CHESAPEAKE HOUSE: A CHRISTMAS MEMORY

 

When the snowy-haired hostess returned from seating a guest, she found me waiting alone in the cozy, warm lobby of Chesapeake House. I stood beneath the decorative shark hanging on the wall. A Santa hat rested atop the shark's head, with a small red and white blanket surrounding its fin and an unfortunate elf's legs dangling from its jaws. "Do you like that?" asked the hostess. "How many are in your party?"

"Just one," I smiled back. "I called in a reservation earlier today." 

She confirmed my name in her reservation book: "Oh, I see you wanted a window seat." She looked behind her, where the dining area was only half-full. "Unfortunately," she apologized, "it will be a few minutes before your table is ready." I could see other guests occupying the coveted window seats beside the famed Chesapeake Bay alligator pond.

I smiled and sat on a bench behind me. "I have plenty of time and can wait for the table." The sky outside grew darker as the glow from the Christmas lights inside illuminated the entranceway, welcoming guests to the fireside happy hour. "It's pretty here this time of year. I like how you have the restaurant decorated."

"Thank you. We try to make everything nice for Christmas." The hostess smiled and continued to greet the periodic customers arriving for dinner. "I see you are here by yourself. Is this a special occasion?"

I caught the hospitable genuineness in her eyes as we continued the conversation while I waited. "Yes, it is kind of odd," I began. My family loved coming to Myrtle Beach during the summer, and my parents always took us to Chesapeake House to eat each visit. This place is a Myrtle Beach tradition."

"Over fifty years," the hostess added. "I have been here for over forty years myself."

"Wow. That's amazing." I paused slightly, believing the lady would appreciate my reason for being there. "So my Mom passed away this past August…"

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

"Thank you," I smiled, oddly having grown more comfortable with condolences over the past several months. "Mom loved Myrtle Beach. I brought her and my aunt down here years ago. That trip was the last beach visit she had. Of course, we came here for dinner and requested a window seat by the pond. So, I kind of thought…"

"Oh, that is sweet," The hostess nodded as she caught her breath. "How old was your mother?"

"Mom was 94. We were blessed to be able to keep her at home until she passed. Not easy to do." 

The hostess took her own slight pause before continuing, "My mother passed two years ago. It is always tough for the family around Christmas. We do what we can to remember her. I love your idea, though."

Eventually, we wound through the numerous tables, some arranged for large bus groups and others for more intimate family gatherings. My table was in the far corner of Chesapeake House, directly beside the window adjacent to the pond, which was vanishing in the darkness of the December evening.

"Good evening. My name is Donna. I will be your waitress." She began removing the extra place settings. "Would you like anything to drink with your meal?"

Sometimes, we recede into ourselves and the quietness of our hearts. Other times, we can listen to a voice telling us to venture forward and embrace our reasons and feelings for arriving at the moment we have placed ourselves. The magic happens when we can be both outside and inside ourselves in the midst of the moment, watching as both spectators and actors in our own lives.

"Hi, Donna. Could you leave the setting on the other side of the table?"

"Sure. I thought you were dining alone."

"I'm not." I chuckled to myself. "Could I have a glass of pinot noir?"

Donna smiled while tilting her head oddly at me. "Sure. I will be right back with your wine and a basket of hushpuppies."

Donna left me at the corner table at Chesapeake House, where I envisioned myself sitting weeks before Thanksgiving when I planned this trip. Over the past year, the inevitable nature of life reminded me how beyond my control life appears to be and how easy it is to succumb to stress, hopelessness, and loss. 

I reached into my jacket pocket and slowly pulled out my effort to take back control of how my story unfolded. I did not need to fear discomfort and loss, and I certainly did not need to run from it. I opened the easel on the back of the small picture frame and set the picture directly on the table across from me, beginning a new memory this Christmas.

Donna's eyes locked onto the picture frame as she set down my wine and hush puppies. Since this entire meal could become uncomfortable for both of us if I did not explain myself, I shared my heart, pretending that I had known Donna for longer than ten minutes.

"Donna, this is my Mom, Betty. She passed away last August. I am not nuts or anything, OK?" I guess I needed to clarify that before continuing. "Mom loved coming to Chesapeake House, so - you know - I thought this would be good for both of us."

Donna jumped head-first into my Hallmark moment and said Mom was beautiful. I explained that this was a picture from the last time we visited Chesapeake House, pointing out the pond and the view from a side table. "I think she is even drinking some sweet tea."

