It was October of 1992, one of those sparkling autumn evenings when the air tastes of the tangy spice of fallen leaves and you can feel the earth settling into its winter sleep. Kris and I had arranged a sitter for the children and were on our way to the Nathans’ house for supper. Julie Nathan was an artist and a mother, Henry a physician, and they had issued the invitation the previous week. We had met them through the book club we had joined after moving to Waynesville, and on Sunday afternoons we often played volleyball with the Nathans and some of their other friends in the big yard beside their house.
All that fall, a sense of gloom had hung over me, owing to the death of my mother in early September. If you have ever lost someone you have deeply loved, then you know how long afterwards the pain remains with you, sometimes dull, sometimes fierce in its urgency, and you will remember the sickness of those moments when you want to telephone that person to ask some piece of advice or relate some humorous incident before you remember there will be no more phone calls.
When we arrived, Julie greeted us at the door. As she ushered us inside, I saw in the spacious hallway beyond her a large wooden table stacked with plates, napkins, silverware, covered dishes, and candles. The Nathans had directed the building of this house, which was lovely enough to make an appearance in Southern Living, and that evening the place lived up to its reputation.
“Wow!” I said. “A lot of food.”
“Oh, I asked a few other people to come,” Julie said. “I need to do some things in the kitchen, but Henry’s in the living room. Why don’t you visit with him?”
She escorted us to the living room, where Kris and I sat on a sofa facing Henry. He offered a glass of wine, which I declined, as I hadn’t touched alcohol in a couple of years at that point, and the three of us chatted for perhaps a quarter of an hour before the first guests began arriving.
As these guests entered, singles and couples, they would glance at Kris and me sitting on the sofa, then disappear into the dining room beyond the hallway. More and more people arrived—friends I knew from volleyball, members of the book club, some customers from the bookstore—all of them eying me as they walked past the buffet table.
For the first time in my life I understood that old phrase: “It made my skin crawl.” As all these people kept shambling into the house, it became clear Kris and I were the center of their attention. What was going on? After a few minutes of this parade, I felt tense and sick inside, and then my skin tightened and went all prickly, and I began to tick off in my mind possible reasons for this weird congregation. Alcohol and I had parted company two years earlier, so I knew this wasn’t some sort of group intervention. But what was it? Had I sleepwalked naked down Main Street? Were they here because I was homeschooling my children, then a relatively rare circumstance? Was I to be accused of some heinous crime of which I was unaware, some hurt or insult inadvertently delivered?
At one point I stood and went for coffee to the bar, which was set off in a nook between the dining room and the buffet. There I ran into Wanda Taylor, a short woman with dark hair who had a local and deserved reputation as a fine actress. She was a member of a women’s book club started by Kris, and we’d become friends in the bookstore, where she sometimes used me as a sounding board for some of her personal difficulties.
“So Wanda,” I said, “what’s this all about? Why are we here?”
“I’m not sure, Jeff,” she said, without a trace of her customary humor. “Why are we here?”
Well, that cryptic remark just about ripped me out of my prickly skin. I laughed nervously, refilled my coffee cup, and returned to Kris. By then others were drifting into the living room as well, and with their eyes on me I sat on that sofa feeling like a butterfly pinned to a collection box. My mind kept jumping around, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t think of any offense I’d committed to deserve such a gathering.
Then Julie entered into the room and solved the mystery.
“Kris and Jeff,” she said. “All the people in this room and a few others who couldn’t be here this evening treasure your friendship. We decided we couldn’t let something valuable slip out of your lives, so we chipped in and bought you this gift.”
She slipped into the next room and returned holding a painting of the Palmer House.
Now, I had seen this painting two weeks earlier in a gallery directly across the street from our Main Street bookshop. Several friends had urged me to go take a look, which I did, but my emotions were so blunted by the pain of my mother’s death that I scarcely paid it two minutes of my time. Besides, the painting wore a price tag of $650, which was, as I am certain our friends knew, $650 beyond the capabilities of my bank account.
