No Apology Necessary

I was a studious child and handed in all my assignments on time, strictly following instructions. My teachers loved me! In high school, I read voraciously and anytime I came across a word I didn’t know, I looked it up. English Comp was a freshman requirement in college. I impressed the instructor with my essays, always well-organized and with a clear focus. She exempted me from the second semester and I was able to enroll in a modern literature class with esteemed Professor Rockwell.

After college, plans for grad school fell apart and I took an office job with the Veterans Administration in Newark, adjudicating education claims for returning Vietnam vets. I transferred to the New England Regional office the next year and left my home state of New Jersey behind. It was in Boston that I met the handsome Newbury Street hairdresser with the two toddler sons who was to become my husband.

Paul was the youngest of three brothers who grew up in the rough and tumble streets of inner city Boston in the 1940s.  Being the youngest child, his parents had less to provide for him growing up, whether in terms of affection or a financially secure household. He fended for himself, playing stickball in the streets and enduring the harassment of the tough neighborhood kids. He quit high school, not having any guidance or support from the adults in his life.

Some may think that our match was an unlikely one. I grew up in a loving family in suburban New Jersey and went to new schools with nice teachers. I completed my college degree and enrolled in law school once I arrived in Boston, a natural life progression based on my solid education and the feminist movement emerging in the early 1970s. I was one of a handful of females in the first year section.

Paul worked in his father’s Esso station after quitting school but then, on a dare from a friend, enrolled in the local hairdressing academy. His friend assured him with a wink, “there will be lots of girls there!”

Paul enlisted in the Army Reserves for a six month stint in San Antonio, where he obtained his high school GED certificate. When he returned to Boston, he began to practice his new trade. He was naturally gifted with artistic talent that translated into excellence in his craft. I always told him, “you can make those scissors fly!”

When we married in 1972, he opened a salon and I started a law practice. I was in charge of the inside of the house, including paying the bills and planning trips, except for the kitchen where Paul was talented in creating dishes from scratch. He had done KP duty in the service and acquired excellent safety and food preparation skills.

Paul maintained a huge vegetable garden, enjoyed boating, and cooked community meals for our synagogue. We even raised a herd of Oxfordshire sheep when we lived on ten acres in Essex. He enrolled in Essex Aggie for animal husbandry, fruit tree cultivation, and restaurant baking. Even though he had not achieved academic success, I noticed how he took detailed notes and picked up the information readily.

Years later, he learned that the iconic Crocker Boatyard in Manchester-by-the-Sea which he had frequented over the years was closing down after several generations of business. He had enjoyed hanging out with the guys there and, as the town’s popular hairdresser, everyone knew him, including the long-established Crocker family.

He decided to send them a letter of congratulations and express his gratitude for all those years of their camaraderie based on a common love of boating. He made several attempts to write something but was not able to put together a letter to his satisfaction, most of the drafts ending up in the wastebasket. He was embarrassed about his scribbly handwriting, which he claimed was okay for shopping lists and signing checks but not much else.

I knew this about him, and seeing his frustration, offered to write the letter, if he would let me know what he wanted to say in general, and advise me of some nautical terms with which he was very familiar.  Writing was always easy for me. It was so hard for me to watch him struggle.

We collaborated on getting a letter together and he was happy with it. He was so grateful that it somehow expressed exactly what he wanted to say and that it would surely be well-received. He thanked me profusely for my help. He apologized for taking my time to do numerous drafts until it was ready.

And when I think about it, I am brought to tears. Here was a man who, despite the deficits of his early life, somehow was able to overcome them and excel in so many ways, giving me a life I could only have dreamed of. The very least I could do was help him write a letter ….

I insisted that he didn’t need to thank me at all. But just the fact that he wanted to moved me greatly. After all, he was the father of our children. He supported the family and we never had to pay for a haircut! He created a beautiful outdoor landscape with his tractor and its many attachments. He was fond of my extended family and uncomplainingly attended their events near and far. He ran his own local business, a dream come true. He cleaned the kitchen like a bat out of hell (thanks to his KP experience where he learned to scour pots and pans to a shine).  He helped me pick out suits and dresses for court (remember, he worked in the fashion world), and so much more.

I know he was pleased with what he was able to say to the boatyard guys, a personal victory.

I will never miss an opportunity to praise this special man, one of a kind, and he belonged to me!

POSTSCRIPT:

After we were married, we returned often to New Jersey to visit my parents and grandparents. Sifting through a box of family photos and mementos last winter, I found a piece of mail that I had saved from my grandparents (postmarked March 1973) with, of all things, an apology!  How sweet and thoughtful, but if they only knew that there was never anything that these kind and loving people ever did in their lives to anyone that would require an apology ….

Dear Barrie and Paul,

You were here 1130. We left at 10 ocloc to attend a purim party. We want you to forgive us. We will make up to you in the future wit love

Grandpa and Grama Weiner