Saturdays with Seniors: Feeling Fine with Marjorie

I am pleased to feature Marjorie Freed as our Saturdays with Seniors guest blogger today. Longtime Chicago residents might remember her as the owner of Nonpareil, one of the coolest shops on Clark Street back when Clark Street was full of very cool independently-owned stores. She and her husband Harvey collected outsider art and were among the founders of Chicago’s Intuit: The Center for Intuitive and Outsider Art. Marjorie has taken my memoir classes for over a dozen years, we’ve become friends, and I trust her to help me choose good colors to wear. She has accompanied me on shopping trips from time to time, and we’ve figured out ways to safely meet outdoors for coffee during these past months. We celebrated her 86th birthday during our Monday Village Chicago Memoir Class this past week, and I’m continuing the celebration by sharing this essay she wrote when I asked writers to choose a Beatles song title to use as their writing prompt.

I Feel Fine

by Marjorie Freed

My parents were both very traditional. I was expected to follow their behavior, no questions asked.

As I was finishing college I began to realize how boring life in the Milwaukee suburbs had been in comparison to the new world I’d discovered beyond it. Deciding to move to New York after college to begin a career was pivotal. I’d fallen into that decision accidentally by taking my dad’s advice to move there.

Marjorie and Harvey

My parents fought, but only about my father’s workaholic behavior. He truly adored his work, and told me that by taking a job in New York I’d be able to observe how important work was “for men.” Then, he explained, once I got married, I’d be sympathetic to my husband’s expected desire to work hard, too.

New York was lively with umpteen venues for engagement almost constantly: Judy Garland was in town, Moliere plays in French were just about understandable, and many men sought my company. I discovered it was exotic to be from Milwaukee.

One romance inadvertently led me to Chicago, a good deal less frenzied than New York. My job was interesting but eventually the marriage idea took over. I married Harvey, whom I’d met at University of Michigan in our freshman English class.

Later the army draft led us to two life-changing years in Panama. Hispanic culture was interpreted for us in detail by a terrific bi-lingual couple we met there. The whole experience sharply severed our relationship with “home,” and, most importantly, insisted that we think for ourselves in a less traditional way.

Motherhood was a shocking experience. I was the main guide for this small somewhat shy little boy. We went to the Loop to look at Sullivan and ran into a schizophrenic woman on the spot. We looked at Diane Arbus at the Museum of Contemporary Art (MCA). We also immersed ourselves in a paper exhibit at the MCA, wading through paper shreds and looking around a lot. Following a rumor, we took a bus to watch the Beatles wave just their arms and hands at us through a mostly closed hotel room window across the street from a playground. We learned how to engage with a difficult friend’s also difficult son.

I loved the not-boring city. Ian began to threaten me with ideas such as, “When I grow up I’m going to move to a trailer in Northbrook.” Later when he and his younger brother Dan began to meet others their age, some of whom lived in those suburbs, they thanked me for bringing them up in the city. Both sons eventually settled in distant cities; Seattle and Brooklyn. We travelled as often as we could to visit our three perfect grandchildren.

Decades passed. Harvey became very ill with two serious diseases. He kept falling and I kept calling the fire department. He moved to a senior care facility. I sold our house, moved myself and disposed of mountains of belongings. Good friends were dying, a distressing life phenomenon we knew about but couldn’t actually imagine.

Then Harvey died, too.

So far, I’m lucky. Every day brings pleasures, simple and more complex, along with much contemplation.

I do feel fine. For now.