Every Face is a Story

Thirty years ago, after a life in various suburban towns, we moved to a town/city bordering Boston. Everything about the city was an adventure - the opportunities, the museums, the universities and most amazing, the T, the subway into the city proper. I was amazed at everything, but mostly the diversity and density of the population - something small towns can’t touch.

“Every face is a story!” I’d exclaim to my youngest daughter, every time we rode the T. She would nod, but I could feel the roll of her eyeballs lurking.

We joke about that now, all of us happy in our own little city/town/village of choice. The city is in the rearview mirror, but the notion of story has never left me. I live now in a lovely little town/city brimming with stories. Every person I see on the sidewalk, in our little movie theater, the hardware store, or in our second home, the grocery store - every person is a walking storybook. (for backstory on the grocery store, I invite you to read a previous post - I Don’t Go To Church, I Go To Market Basket).

I’m starting to resemble the old person in the Progressive ads, the ones where Dr. Rick is trying to teach 40-somethings how not to act like their parents. I enjoy making a quick connection with people as Bill and I walk through town. Bill is a very patient man, also quite shy, so I like to think he’s enjoying these encounters vicariously.

We meet newborns who stare you down in the most glorious way, not yet having been taught that you’re not supposed to stare. Babies, glowing with innocence and holiness, are the unassailable proof of the divine. But it doesn’t stop there. We are all part of the universal company of souls - all weaving our stories here on earth - some in ways strain the connection to a kindness of spirit, but I steer clear of that. I’m no psychotherapist.

I have a growing folder of stories.

SCENE I

On this particular day, Market Basket is hellish - jammed - long lines snaking their way towards The Promised Land. I nod to the cashier and, as I unload my stuff onto the conveyer belt, I ask the very large behind me in line:

ME: Do you think we’ll have to grocery shop in Heaven? (The cashier joins in. She’s a genius, able to scan and talk at the same time! ) CASHIER: No! We won’t have to eat in Heaven. LARGE MAN: …no eating in Heaven? CASHIER: There’ll be plenty of Manna.

SCENE II

On a different day, Dennis is bagging the groceries. A sweet guy, says he was going bonkers at home after he retired, eating potato chips, sitting on the couch. His wife finally said, “Why don’t you go work at Market Basket?” And so he did. Twelve hours a week. He likes it. “Gotta keep moving, but I’m exhausted when I get home!”

In subsequent conversations with Dennis, I find out he is Greek, so of course, I haul out the few expressions I remember from my crash course before our trip to Athens and Paros - kaliméra (good morning), kalispéra (good evening) and of course, the requisite efcharistó (thank you). I sometimes throw in pou einai i toualéta if I want to impress. It means where is the toilet?

I was very touched one day when Dennis said, “You know what you are? A kukkla - someone dear on the inside and out”, he says motioning with his hand on his heart. A few weeks later, I ask him for the equivalent in a man. Lavinda, I think he said. I’ll have to check back with him the next time I’m in his checkout line.

“the only good thing…is that when I get lofty enough I’ve stopped thinking and that’s when refreshment arrives.” Frank O’Hara

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