Stand 100 - Memory and Imagination
Smaller Doses of Life, Leadership and Anchor Points by Jerry Rosenthal
Smaller Dose #14: It’s good that you came back for more.
Reading time: ~10 minutes
Length: ~2,000 words
There are moments in your life, Anchor Points, which stick with you for the duration of your journey. This is a true story about my experience with the never-ending quest to find meaning. It is the desire, my desire, to make sense of something which may not have an explanation other that this is just life. And sometimes life is empty and meaningless and so we assign meaning to things to satisfy our soul which allows us to move on. That’s what I’ve attempted to do.
So here we go…..
It was early April 1978. The calendar indicated that it was spring, yet there was still a damp chill in the air. It was a Saturday. I was nine years old. We were at home, me, my sister, and our father. It was the house I grew up in and where my parents lived together for nearly 50 years. My younger sister was napping on the couch. It was a black couch. Pleather as I recall. That plastic / leather style which was extremely popular back then. I can remember the material sticking to your skin when it was hot and humid during the summer months.
The phone rang. It was that yellow push button kitchen wall phone with a long, stretched out curly cable connecting the wall unit to the handset. The color of the phone nearly matched that of the refrigerator. Harvest Gold was the color.
My dad got up to answer it. It was my mom calling from the hospital. He listened. Then my dad started to cry, which I had never seen before. And in that moment, I knew something was very wrong. I didn’t know what, and I too started to cry. He hung up the phone and told me that Papa, my mother’s father, had died.
Papa Izzy was 61. We were close. As close as a grandfather could be to his youngest grandson. He had fallen down days earlier and hit his head. He never recovered. And now he was gone. The funeral was a few days later. My parents decided it was best that I not go. I was too young, too upset. And a funeral wasn’t something that would bring closure to a nine-year-old kid. And I’ve spent all those years since seeking closure. It has never come, and I expect that it never will.
Papa Izzy has always been with me in ways which defy explanation. It’s a phantom sensation that never seems to go away. We all know that feeling. It’s like the vibration that you feel from your cell phone. You sense that it vibrated in your pocket. You take it out but there is no missed call, no missed text, nothing. It’s like that. I feel him, his presence. He isn’t there physically, but perhaps his ghost, his spirit, his soul is close by, watching over me in some way. That’s what I like to think. It brings me some kind of elusive peace and acceptance.
I have a few memories of Papa Izzy. One stands out. I was sitting on his lap, an unlit cigar in his mouth, while he was driving his work van. It was the 1970’s and safety regulations were not as they are today. But he was careful. My hands on the steering wheel with his on mine, having full control of that light blue van. Thinking about those childhood memories brings a smile to my face.
From what I’m told from those who knew him the longest and knew him best was that he was a good man, a kind man, a simple man with a good soul.
The Broadway Market. It’s been part of Buffalo since 1888. It is the Polish Market where you can get anything from meats and fish, fruits and vegetables, flowers and ice cream and any Polish delicacy that you could possibly imagine. It was busy. Always busy. There was a time when Buffalo was the second largest Polish community outside of Warsaw. Chicago was the largest. Papa was the proprietor of “I. Bernhard Choice Fruits & Vegetables” at the Broadway Market. The location; Stand 100.
I’ve been back to the Broadway Market many times over the years when I’ve visited Buffalo. It’s still busy, especially around Easter and Christmas. Yet, it isn’t the way I remember. Perhaps it was busier a lifetime ago or maybe everything was bigger and more awesome to a young child in the company of his grandfather.
Perceptions change. Memories fade. Some memories merge with others to create something which may not have even existed. The mind plays tricks on us and fills in gaps to create complete stories of what we think are vivid and perfectly recalled experiences. Our imagination is intertwined with precious memories.
Note: I remember stories of a famous man visiting Buffalo and the Broadway Market in August 1976. Karol Wojtyla. That was his birth name.
He would later become Pope John Paul II in 1978.
Anyhow, it is my perceptions, my sensations which keep me connected. It’s a good feeling most of the time. Other times my soul hurts and I long for more satisfying answers. Answers which I know will never come.
