Last week I had lunch with two acquaintances whom I hadn’t seen for quite a long time. Between munching on low-caloried salads and diet Coke, we tried to catch up on the major things that had happened in our lives since we’d last seen one another. After disposing of couples who divorced and elderly who died and those who moved to other parts of the country, we asked each other about what our children were doing.
Mother number one told me about her two daughters, their husbands, and their children, all living within fifteen minutes driving distance from her home. She spoke proudly about their jobs and the successful careers they had. She spoke about her grandchildren and their accomplishments academically and in their chosen sports. She spoke about trips she’d invited them on. And she told me about seeing them often, picking them up from school and taking them to their lessons, be it gymnastics, ballet, or soccer. During her discourse, she praised each and every member of her family and expressed an enthusiasm and joy in spending so much time with them.
Three days later, I again found myself at lunch with mother number two, this time at a Mexican restaurant with a large tostada and glass of ice tea in front of each of us. My companion, I had never elevated either one of my luncheon parters to the friend category, went through the same discourse about her family. Her children also lived close to her and told me about each of their jobs, how old each grandchild is and where he or she is going to school and what their particular sport was in which they participated. What was missing was any element of appreciation or pride in what each was doing.
I asked if the daughter who was living in Oregon had any children and she said no. I probably was out of line in asking if the couple had problems in that regard or whether they simply decided not to have children, something that I find not so unusual in this generation. She answered that she did not know … she never asked.
I thought that unusual. I tend to think other people’s actions or decisions unusual when they behave in a fashion that is foreign to me. I was going to go on with our conversation by asking how often she saw the children who lived in her proximity, but then thought better of it. What was missing was the enthusiasm and joy that was expressed by the lady with whom I’d had lunch earlier in the week.
It got me to thinking about this thing called love. Then I remembered my first writing teacher who’d advised us that love was the hardest subject a writer could take on. But here I go with the first blog on my subject. Analyzing what I had experienced this last week, I felt that love is not something that can be ordered like polite behavior or good manners. Love is something that is there, or not. Love is something some people are capable of, or not. Perhaps there are reasons for this being so … or not. It makes you wonder, what is this elusive thing called love.