by Edith Felson Shapiro
It was Friday, the last day of my vacation. I would be going back to work on Monday and I could hardly wait. Nothing good had happened to me these past few weeks. I had not been away; I had not even gone to the usual lunches with my friends, something that was a routine part of holiday time. Monday, please come soon!
The phone rang. I almost didn’t answer it because I really didn’t want anything to interfere with my miserable state of mind, which at this point was almost a luxury. It was my friend, Irene, whom I had known since she was born. She was just a year younger than I and we had always been very close. She and Jule were first cousins and therefore could not be married in Ohio. I went to Florida to witness their wedding; they took me to the plane, and stayed on for their honeymoon. Since that day in Florida, Irene and Jule’s lives had been geared to getting Edie happily married.
Irene came to the point that Friday night. “What are you doing tomorrow night? Would you like to go out for dinner with Jule and me?” I said, “You and who else?” She replied, “I was just coming to that. We do have a friend visiting in Cincinnati.” I said,” I thought so.” Irene tried to trick me, as she had done so often in the past, but I decided she wouldn’t get away with it this time. I said, “No, no, no!” She said that I was being very selfish, that this man was here for only a few weeks, then was going back to Israel, his homeland.
The thing that appealed to me was this unknown guy was going home soon. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but of course I accepted the invitation and we made arrangements for the following night.
The next morning Irene called. She wanted to know when my garbage can would be picked up! I said, “Irene, this is getting to be ridiculous. Why do you want to know?” She said she didn’t want the can to be out when she, Jule, and Mickey (I now knew his name) picked me up. I angrily told her to call the City Manager. Because the cans wouldn’t be picked up until Monday, they would still be in full view on Saturday, and I told her so. Irene called back and said that she and Jule had decided to pick me up first (I was sure it was because of the garbage cans), and the three of us would pick up Mickey, who was staying with his sister at her home, 1614 Miramar Court. Jule rang my bell and we were on our way. As we neared our destination I became curious about this man I soon would meet. I asked questions, but all Irene and Jule would say was that Mickey was an Israeli Army officer and that he was in the country on a tour of duty. He had been in Washington and had come to Cincinnati for a few days to see his sister and her family.
We were nearing our destination and finally we were on Miramar Court, but we couldn’t see 1614 anywhere. Jule got out the slip on which Mickey had written the address, and said, “Yes, it’s 1614.” I said, “Look, Jule, I want to see that paper.” As soon as I glanced at it, I knew what the trouble was. In Europe the 7 has a line through it-which makes it look a little like a 4. Then we couldn’t find 1617 because Miramar Court was divided in a crazy way. When we finally knew that we were just about there, I had the feeling that I must see Mickey-and soon! We parked in front of 1617, and when I looked out I saw some of Mickey’s Cincinnati family trying to hide behind the draperies at the windows. It was really funny because they had not turned out the lights. At that very moment Mickey stepped out-a dark, rather short man, with black hair, and with the physique of a prize fighter. I could tell he was uncomfortable. I later learned that that was due to the fact that he was wearing a tie, something he had not done since he had left Germany in 1936.
Mickey went around the car and sat next to me. The first thing he did was to reach across me and lock the door on my side-a charming gesture, I thought. He was wearing a few small battle ribbons and he talked about them when Irene or Jule asked questions. It took over an hour to get to the Four Seasons, a well-known restaurant in the Marina.
Irene and Jule ordered champagne for “the occasion” they said. I was beginning to think that this was, indeed, an occasion. Mr. and Mrs. Rockenfeld, patients of a physician for whom I had worked, sent some more champagne to our table. It was as if others knew more than I what all these happenings could mean. We didn’t remember later what we had eaten that night at the Four Seasons. Suddenly it was time for dessert. Mickey and I looked down the list and, as one, we almost shouted, “Flower Pot.” This turned out to be a real flower pot lined with mist chocolate cake, with alternating layers of vari-flavored ice cream and crushed nuts, and it was all covered with heavy chocolate sauce (the earth); from the “earth” some beautiful flowers were “growing.” It was truly a masterpiece.
After dinner we went “next door” to Coney Island, an amusement park. Irene and Jule, bless them, disappeared. It was a balmy night and Mickey and I walked through the garden holding hands. We were not strangers; we must have known each other in a previous life. It was inconceivable that two people who had met only a few hours before could communicate as we did. I had never felt like this before. I knew I was falling in love with this fascinating man.
“So,” you say, “what’s so unusual about all this? Almost every young person meets someone and falls in love.” Are you ready? Mickey was 55; I was 49 years of age that balmy evening.
The Felson Family 