Since Papa passed away, I have always felt that he was watching over me in some way. A sensation that defies explanation. And there have been a few times that I have “experienced” him visiting me. Not in a dream, but in a physical way as I went about my day, my life. One event still rattles through my mind regularly.
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It was Winter. It was cold. Very cold. It was Chicago in late December 2006. I moved to Chicago after college and started the next phase of life in that wonderful city. I never actually lived in the city. I mostly lived in the suburbs of Cook County, and that’s where this event took place.
I was dating someone, and a family gathering was planned at a nice restaurant. I got there early, parked, and decided to get some fresh air and walk around the parking lot until everyone else arrived. Regardless of how cold it was, I had been inside so much that I wanted to walk and be outside for just a few minutes; alone with my thoughts.
It was snowing. Lightly. This was unusual as I remember, as it was so cold and not common for the weather to be both bitter cold and snowing.
I encountered another man, an older gentleman, also walking around the parking lot. It was a safe neighborhood and so I engaged him in conversation.
“Hello.” I said. “What are we doing out here in this weather?”
He chuckled. “It’s not as cold as where I’m from.” He said.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Buffalo, New York.” He responded.
I just looked at him. Stared into his eyes. I’m not sure how long I waited before I responded back.
“I’m from Buffalo too. I grew up there.” I shared with this stranger who I seemed to have a connection to in some small way.
“I left a long time ago.” He said. “I had a stand at the Broadway Market many years ago. Have you heard of it?” He asked.
I paused. I was silent. I don’t know for how long. Time seemed to stand still.
“My grandfather had a stand there, Stand 100, from the 1950’s to the 1970’s. He sold fruits and vegetables.” I responded.
No other words were spoken. He said nothing else, and I was at a loss, mentally unable to process what was occurring in that moment.
The more I looked at the man the more I was reminded of my grandfather.
Was this really happening?
My cell phone started ringing. I looked and it was my girlfriend calling. I said, “excuse me for a moment” to this “stranger” and turned away to answer the phone. I was on for less than 20 seconds. She was calling to tell me that they were pulling into the parking lot and would see me soon. I hung up and turned back around.
The man was gone.
There was no other store this “stranger” could have gone to in the moments of my distraction. There was a fence between the lot where I was parked and the next lot. I looked around for a few minutes and the man was nowhere to be found. He had vanished.
To this day I can remember his face, his words, his hat, his mustache, his eyes, his voice, how he appeared out of nowhere and disappeared in the same way. Did I imagine the entire incident? Did Papa Izzy come to visit me from some other place? Do I want to believe that he came to see me? And is this a story that I have told myself to satisfy my soul? I simply don’t know.
I finally gave up looking and met my girlfriend and her family at the restaurant entrance. She could tell something was off about me. I insisted that I was fine and that I would tell her later that evening.
I wasn’t fine.
This was unlike anything I had experienced before. Maybe I was overthinking the entire event. Maybe it was simply a statistical probability that someday I would meet someone from Buffalo who had a stand at the Broadway Market.
I had a few more drinks than usual at dinner. I was quieter than I normally would be at a festive gathering. My mind was elsewhere and would remain there for the next several days as I tried to reconcile what I thought I experienced with what I wanted it to be.
I came to no explanation that was satisfactory. And that is why that event on that cold winter day in the northwest suburbs of Chicago still rattles around in my head and probably will for the rest of my life.
I first considered writing this story in January of 2021 as I was contemplating Anchor Points in our lives. I completed a first draft in August 2021. I told a few people about it. Life happens. Plans change. People come in to and leave your life for a variety of reasons. Friendships fade. Circumstances change. Illness changes our priorities. People pass away. The last two years have been filled with anchor points which have left many impressions, altered my course, and changed my plans.
And now is the time for me to share my story about Papa Izzy and Stand 100. Memories and Imagination interwoven into something which brings some satisfaction to my soul.
If anyone has a similar story to share, I’d love to hear about it.
Jerry is the author of “Small Doses: Common Sense to Common Practice,” a book which contains 18 thought pieces about the intersection of Process Improvement, Leadership and Life. Jerry also writes short stories about life experiences (Anchor Points) and the profound lessons that can be learned from before and after those moments.
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Fascinating. Thanks for sharing your story--it has encouraged me to pause and reflect on my "anchor points" in life.