Spotty storm clouds gathered in the distance on the morning of Saturday, September 20. Tom and I drove northwest twenty miles, across the Missouri River.
Our destination was Breeze Park in Weldon Spring, Missouri. My cousin Phyllis–a retired teacher–is convalescing there, hoping to regain her strength after a series of health complications.
Phyllis’ mother Violet and my father Walter were twins born in St. Louis. It was 1913. More than fifty years later, the Gateway Arch would rise and transform the St. Louis riverfront. Teetering warehouses once stood on cobblestone streets there, in this fur-trading town founded just west of the Mississippi River in 1764.
In the arc of life, Phyllis and I (both Baby Boomers) also arrived–she in 1947, I in 1957–before the historic completion of the Arch, our nation’s tallest monument, on October 28, 1965.
But today I reflect on our personal connection. Like me, Phyllis and her husband Tom also raised two sons born in the 1980s. Austin and Bryant are now in their early forties and late thirties respectively. A touch younger than my son Nick; a shade older than my son Kirk.
Now in their late seventies, Tom and Phyllis are meeting the healthcare challenges of life head on. Negotiating the unpleasantness of aging and inherent losses (their lovable golden retriever Truman passed recently). They are doing their best to push ahead. To stay hopeful. Or as my mother–a child of the Depression–would have said “trying to keep a stiff upper lip.”
Given these developments, I wanted to spend time with them while we were in the St. Louis area. Especially because–beyond my sister Diane who now lives in northern Illinois–they are the closest remaining strands of family from my Missouri years: 1957 to 1980 … my Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator years.
On Saturday, when my husband and I arrived just past 9:30, we wound our way down halls, past friendly staff and other visitors, to Phyllis’ room. She was delighted to see us. So was her Tom. He arrived a few minutes later with a big smile and box of gooey pastries for us to share.
The next two hours were a heart-warming oasis of conversation and listening between the four of us. We spent our time commiserating over the latest news, but–more importantly–strengthening our family bond during a challenging period for them personally.
Phyllis is hoping to return to their home soon in nearby St. Charles. As anyone would, she is missing the familiarity and comfort of her life. Longing for peace away from medical equipment and disruptive procedures. Her kind, caregiving husband is also searching for peace.
Before Tom and I left, we hugged and took photos together outside on a beautiful, flower-laden patio at Breeze Park. I kissed Phyllis on the cheek. A few tears materialized for both of us, not knowing what tomorrow will bring.
At the least, we shared those upbeat Saturday moments, built upon our 1960s memories of our once-vital, long-gone boisterous St. Louis relatives gathering around us every Christmas, Easter, and Independence Day.
To our credit, in our later years, long after our sons became adults, we have formed reciprocal connections. Most notably, Phyllis, Tom and their family joined Tom and me for an Italian dinner in St. Louis in route to our new home in Arizona in July 2017.
Now they share stories and photos via text of their four growing grandchildren, and I write stories about my St. Louis origins, which she has encouraged, helped inspire, read, and followed diligently.
All of this, through a period of uncertainty, sustains us in our sixty-and-seventy-something years across the miles.
***
Just after noon Saturday, Tom and I returned to Creve Coeur. We landed in the driveway of our friends John and Sharon.
We were about to share the rest of the weekend with them and their loyal eight-year-old-shepherd-beagle-mix Nickel at their stylish, mid-century home … hike with John through a dense forested area overlooking Creve Coeur Lake, then get caught in the rain in historic downtown St. Charles … drive into St. Louis for a Cardinals/Brewers game at Busch Stadium Saturday night … and still later, on Sunday evening, attend our Class of 1975 Affton High School reunion together at Grant’s Farm.
The clouds cleared Saturday evening and ushered in cooler temperatures. Seated together with close friends at Busch Stadium, three levels up directly behind home plate, it didn’t seem to matter that my beloved Cardinals lost 3-2.
Yes, it was the latest evidence in a disappointing sub-par year. But on the horizon, beyond the stadium’s outfield walls, the twilight of a blue sky and puffy clouds perfectly framed the Gateway Arch at the center.
Architect Eero Saarinen’s monument to a dream is still standing, rising above the cobblestones and the fray, as it approaches its sixtieth birthday.
Mark Johnson Stories 