When I heard that Ingrid Kendall had died earlier this year, I remembered her
spirit and her warmth, but most of all I remembered her
generosity during the weekend when my brother was dying.
My brother and his wife were living with my mother (who was widowed) on Long Island. My mother called me in Minnesota to tell me that: my brother had been
admitted to the ICU unit of Southampton Hospital; there was not
much hope for him.
It was a Friday. I
called up United Airlines, and told them that I wanted to book a plane ticket
from Minneapolis to New York. The
response: There are no flights to New York. All the
It was ironic – here I was in Minneapols, a city known
for its snow, and its airport was open, but New York’s airports were closed.
United Airlines told me that New York would re-open on
Sunday morning. Could I book a ticket to
New York on Sunday? Sorry, all the
flights to New York out of Minneapolis on Sunday are full.
The agent then did some research. There were 11 available seats on a flight from
Chicago to New York on Sunday morning. Was I interested? I hesitated; I needed
to get to my brother, but I could not afford to stay overnight in an expensive airport hotel in Chicago. The
number of available seats dropped from 11 down to 9. Then I remembered that Ingrid Kendall lived near O’Hare Airport. I booked
a ticket.from Minneapolis
to Chicago on Saturday evening and then on to New York on Sunday morning.
I knew Ingrid Kendall because I had danced with her many
times. She had grown up in Scotland, and
she was known as “a hearty lover of Scottish country dancing”. After she moved to Chicago, she was a major
force in encouraging Scottish country dancing in the Chicago area.
I called up Ingrid and she told me I could stay at her
place. She quickly put a step-by-step plan together:
I would take the suburban limousine to her house. She would not be home, but I could find her
house key in her “hidey-hole” in the backyard.
I was to let myself in, and put the cover over the birdcage. The spare bedroom would be ready for me. On Sunday morning, Ingrid would drive me to O’Hare
to catch my plane to New York.
With my mind absorbed by my brother’s impending death, it
was a relief to have Ingrid’s plan telling me exactly what to do. Everything for my overnight stay in Chicago
fell into place. No fuss. No worry.
On Sunday morning, Ingrid drove me to O'Hare, I flew to JFK, took a bus to a subway
station, took a subway to Penn Station, took a train to my mother's town, and
finally arrived at the ICU unit of Southampton Hospital on Sunday evening.
They allowed me in for a five-minute visit. My brother was lying motionless in a coma. The hospital staff had tried to make
him look presentable by shaving his face, but they had not shaved under the
tubes that led into his nose.
The only sign of life in the room was a heart monitor screen
showing my brother’s heartbeat. I leaned
over, touched his arm, and said: “This is your brother, Doug.
I am here from Minneapolis. I
will take care of our mother and I will take care of your wife.”
My brother died 6 hours later. He had been waiting for me to arrive.
. - . - . - . - .
Here are some videos of a traditional Scottish country dance
called “Kendall’s Hornpipe”. You have
your choice of watching people in Roosendaal, Netherlands dance it or watching people
in Seattle, Washington dance it or watching chess pieces dance it.
http://www.scottish-country-dancing-dictionary.com/video/kendalls-hornpipe.html
- . - .- . - . - .
NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath. Price = $11. You can purchase a copy at http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com
No comments:
Post a Comment