Originally, the green table sat in my kitchen, but then another table, not nearly as lovely, took its place and the green table found its way to my living room. It’s an ordinary table with its share of bruises and scars. The green color of the table appeals to me—it matches the walls of the living room—and for whatever reason the combination of the color and the shape of the table soothes me.
As I say, however, it’s an ordinary enough table. But as much as any object in my apartment, that table stands as a symbol of friendship.
As I say, however, it’s an ordinary enough table. But as much as any object in my apartment, that table stands as a symbol of friendship.
Six years ago, Jeremy and I were living in an apartment in an old house on Montford Avenue. The apartment was small and dark in the summers from the shade of the maple trees in the yard, and the carpeting on damp days smelled of mold. After three years of living there we began, in a vague sort of way, to search for a new place. We looked at a couple of apartments in the neighborhood—I didn’t want to move out of Montford—but nothing attracted our interest.
One June evening I was out for a stroll about the neighborhood and once again passed a three-story brick building called The Cumberland. Several times on previous walks I had slowed my pace and said to Jeremy, “I wish we lived there.” On this particular evening I paused, memorized the building’s number, returned home, opened my laptop, entered the address on Craig’s List, and was astonished to find one of the The Cumberland’s apartments available for rent. Later I discovered I was either lucky or blessed that evening, because apartments in the Cumberland are never on the market for more than twenty-four hours.
I made an appointment to see the apartment the next day and fell in love with the place from the moment I stepped across the doorway. The floors were pine and shining with sunlight, the bedrooms were large, the front porch offered a fine view of the avenue, and the kitchen was nearly double the size of the one in our apartment. Behind the stately building stood a garage for cars, with a room for storage above each garage bay. In the basement were a washer and dryer—we’d used Laundromats in the old apartment—and more room for storage. The monthly rent was fifty dollars less than what we’d been paying.
But best of all—and of course I didn’t recognize this part for some months after we’d moved in—was The Cumberland’s manager, Anne Chapman.
Anne lived in the apartment below the one we rented. Looking back, I realize how kind and brave she was to welcome a teenager into the building. But welcome us she did. Over the next months, as we became better acquainted, Anne took immense pleasure in hearing of Jeremy’s exploits and later eagerly anticipated his coming home on holidays from college. “I miss his singing,” she said, speaking of my son’s habit of singing or whistling as he made his way up and down the steps that passed near her door.
It was Anne who kept the grounds of The Cumberland so beautiful that passersby sometimes stopped to take pictures. Nearly every day of the spring and summer would find her outdoors, planting flowers, weeding, cutting back the ivy. When she had to move away two years ago, she left behind a paradise of tidy flowerbeds, artfully arranged stones, and healthy plants of all sorts. No one cares for these flowerbeds anymore, but when she was here, they were quite a sight.
Anne carried her love for gardening to her new apartment, which is part of an assisted living facility. Her first-floor apartment had a tiny porch, which she filled with planters and pots of flowers. Then she dug up a yard or so of soil beside the porch and planted shrubs and flowers. Every time I visit her she has extended that garden, running it down the exterior wall until it has now reached the porch of her neighbor.
Anne’s other hobby is jigsaw puzzles. She always has one going. When she finishes a puzzle, she frames it and then gives it away. On the walls of my classroom are several of these puzzles, some with literary themes, others depicting historical events like Turner’s “The Battle of Trafalgar.”
The first word that comes to mind when I think of Anne is generous. She gave me the green table in my living room and the table and chairs on my porch. When she moved, she gave me her collection of Tupperware and arranged for the building’s owners to lend me a lovely dining room table with four matching chairs. When Jon Pat and his wife Emily were down from Virginia and helping me move some things in the attic over the garage, Emily found a beautiful old sewing machine in the hallway. When she asked Anne about it, she said, “If you like it, you can have it.”
When she was still living here, Anne volunteered to clean my apartment once a month. “You’re so busy,” she said. “And you’re doing such a great job teaching those kids. Cleaning would be a way I could help you.”
“Please let me pay you,” I said.
“I won’t do it if you pay me.”
“I don’t feel right about that.”
“Then pay me in soup,” Anne said. I’d given her different soups I’d made—a Tex-Mex chicken soup, gazpacho—and she’d fallen in love with them.
So I paid her in soup and quiche, and about once a month she cleaned the apartment. The first time she did the cleaning, Jeremy and I could smell the Pine-Sol as we climbed the stairs. We opened the door, stopped dead in our tracks, and just stared. The pine floors shone; the wooden shelves glittered; the kitchen sparkled; she’d even vacuumed the sofa. Every time Anne cleaned my apartment I would tiptoe around the place for about an hour, wanting to leave every sparkle in place.
