"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." - Maya Angelou
I've always attributed particular songs, scents, sounds and tastes as triggers to certain memories. I recently transferred my youngest from public school into a Catholic school. When I walked into the main office of the new school and through the painted cinder block hallways, I was tossed back to the 1970's and flooded with so many memories (both pleasant and unpleasant).
Like in kindergarten, when I complained to my mother that morning that my stomach was bothering me but was told that I didn't have a fever so I needed to get to school. And as Murphy's Law never fails, my vomiting escapade began shortly after my kindergarten love interest stepped foot on that bus. It turned out to be the best, worst day of my life. As all the young passengers on the bus were running for cover from the meteor shower of Captain Crunch and simultaneously making fun of me, my night and shining armor, Jimbo Rogers rubbed my back until we arrived at school. He walked me to the main office so I could call my mom away from her soap operas to come get me. I loved him with all my kindergarten sized heart.
I caught myself strolling down memory lane cutting through Michael Crowley's yard with my brother crawling under the chain linked fence to get to school on time. Sliding into Sister Mary Kay's class just late enough for me to have to parade in front of Jimmy Rupp and Alex Bayter with the pixie haircut my mother and her ancient old friends said was "cute" because they could "see my pretty eyes". It was the year that I walked around with the constant thought bubble over my head that said, "Well, of course you can see my stinkin' eyes, I HAVE NO HAIR! It was that year also when I was often mistaken for a boy. As you may have figured already, that would fall under the "not so pleasant" category.
Today I was listening to the radio and they had some sort of tribute to Freddie Mercury and were playing back to back Queen songs. I had vivid flashbacks to middle school and my first love T.J Sullivan. My first "R" rated movie at The Pine Hollow Movie Theatre, hanging in the graveyard and telling my mother that I was studying at the library as I was walking into Oyster Bay with T.J. to grab a "slice"of pizza.
Speaking of pizza...Any transplant from New Yawk in South Carolina will understand the excitement of a new pizza "parlor" opening up in the hopes that there is one that can replicate the true essence of a good slice. So not only are looking for the perfect replica of the NY delicacy but you also have to find the place that serves it like a New Yawkah!...BY THE SLICE! And just as I was reminiscing about a "real" pizza place, "Tony from da Bronx" welcomed me with open arms to Bada Bing Pizza...Literally! AND...he asked me how many slices I wanted! I'm not kidding when I tell you that he actually brought tears to my eyes. Right at that moment I had a flashback of great memories from being a kid running into Marios in Pine Hollow or Villa Milano in Manhasset and being greeted by the owners as if they hadn't seen me in years although I was there the day before. The New Yawk accent, the boisterous Italian personality and congratulatory notes written on dollar bills taped to the oven gave me that warm and fuzzy "New Yawk" feeling. I know. It's such an oxymoron but if you ever want to witness an incredible personality transformation right before your eyes? Talk pizza to a New York transplant in The South. The first rule is to never act like you know more about the subject than they do. Quite honestly, it offends them. The only way you qualify for participation in a debate about it, is only if you are from New York. We don't act like experts on biscuit, grits or "dressing" (aka "stuffing") so we just ask for the same respect. In any case, if you ask a native New Yawkah to tell you about their favorite slice of pizza like they are the expert, you will watch that tough guy/girl attitude disappear and the result will be a warm and fuzzy New Yorker.
I'm sure anybody who isn't from New York is probably scratching their heads wondering why I'm making such a big deal about pizza. Some of my greatest childhood memories are from a pizza parlor or my favorite deli...bagel shoppe too. Oh my goodness...AND I can't forget to mention the special family trips to Carvel in my parent's 1972 Caddy with Englebert Humperdink playing on the 8-track! I am certain there are a several people shaking their heads in agreement as their mouths water for Tom Carvel's Fudgie The Whale or Cookie Puss Cakes.
But the memories that I once thought were a direct result of a bad haircut, a vomiting roadshow, an R rated movie, or the food I grew up on, I realize that those things made up only part of the picture. As I have grown older, I realize that its more about the rituals and the experiences surrounding it. It's about the people and how they make you feel when you walk into their establishment. Its the warm feeling knowing that their job goes above and beyond their pizza or their roast beef hero or the everything bagel with cream cheese, lightly toasted. It's the difference between a Wednesday and a Sunday or where "Wednesday IS Sundae" but only at Carvel.
It's the people who are encountered within the experience who actually make it or break it for others. And as this stroll down memory lane comes to an end, I need to share the status of a FB friend referring to a recent visit to his Dad in the hospital. I am not certain of the circumstances but regardless...any trip to the hospital is stressful when it's your parent.
He described being on a hospital elevator with a Mother and her, 8 or 9 year old daughter who appeared to have had Downs Syndrome. Her mother had asked if she could push number seven. In an effort to wanting to make her feel “special” not in the derogatory sense, he asked her to push the button to his floor. As he described it, she stepped back after pushing the button and turned towards him as he expressed how much he despised hospitals in the thought bubble over his head. Simultaneously, the little girl walked up to him, gently took his hand, looked him square in the eye and said: “I am sorry. Are You O.K.?” Taken by surprise, he promptly thanked her and let her know that he was fine and they left as the doors of the elevator opened to the 7th floor. He recognized his "petty attempt at kindness" and how (according to him) was un-expectantly given back to him "a trillion fold". He described the "SHEER PURITY and INNOCENCE" in that beautiful child's gesture and contributed it to the "Presence of GOD (Whoever or Whatever HE/SHE/IT)"...for the first time in his life.
This child's gesture actually made a full grown man who was doubting the Presence of God actually feel it for the first time ever! Powerful, right? I don't care what your beliefs are. This isn't a come to Jesus blog. This is an acknowledgement of the difference people can make. It's funny because whether I was an unassuming kid, an invincible teenager, a confident collegiate or a self absorbed Wall Street wife, I always attributed the feeling I got to a haircut, a song, a movie or a slice but after going through some trying times and ultimately "growing up", I now realize that the common denominators in all of my experiences really is the interaction between me and the people I encounter.
How we treat others has a direct correlation to how we are treated. Good, bad or ugly...how we are treated is what creates memories. So whether you are at school, work, at a baseball game, on a bus, in an elevator or at a party, remember the New Yawker who melts when you talk pizza. Make it about others and not always about yourself. What I've learned is that, if one is vigilant in heart warming efforts, it eventually becomes habit and ultimately may make this crazy, inexplicable world a better place.