"Oh, I don't think that is tea," Donna said, leaning closer to the picture of Mom. "We use different glasses for tea. That looks like a glass of zinfandel."

"Really?" I looked closer at the picture myself, struggling to recapture that dinner from years ago. Donna may have been right about this.

"This is sweet," Donna said, then taking a beat, "Would you like to know the specials?"

"Actually, no. I may not remember what Mom drank, but I know what she would want if she were here to see the menu. I will have a cup of fish stew, a salad, and fried prawns with a baked potato." I looked at Donna to see if she understood. "She always ordered that," I added. 

"Perfect," Donna laughed graciously. "I will have your stew here in a minute."

I edged the candle closer to the frame to illuminate Mom's face in the darkened dining room. After adjusting my place settings, I lifted my glass of wine to the picture. I smiled, realizing the significance of the toast: "Merry Christmas, Mom. This is for you."

Across the alligator pond, winter's darkness had replaced the early summer evening, but the tastes, the view, and the feelings remained as they had years ago. The fish stew's spicy broth blended with the sweetness of the round, golden hushpuppies. The homemade Thousand Island dressing topped the crispy salad. I sliced the cucumbers into smaller pieces, doubling the number as if Mom had offered hers to me the way she used to do. 

Donna returned, carefully clearing away the empty soup cup and salad bowl. She refilled my water glass, avoiding disturbing the candle and picture frame. "Is your dinner good so far?"

"Everything is perfect. Thank you for being so kind."

"Wonderful." Once she had her tray in order, she stopped to smile. "Well, your dinner will be out shortly." She took a step away but immediately turned back uncomfortably to the table. "Do you mind if I tell you something?"

Donna looked back at Mom's picture before I could say anything. "What you are doing here really moves me. Two days ago, I lost my mother-in-law. My husband and I had brought her here to live with us a couple of years ago. Her health had deteriorated so much."

"I am so sorry to hear that."

"Thank you," then slowly moving on, "My husband plays guitar in a Christmas show up at the other end of the beach. He had to play the night she passed because they did not have a replacement for him. I couldn't believe he went to play."

I sat there, enraptured in Donna's story, recalling how those first days after Mom passed were so overwhelming. "I can barely imagine how he felt playing that night."

"But, here is the thing," Donna added. "He has this huge part at the end of the show where the cast gathers around a fireplace on the corner of the stage. He plays the guitar as they sing carols while classic pictures of Christmas flash on a huge screen behind them."

I imagined sitting there, listening to the carols and remembering Christmases past. "That sounds like a great show."

Donna wasn't finished.

"When they started playing, the crew surprised my husband by putting a picture of his mother on the screen behind him. I started crying when he looked up to see her there." Donna glanced at Mom's picture and then back at me. "So when you did this tonight, I couldn't help but be moved."

 

"I don't know what to say. Thank you for sharing your story with me." I took an endless moment to consider the different emotions stirring in me. "You kind of make me feel normal pulling out this picture here." 

She nodded. "Hold on to those memories." Donna left me to my thoughts as she left for the kitchen.

The mood turned celebratory when Donna returned to the table with my meal, Mom's favorite at Chesapeake House. I dipped a crispy prawn into the sweet cocktail sauce and immediately ate one. Delicious. After tearing off the aluminum foil, I sliced the steaming baked potato down the middle, chopping up the insides before adding Mom's two pats of butter and two dollops of sour cream. 

Mom would always lecture me about chewing my food. I tended to gulp bites and finish before she ate half her meal. "You need to slow down when you eat. Chew your food." I took my time tonight, bite by bite, savoring each morsel in the spirit of a moment I wanted to last longer than it would.

The alligator pond was no longer visible. Darkness filled the wall alongside me, and emptiness crept onto the table. The glow of the candle near my picture frame remained steadfast, fortifying our meal for the remainder of the evening. For once, I felt comfortable and secure in my thoughts.

Life inevitably sends those we love into the darkness—not darkness in the evil sense, but darkness as in the unknown. As we search for their presence, we no longer see them but know they are with us. We find them again in our individual ways. They are there as we sing a Christmas carol, light a candle on a cold winter's night, listen to another person's tale of joy or loss, or glance at a picture in a dimly lit restaurant. 

HALLOWED GROUND

The white marble memorial stood quietly amidst the dusty snow covering the hauntingly deserted Flight 93 National Memorial. A stiff wind turned the already low winter temperatures into a bitter obstacle for anyone wishing to explore these hallowed grounds.

