As the Spirit Moves Me
By Pam Burns-Clair

Being Love…or Being Right

April 16, 2006

It is a drippy grey Easter morning.  Not a springy egg hunt sunrise service sort of Easter morning.  Sometimes we have to stretch with our hearts to find the spring, the sun, the glory, the colors.  Where last year our family had the good fortune to spend Easter together, all 4 of us, brunching beachside in the balmy open air in Puerta Vallarta donning sundresses and Hawaiian shirt, this Easter Bob is off sailing with his buddy (whose new boat had to be moved from FL to NY before hurricane season hit) on the opposite coast, and Chelsea’s college spring break didn’t coincide with Easter.  Haley is recovering from the flu.  But friends are coming for brunch and we’ll do an indoor egg hunt for the teens.  We’ll find our way to celebrate and bring love to the table.

Last weekend I visited Chelsea in San Diego, and we attended a delightful Italian cooking class at her Italian teacher’s house.  It was a charming Tuscan style home, and I was thrilled to enjoy sitting out on her patio in the sunshine accompanied by a chorus of wind chimes from the steady breeze, in contrast to all our rain and grey skies up here.  The lunch involved many courses, which the 14 or so students plus me had prepared around a modest, rather cramped kitchen under the teacher’s direction.  It made it more real that way—hardly Martha Stewart.  As we did our kitchen prep, the 92 year old Italian mama who only spoke Italian prepared the string beans in the living room.  When we were getting close to time to serve, the husband seated mama, who had to shuffle with her walker from the front of the house to the back, at her special place among us.  I learned mama had dementia after I had offered her, seated at her spot, an appetizer from a tray—I didn’t know if she spoke English or not, but to make sure she understood I was offering her some, I gestured the tray towards her.  She responded in Italian which I understood none of, so I gestured again, and she said, “No!”  Later the teacher told me just to put some on mama’s plate—she says no to everything!  She willingly ate it promptly, and between courses, I noticed her singing to herself in Italian.  My daughter and I found her very endearing.

Hours into our event, bellies beyond satiated, when it came time for the students to depart, many were gathered at the door, saying their ‘grazie’ and goodbyes to the teacher one by one.  Most were saying farewell, as this was a culmination of a Saturday morning class for them, not the university class my daughter is taking that continues through the semester.  Mama lined up alongside them with her walker (equipped with cow bells and the back legs adorned with slip-proof tennis balls!).  I wondered where mama was going!  Eventually, the teacher spotted her and asked in Italian, “Where are you going?”  Mama responded, “Mi casa…[in] Livorno [Italy]!”  Her daughter gently rerouted her back inside the house, muttering something like, “No, you’re staying here.”  Mama then did several laps around the couch and coffee table, to which no one objected, which was very endearing…finally she settled in a comfortable chair.  The teacher handed her a bag of knitting.  Dementia or not, she could knit, & she made cute faces with her jaw that seemed to help the process.  When our turn came to depart after a private lesson in tiramisu (oh my!), I addressed grandma with my best Italian attempt at goodbye: “Arrivaderci!”  To which she responded with a less formal goodbye, “Ciao bella!”  Chelsea and I were as touched by the loving care this Italian family gave grandma, whom I’m sure at times can be patience taxing, as we were impressed by the meal we helped prepare.

This weekend, I had a contrasting experience with Haley at a local Chinese restaurant.  Haley ordered for us, including vegetable chow mein.  I remember the server repeating, after Haley culminated the order with rice, “and steamed rice,” as if that was a given, of course.  A little later Haley’s friends arrived and joined us, the server reviewed our order, but instead of vegetable chow mein, she named vegetable fried rice.  No, we corrected her, we wanted vegetable chow mein.  “Too late,” she replied, “I’m already cooking you vegetable fried rice.  That’s what you ordered.”  We argued, as we both remembered pretty clearly Haley placing the correct order, but she persisted, “You’re wrong—I even asked you if you wanted 2 rices—fried rice and steamed rice—and you said yes.”  I told her just to keep it, as it didn’t appeal to either of us or anyone else at the table, and it was pretty clear we were going to be charged for both dishes.  She brought it out first, nevertheless, perhaps to prove her point.  No one touched it throughout the meal.

Sure enough, when the bill came, it included the extra dish.   I asked again if we really had to pay for a dish we clearly didn’t intend to order and neither Haley nor I remember it the way she described.  Yes, she said the owner insisted this is how it had to be.

It left us all with a bad taste, and the teens were incensed—they each reflected on how the restaurant should give the customer the benefit of the doubt and be gracious, rather than rigid. 

Perhaps it’s a lesson for them and a reminder for all of us—a little loving kindness goes a long way—“right” is usually not an ingredient that promotes love.

I hope your festivities, whatever you celebrate, included loving kindness amidst the rain and grey skies.

Sent to Press Democrat in response to their editorial in today's issue supporting Measure C in Sonoma: