Resurrection

 I almost want someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Are you awake?” Is this a story, a dream or is this reality? Each was so strange and puzzling. They all seemed to be  a resurrection of an item or person. 

The vest

I cut two of them out, sewed them and added a variety of colorful seed beads. I am a beader so I am good at embellishing. I made one vest for my seven year old daughter and one for her friend Judy. Her mom had given me this exquisite Ultra suede fabric. Fringing the bottom was an added touch. These vests would look good on a boy or girl. The vest in fact looked great on my second grade pupil Thomas. More than ten years had elapsed since my daughter wore the vest. It ended up as a donated item to a ccharity. Judy’s vest had long been given away too. Imagine my awe when Thomas arrived in class wearing an Ultra suede fringed vest with embellished seed bead trimming. “Thomas, I love your vest. Where did you get it?” I asked. “My mom bought it in Goodwill on Metropolitan Avenue,” Thomas replied. There are only two such vests in the entire world and I made them both. Imagine my amazement to see my handwork resurrected ten years later on a child in my  second grade class!!! 

Shirley

I was around six years old when we moved from 1932 Crotona Parkway. That was the last time I would see my next door friend. She lived in apartment 3B and we lived next door in 3C. When we had a fight, I would stand outside her apartment chanting, “Shitty Shavy, you’re a baby. Shitty Shavy, you’re a baby.” About twenty years later my beau, on a double date introduced me to his Medical School pal and the pal’s wife Shirley. ,She quickly corrected him., “Everyone calls me Shavy, never Shirley.” Could it be? Yes, she did grow up on 1932 Crotona Parkway. Yes, she was my resurrected childhood friend Shitty Shavy. Now she is a lovely young women married to a future doctor.

Henry

Henry was a very quiet private man who sat at my table in the Middle Village Queens senior center. We were in a watercolor class and Henry did lovely architectural watercolors. One morning I decided to engage him in conversation. I asked him where he grew up. Perhaps he wanted to cut our conversation short, or he really was sincere when he responded, You wouldn’t know the area.” “Where, I pressed on.?” “In the Bronx,” he replied. “Well, Henry, I grew up in the Bronx, too.” I pressed on. “In the East Bronx.” “I, too.” “On Simpson Street.” “I did too, Henry.” After all this incredulity, needless to say, we discovered, we both  grew up in 1215 Simpson Street. Henry, on the third floor and I, on the ground floor. We were teen agers living in the same building, at the same time. In addition, we  were both members of The East Bronx Community “Y”.  In my current stock of photographs, I was even able to locate a professional photo taken at a catered “Y” affair at the Waldorf Astoria with teen age Henry sitting across the table from teen age me. This was a seventy year resurrection.

Bea

We went to Elementary, Junior High, High School and City College together. We went to summer camps together. We spent so much time together, we even looked alike. People thought we were sisters. When Bea got married and moved to Los Angeles, there were occasional letters, sometimes birthday cards. Long Distance phone calls were expensive, cell phones and emails, none existent. If there were trips to New York, I didn’t know about them. The years passed. 

At the end of a long line,I finally was able to buy my expensive bowl of onion soup at MOMA but to my displeasure, it was luke warm.I thought  I’m not getting on the end of that line just to have them zap the soup. Yes, I’m crashing this line to make my complaint. At that moment, someone was crashing me!!! What felt like hostile arms, turned into hugs and kisses. Bea could have been in a gallery; she could have been in the gift store; she could have been in the sculpture garden. This meeting could have been missed by seconds. If my soup was not luke warm, we would have missed  each other. However, this encounter was bitter sweet. Why hadn’t she notified me that she would be in New York? A resurrection with many unanswered questions.

Irene

I want to phone Irene. I’m going to phone Irene. I should call Irene. I forgot to call Irene. It’s embarrassing to call Irene after all this time has elapsed. Anyway, I think they’ve moved  way out on the Long Island, and it would be hard to visit. We both liked art. We both liked to read. We both liked theater. We had so much in common. I should have phoned her. It’s so sad that I let this friendship disappear. Too much time has passed. More than fifty years later, at an art gallery, my friend introduces me to her new neighbor, Irene Frank. “You’re going to like each other. You’re both into art.” She was right. We are now good, caring friends again. Sadly, I let fifty years go by when I could have been enjoying this beautiful resurrected relationship.

These meetings offer me a chance to recall and reflect on the vagaries of chance encounters. They invite me reminisce about all these unusual coincidences in my life.

Ethyl Haber