprisingly personal turn when we were snapped out of her painting and in to a new scene.

“Early on the second afternoon, I was sitting in my seat staring out the window when a gentleman stopped by and introduced himself to me. He said his name was Harold Meador, and he was traveling by train on business. Without a doubt, he was the most handsome and polite man I had ever met. He was tall and trim, dressed in a fine suit and tie. He asked if he might join me for a conversation, and of course I motioned for him to sit. Over the next few hours we passed the time talking about anything and everything. Time passed so fast; he was so interesting and thoughtful. Before we knew it, the train had arrived in Florida. He stood to leave, grasped my gloved hand gently in his and wished me well. Then he walked away, and I never saw him again….”

Her voice trailed away, and she sat there frozen for a moment.

Our visits with Aunt Pearl were always like that. She’d make us sit down, bring us the tea and then launch in to a story.

As more years passed, Aunt Pearl found it more and more difficult to get around. It became obvious to my wife’s parents, Pearl’s unofficial caretakers, that she needed someone to live in her home with her. So we weren’t surprised to find on one visit that Pearl had a new live-in helper named Koula. Within moments of meeting her, we knew that Koula was a delightful person and a perfect match for Pearl. She was from Greece and carried a thick accent. While Pearl fancied herself a demure and cultured princess, Koula was a gregarious, unbridled soul. She could also really cook!

Our visits remained much the same after Koula joined Pearl except it was Koula getting us the tea. With a tasty twist, she’d serve it with rich baklava that would just melt in your mouth. After some chit-chat, our attention would settle and the Pearl story would begin.

“I used to love to travel all over the world. I’ve been all over, but I remember a great adventure I took in 1928. Back then one didn’t just go off around the country or world by oneself as girls do these days. I had decided to take a vacation from work to visit Florida. You certainly could not fly there and traveling by automobile would take far too long. The only real way to travel was to take the train....”

We visited Pearl every chance we got whenever we visited my wife’s parents. We’d trek over to 13th Street in Arlington and get our pastry and tea, then sit down and listen to Pearl tell her story.

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As Pearl got closer to the end of her time, the story was always the same. It was always 1928, and she was always riding the train to Florida. She would always meet Harold and her heart would always be broken. However, the last time we visited her, it all went a little differently.

“I used to love to travel all over the world. I’ve been all over, but I remember a great adventure I took in 1928….”

Suddenly Koula jumped in at the top of her lungs-which is how she always talked- “Pear-r-r-l, enough! You tell Tom and Jackie the same story over and over every time they visit. Enough already!”

Pearl would not be sidetracked though and her tale picked right up from the beginning and was told to the very end…

“…He stood to leave, grasped my gloved hand gently in his and wished me well. Then he walked away, and I never saw him again….”

“Honestly Pear-r-r-l, why do you do ‘dis to Tom and Jackie? Dey don’t want to hear ‘dis story no more Pear-r-r-l!

You can learn more about my wife’s family by visiting JacktheSMLaker. This blog, created by my wife’s father last year, is a collection of family memories and squirrel stories.