When Julie us with that painting, my relief coupled with my gratitude was enormous, so much so that after thanking everyone, no doubt stumbling over my words, I needed to step to outside to the back deck and take some deep breaths of the cool mountain air.
On the front of the canvas is the signature of Anne Vasilik, now a well-known Asheville artist. On a card on the back, and more importantly to me, are the names of the friends who helped not only with the purchase of a painting, but also with a visible gift of love in a season of grief.
When we arrived, Julie greeted us at the door. As she ushered us inside, I saw in the spacious hallway beyond her a large wooden table stacked with plates, napkins, silverware, covered dishes, and candles. The Nathans had directed the building of this house, which was lovely enough to make an appearance in Southern Living, and that evening the place lived up to its reputation.
“Wow!” I said. “A lot of food.”
“Oh, I asked a few other people to come,” Julie said. “I need to do some things in the kitchen, but Henry’s in the living room. Why don’t you visit with him?”
She escorted us to the living room, where Kris and I sat on a sofa facing Henry. He offered a glass of wine, which I declined, as I hadn’t touched alcohol in a couple of years at that point, and the three of us chatted for perhaps a quarter of an hour before the first guests began arriving.
As these guests entered, singles and couples, they would glance at Kris and me sitting on the sofa, then disappear into the dining room beyond the hallway. More and more people arrived—friends I knew from volleyball, members of the book club, some customers from the bookstore—all of them eying me as they walked past the buffet table.
For the first time in my life I understood that old phrase: “It made my skin crawl.” As all these people kept shambling into the house, it became clear Kris and I were the center of their attention. What was going on? After a few minutes of this parade, I felt tense and sick inside, and then my skin tightened and went all prickly, and I began to tick off in my mind possible reasons for this weird congregation. Alcohol and I had parted company two years earlier, so I knew this wasn’t some sort of group intervention. But what was it? Had I sleepwalked naked down Main Street? Were they here because I was homeschooling my children, then a relatively rare circumstance? Was I to be accused of some heinous crime of which I was unaware, some hurt or insult inadvertently delivered?
At one point I stood and went for coffee to the bar, which was set off in a nook between the dining room and the buffet. There I ran into Wanda Taylor, a short woman with dark hair who had a local and deserved reputation as a fine actress. She was a member of a women’s book club started by Kris, and we’d become friends in the bookstore, where she sometimes used me as a sounding board for some of her personal difficulties.
“So Wanda,” I said, “what’s this all about? Why are we here?”
“I’m not sure, Jeff,” she said, without a trace of her customary humor. “Why are we here?”
Well, that cryptic remark just about ripped me out of my prickly skin. I laughed nervously, refilled my coffee cup, and returned to Kris. By then others were drifting into the living room as well, and with their eyes on me I sat on that sofa feeling like a butterfly pinned to a collection box. My mind kept jumping around, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t think of any offense I’d committed to deserve such a gathering.
Then Julie entered into the room and solved the mystery.
“Kris and Jeff,” she said. “All the people in this room and a few others who couldn’t be here this evening treasure your friendship. We decided we couldn’t let something valuable slip out of your lives, so we chipped in and bought you this gift.”
She slipped into the next room and returned holding a painting of the Palmer House.
Now, I had seen this painting two weeks earlier in a gallery directly across the street from our Main Street bookshop. Several friends had urged me to go take a look, which I did, but my emotions were so blunted by the pain of my mother’s death that I scarcely paid it two minutes of my time. Besides, the painting wore a price tag of $650, which was, as I am certain our friends knew, $650 beyond the capabilities of my bank account.
When Julie us with that painting, my relief coupled with my gratitude was enormous, so much so that after thanking everyone, no doubt stumbling over my words, I needed to step to outside to the back deck and take some deep breaths of the cool mountain air.
On the front of the canvas is the signature of Anne Vasilik, now a well-known Asheville artist. On a card on the back, and more importantly to me, are the names of the friends who helped not only with the purchase of a painting, but also with a visible gift of love in a season of grief.
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