I try to see Anne once a month. She tells me she has trouble remembering people and events, but so far she knows me and always asks about Jeremy and Mary. Because of family obligations, I’m overdue for a visit with her. In my freezer is a tub of gazpacho waiting for her. At her apartment—I would bet money on this—Anne will have a puzzle waiting for me.
One June evening I was out for a stroll about the neighborhood and once again passed a three-story brick building called The Cumberland. Several times on previous walks I had slowed my pace and said to Jeremy, “I wish we lived there.” On this particular evening I paused, memorized the building’s number, returned home, opened my laptop, entered the address on Craig’s List, and was astonished to find one of the The Cumberland’s apartments available for rent. Later I discovered I was either lucky or blessed that evening, because apartments in the Cumberland are never on the market for more than twenty-four hours.
I made an appointment to see the apartment the next day and fell in love with the place from the moment I stepped across the doorway. The floors were pine and shining with sunlight, the bedrooms were large, the front porch offered a fine view of the avenue, and the kitchen was nearly double the size of the one in our apartment. Behind the stately building stood a garage for cars, with a room for storage above each garage bay. In the basement were a washer and dryer—we’d used Laundromats in the old apartment—and more room for storage. The monthly rent was fifty dollars less than what we’d been paying.
But best of all—and of course I didn’t recognize this part for some months after we’d moved in—was The Cumberland’s manager, Anne Chapman.
Anne lived in the apartment below the one we rented. Looking back, I realize how kind and brave she was to welcome a teenager into the building. But welcome us she did. Over the next months, as we became better acquainted, Anne took immense pleasure in hearing of Jeremy’s exploits and later eagerly anticipated his coming home on holidays from college. “I miss his singing,” she said, speaking of my son’s habit of singing or whistling as he made his way up and down the steps that passed near her door.
It was Anne who kept the grounds of The Cumberland so beautiful that passersby sometimes stopped to take pictures. Nearly every day of the spring and summer would find her outdoors, planting flowers, weeding, cutting back the ivy. When she had to move away two years ago, she left behind a paradise of tidy flowerbeds, artfully arranged stones, and healthy plants of all sorts. No one cares for these flowerbeds anymore, but when she was here, they were quite a sight.
Anne carried her love for gardening to her new apartment, which is part of an assisted living facility. Her first-floor apartment had a tiny porch, which she filled with planters and pots of flowers. Then she dug up a yard or so of soil beside the porch and planted shrubs and flowers. Every time I visit her she has extended that garden, running it down the exterior wall until it has now reached the porch of her neighbor.
Anne’s other hobby is jigsaw puzzles. She always has one going. When she finishes a puzzle, she frames it and then gives it away. On the walls of my classroom are several of these puzzles, some with literary themes, others depicting historical events like Turner’s “The Battle of Trafalgar.”
The first word that comes to mind when I think of Anne is generous. She gave me the green table in my living room and the table and chairs on my porch. When she moved, she gave me her collection of Tupperware and arranged for the building’s owners to lend me a lovely dining room table with four matching chairs. When Jon Pat and his wife Emily were down from Virginia and helping me move some things in the attic over the garage, Emily found a beautiful old sewing machine in the hallway. When she asked Anne about it, she said, “If you like it, you can have it.”
When she was still living here, Anne volunteered to clean my apartment once a month. “You’re so busy,” she said. “And you’re doing such a great job teaching those kids. Cleaning would be a way I could help you.”
“Please let me pay you,” I said.
“I won’t do it if you pay me.”
“I don’t feel right about that.”
“Then pay me in soup,” Anne said. I’d given her different soups I’d made—a Tex-Mex chicken soup, gazpacho—and she’d fallen in love with them.
So I paid her in soup and quiche, and about once a month she cleaned the apartment. The first time she did the cleaning, Jeremy and I could smell the Pine-Sol as we climbed the stairs. We opened the door, stopped dead in our tracks, and just stared. The pine floors shone; the wooden shelves glittered; the kitchen sparkled; she’d even vacuumed the sofa. Every time Anne cleaned my apartment I would tiptoe around the place for about an hour, wanting to leave every sparkle in place.
I try to see Anne once a month. She tells me she has trouble remembering people and events, but so far she knows me and always asks about Jeremy and Mary. Because of family obligations, I’m overdue for a visit with her. In my freezer is a tub of gazpacho waiting for her. At her apartment—I would bet money on this—Anne will have a puzzle waiting for me.