Only half a dozen cars sat in the parking lot when I arrived. Several vehicles remained running, pushing warm, foggy exhaust into the crisp air as passengers remained inside to wrap themselves in winter clothes for a short trek to the visitor center. I did the same, pulling on my work gloves from home and wrapping my heavy winter coat atop my hoodie.

I do not mind cold weather inside my house, where I can snuggle under a blanket beside a warm Yankee Candle and a cup of coffee. But when I am outside, I need to be thoroughly swaddled, the way Mom would layer our clothes when my brother and I were young. When I returned from those winter adventures of yesteryear, I would need to peel off the snow-encrusted layers slowly in the basement.

I was not nearly as heavily dressed as I wished I had been—poor planning on my part. So when I exited my vehicle, I imagine a casual observer inside could have mistaken the briskness of my walk for excitement about seeing the exhibit. Point A and Point B were never this far apart in recent memory.

I pushed the handicapped square on the wall to trigger the automated doors. As the heavy metal doors slowly opened, I turned my body sideways to enter more quickly to escape the cold, stomping bits of snow onto the oblong weather mats spread across the doorway. 

Within the quiet darkness of the exhibit hall, only the winter light from the windows faintly illuminated the stone interior. Smaller lights uncomfortably lit the path for visitors down the hallway into the walls of exhibits. A retelling of the events of September 11, 2001, awaited each visitor, more specifically, the tragic fate of United 93 on this very field in Eastern Pennsylvania.

Out of respect, I removed my hat, unwound my scarf, and unsnapped my winter coat. I forced myself to take a deep breath to slow down. I didn't want the energy of my mad dash through the frigid cold to continue inside the solemnity of the display on numerous walls in front of me. My self-guided tour started at the beginning, reliving the historical context and my own memories of the events unfolding on 9/11.

Looking back, we may not find particularly comfortable memories. We encounter ghosts of the good and bad in the world, the depths of the world's anger embracing the heights of its triumphs. We feel the heartbreak, loss, and the world's inability to ascribe meaning to the past while acknowledging we can never change it.

My journey throughout the stone walls of the memorial took me across time, through the very minutes and hours of that day, and how life was somewhat normal until it wasn't, perhaps ever again. I saw the map of the United States, aglow with tiny green lights showing the number of planes in the air when two planes flew violently into the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

I traced the red path of United 93 as it left New Jersey and made a pointed turn near Cleveland, Ohio. The hijacked plane flew over the tip of the northern panhandle of West Virginia, only an hour or so from where my own family lived. I revisited the uneasy feeling of the unknown and the helplessness of being so far away in North Carolina when I first heard about its flight path and crash site.

I looked through the glass to see actual remnants of United 93, the plane whose 40 passengers and crew members heroically rushed the cockpit. Circuit boards, phones, jewelry, and tickets were my physical connection to the moment and the passengers. But listening to recordings of voices through an earpiece, the last messages three passengers sent to their loved ones haunted me even more as I stood alone inside this cold memorial.

Moving on was difficult. Seeing pictures of each passenger and crew member was not easy. Having the ability to access older pictures of all of them with loved ones long before 9/11 happened was surreal. The loss of life enveloped me. I wanted to leave, avoiding the feelings this exhibit evoked inside of me. But I felt compelled to continue to pay my respects.

One of the memorial attendants explained the various ways to travel to the Wall of Names. "In this weather, you would be more comfortable driving down. It is just too cold out there." I shook my head. "I will be OK. I am all bundled up." I felt I would be less of a person, disrespectful, or, dare I say, sacrilegious if I did not walk the journey - for them.

I hiked down the nearly two-mile trail to the marble Wall of Names, using my walking stick for support, but that did little to help with the cold of such an isolated walk. Occasionally, I would look for others who had ventured down the hillside. I found no one. The frigid Pennsylvania wind spun around me, icily encouraging me to return to the warmth of my car.

But a presence was there with me, unseen. Forty people, actually, and countless others who suffered from their loss. They stood with me beside the forty individual polished marble slabs lining the area near the crash site. We walked together, reading each solitary inscribed name on its cold marble slab.

A wooden angel rested on the ground near the beginning of the wall,  directly beside Christian Adams, whose name is etched into the first slab. The rest of the slabs were linked to the previous one, representing the unity of their heroic actions on that day over two decades ago.

I asked myself how long I should stay there. In my heart, I need permission to leave. 

