×

Quick breakfast, long conversation

Commentary

I’ve been honored to compose articles that provide the general public access to behind the scenes scenarios. Occasionally, an article touches in on an individual or even a couple, struggling with mental, emotional and spiritual well-being.

When a call for counseling and therapy comes in, I’m glad when an article is referenced that inspired them to reach out for help. My picture is posted alongside the article. I take a lot of good-natured teasing in response to the photo. One cool morning, I treated myself to breakfast at a well-established restaurant. I enjoy their food, especially the home fries; what a treat.

Across the dining room, several people were quietly eating their meal. Then the unexpected happened. A woman rose from her seat and made her way to my table where I sat alone; this was a work day. I had picked up tune-up and oil change items for my riding mowers and I didn’t mind wearing scruffy jeans laced with mud stains, a checkered shirt with a hoodie, and bam boots. My disheveled hair, pressed down by my hat. “Excuse me, sir, are you the man who writes articles in the newspaper?”

I looked up into the eyes of a woman whose countenance demonstrated years of outdoor work. She, too, interestingly wore outdoor wear. “Yes, ma’am. Is there something I can help you with ma’am?”

“May I sit with you for a moment? Sorry to interrupt your meal.”

She pointed to her own table. “My friend over there, her name is Alice. She and her husband are kin. They’ve been staying in our guest bedroom and sharing our home for several months. Now, I’m wondering if you’d be willing to talk with her. She is awfully sad; today’s the first time we got her out for a ride to eat breakfast at this nice place.”

I was savoring those home fries and an omelet and had only a few bites. “Are you sure she wants to do this here right now, ma’am?”

“Make hay, you know that one?” “I sure do. Is she drinking coffee? I’ll order her a warm-up if she chooses. Will you join her?”

“I’ll ask her. By the way, you can call me Irene.”

“Glad to meet you, Irene. Go invite Alice to my table. What about the two men?” “Oh, one’s my husband, the other our son. I believe they’ll stay put, then go pick up supplies. We own a farm. Not real big, though, but big enough for us. Be right back.”

I had one of those unexplained moments. Do I shovel my meal down like a starved-crazed man? Do I eat while this woman talks?

While in deliberation, Alice and Irene joined me. I pushed aside my meal. I did grab two potatoes itching to be eaten and wolfed them down. Savoring was for another time.

I stood up and shook Alice’s meaty hand, clearly a woman who endured years of work. How do you do?

“Sir, what’s your name?” “My name is Marshall.” “OK, this is my dear friend Alice. Alice, meet Marshall. He writes articles in our newspaper on mental health subjects.”

Alice took a sip from her warm-up.

“Sorry to have interrupted your breakfast. I saw you grab those home fries. Guess you’re hungry. By the way, I make a case for the best home fries you ever ate.”

Allowing for some nervous small talk, I took a gulp of water. “So, Alice, what’s going on? Irene, your friend here, says you are sad, is that true?”

“You might say that. You see, ever since we moved here at Irene and Jim’s insistence, we’re at a loss to figure out life. My husband, Mack we call him, he’s really sad. In fact, he won’t leave their farm. He sits, watches television, helps Jim a bit, and eats and sleeps. Well, sort of. .. he sleeps miserably. I’m sadder for him than for myself. You see, we are farmers, too, like Irene and Jim. We owned a large farm out in the Midwest. We’re what you might call conservative church-going folks who believe in hard work and family. Our farm had grown through many generations from Mack’s family. They came over from Ireland and settled into growing crops for sale.

“We owned a beautiful old farmhouse, storage building for equipment and grain silos, lots of them. We were feeding America and maybe other countries. Competition from overseas countries got political. Suddenly, expectations for farmers took a nosedive, like many businesses, by the way. I did all the bookkeeping. We went from being prosperous to …”

Alice began to cry and Irene held her friend together. “I’m sorry. This has been so hard. I worry about Mack. He feels so temble. We gladly accepted Irene and Jim’s invitation. You can’t imagine the shame, the anger we feel. We thought our politicians had our best interest at heart.

“Mack feels betrayed.

“We had to sell our family farm. Our children who worked with us had to relocate and to find jobs. They have our grandkids that we used to see daily. Now, we talk to them by phone. I miss holding my girls, my boys,” Alice’s body shook, tears flowing.

“Alice, your story is heart wrenching. I wonder what you’re thinking. What led you to talk with me?”

“I’m worried sick about Mack. He’s not himself. I worry he’ll take his life. Oh my God,” Irene looked at me.

“We want to hire you to help Mack. He doesn’t know we want help. Can you come to our place to meet?” I agreed. They left and I took out money for my breakfast. The waitress said, “These folks paid for your breakfast and they ordered you a fresh batch of home fries, eggs, toast, and OJ, too.”

Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me.

Marshall Greenstein, a Cassadaga resident, holds a masters degree in marriage and family counseling and is a licensed marriage and family counselor and a licensed mental health counselor in New York state. He has regular office hours at Hutton and Greenstein Counseling Services, 501 E. Third St., Suite 2B, Jamestown, 484-7756. For more information or to suggest topics, email editorial@observertoday.com.

Newsletter

Today's breaking news and more in your inbox

I'm interested in (please check all that apply)
Are you a paying subscriber to the newspaper? *
   

Starting at $4.62/week.

Subscribe Today