A darkening sky encroached upon me as an early December snowfall headed this way, and I knew I had a long walk back to my vehicle. I walked ever so slowly back up the hill. I hoped to preserve the memory of those recognized here on this cold winter day, knowing that the angel would remain with them through the cold night until the sun warmed the ground months from now.

 

WALKING THE TRAIL

Across the beautiful fall landscape of Oglebay Park, many solitary, paved trails wind the hills. The trails connect expansive hillsides with the quiet, flat areas encircling the stillness of ponds. Like all paths in life, they share tales of different journeys, those subtle differences a result of a casual choice to make a left turn up a hill or remain on a straight path down the side of a long grade. As the sun sets and an amber hue lights an orange-yellow leaved path, the shade from tall trees begins to merge with the incoming darkness, slowly becoming one as I continue my journey.

I have trekked the paved trails in the park for a while now. Over a month ago, I grabbed one of my walking sticks out of the decorative milk container on the porch. The sticks had remained there for the longest time as I caught my breath while sitting comfortably in a chair on the porch, watching the world go on without me. 

"Go for a walk," a voice told me. "Go for a long walk." As I climbed that first big hill above Schenk Lake, I carried my solitude with me, where the empty docks wept for the missing giant swan paddleboats. My legs were so stiff, and my breath so labored. I stopped to rest at the first park bench atop the hill. 

Below me, an older woman tossed a large blanket onto the ground amidst the leaves along the hillside. Beside her, a young boy and girl held a white pizza box, eagerly eyeing the woman's effort to quickly spread the blanket for what would probably be their last picnic of the year. All sat down beside one another on the blanket. The woman opened a pop can and then filled paper cups for them. They quietly ate their square pieces of pizza and looked at ducks floating across the still water.

The wind blew dry leaves around us. I knew I needed to keep walking. I stood up and leaned against the back of the bench, the way Mom would against the kitchen counter, before she walked around Bellovedere with her neighbor Chris. 

Despite my stretching, the walk did not become any easier on me. The walking stick helped me climb hills and maneuver down steep paths, but I struggled. The steep rise to the trellis below the greenhouse nearly had me turning around. Maroon flowers had managed to fight off the impending winter months and offered inspiration to continue my journey to the amphitheater. 

I slowly climbed the amphitheater's steps, the pain in my legs finally disappearing. The area was empty except for piles of leaves that the wind had blown into inescapable corners of the stage. The brick walls shared little with the rows of vacant wooden benches stretching up the concrete hillside. No music, no plays, no graduations. All would need to wait for the warmth of summer and for visitors to return. Now, only the whispered echoes of celebration remained.

I grew cold as the emptiness and fading light left me uncomfortable with the solitude who had been my companion for most of the journey. The light of the yellow Mansion Museum reminded me of warmer places and a pathway to return home. I walked along the rust-colored brick path to the front of the museum, where I found I was not as alone as I thought.

An organized group of young people laughed while standing in two lines around the front of the mansion. An anticipatory excitement permeated the cool air. Men and women were equally divided, with a solitary pair at the forefront. A single woman referred to a clipboard she carried close to her chest, checking off what appeared to be a list of tasks to accomplish before it became too dark. "OK, everyone. One more time. We are almost finished." The lines quieted as they retraced steps through the leaves, only to begin a procession toward the front of the mansion again. 

Looking to the horizon as the sun began to sink lower and lower, I moved the walking stick with greater imperative. I crossed back toward my starting spot near Schenk Lake. The hillside opposite the one above the lake was just as beautiful, but I hesitated to slow down to enjoy the view. I eventually circled the lake and headed toward the shelter above the playground I occasionally visited as a child. I wanted a spot where I could write.

Under the shelter, huge, red shuttle buses nestled together for the winter. More leaves, some crunchy dry with others mushy wet, accumulated beneath picnic benches. The benches rested atop one another in a long row, not to be used for gatherings until spring. I crept through the dark and damp shelter to the other side, where I found some remnants of light shining down dully on a park bench perched above the miniature golf course.

I rested my stick against the bench. I swung off my backpack and removed my journal. And that is where I wrote, taking stock of thoughts about my walk, what I had seen, and life.

The season had long closed this portion of the park, and in early November, the dark was supplanted by Christmas lights meticulously scattered throughout the park, ready to be ablaze for the Festival of Lights. The seasons wait for no one. 

We scamper about, trying to find a place that will hold the last lights and memories of seasons long past. Soon, no place will remain for those wandering around in the late fall still wearing shorts and hoodies. The cold of winter will soon envelop us, forcing us to search for warmer confines. Such is life; such are the seasons.