Published: May 22, 2008 03:14 pm         

Hawthorn Hill

By RICHARD J. deROSA
Civility

Sitting here staring out my study window watching dark clouds scudding eastward, it seems an eternity that we returned home from a two-week river journey through Belgium and Holland just a few days ago.

Any trip is characterized by an accumulation of experiences. Some are rather ephemeral; others linger a bit longer, then fade. Some linger forever. As much as we enjoyed the countryside, the quaint villages, the wonderful people, the bustling cities and the museums housing some of the world’s greatest art, an afternoon spent in Amsterdam’s botanical garden remains, at least for me, an enduringly poignant reminder of what is possible in life. It is also a reminder of the fragility of contemporary life. By that I mean the growing cult of selfishness throughout the land, and the incremental erosion of civil behavior both in the conduct of our personal and public lives.

After a morning of walking along Amsterdam’s beautiful canals and quaint side streets, we finally arrived at our destination, Amsterdam’s botanical garden, one of the oldest in the world. It is a small but beautifully designed garden. We had a great time just ambling about enjoying the peace and quite and the extraordinary beauty of the gardens. As is my wont, hunger overtook me, so we found a table at the garden cafe, put in our order, grabbed our books, and started reading while waiting for the alwayswelcome glass of wine. A few minutes later, the wine arrived, I put my book down, took a sip, and then looked around the cafe. Just across the courtyard from us, seated at a table in the shade, an elderly couple dressed quite formally, their canes stretched across the glass table top, sat reading.

I am a very poor judge of age. Sandy guesses that they were in their 90s. Nosy bugger that I am, I peeked over to see what he was reading; she was holding her book well down on her lap, so I never did see the title. He was reading a history of Islamic philosophy in French.

Hmm, I thought, here is this very patrician old gentleman intellectually curious enough to better inform himself about a culture that will be center stage for some time to come, like it or not. Several minutes later, he put his book down, moved his chair a bit more deeply into the shade, picked up his book again, and continued reading. Sandy pointed out that he too read with a pen in hand. She also thought she saw him look our way, thinking he might be just as curious about what we were reading.

When the sun got to be a bit strong for them, he got up, placed his hand under his wife’s left elbow, and tried unsuccessfully to help her up. She appeared to be quite a bit less mobile than he was. She sort of plopped back down in her chair, picked up her book, and began reading again. He sauntered off into a corner of the cafe, disappeared, and returned a few minutes later.

But before he sat down, he put his hand on his wife’s shoulder, clearly a gesture of love, and then very carefully picked away a few small specks of something, flower petals I would like to think, from her very smart white blazer. It was a gesture that I will never forget. It spoke of all that is fine and good and lovely about human life. That these two loved one another still at this stage of their lives with a quiet passion deeper than thought I do not doubt.

Perhaps my assumptions about them and their lives are wrong. I do not think so. Every once in a while, they would look briefly at one another smile, and continue reading. As Sandy has so sagely put it, what these two appeared to share was a lifelong devotion to one another deepened by the time’s swift and quiet passage.

We were struck by the fact that they did not order anything to drink or eat. One of my mother’s favorite words was habitue. Her use of the word to describe certain people always struck me as forced, stuffy, and always embarrassing. Looking back, perhaps the contexts were appropriate and I was the problem, not her. There are those moments in life when we do become our parents. Fortunately it happens later in life when we can joke about it and, most importantly, actually be pleased by it. At any rate, when the waiter gave us the check we asked him about them. It turns out that they live nearby. They do not have a garden, so they come to the garden quite regularly and often spend the afternoon sitting at a table in the cafe reading. In short, they are habitues. As I sit here, writing, it is almost as if I am still sitting at the table there on that warm sunny afternoon. I am sipping my wine, looking up once in a while from my book to glance at these two lovely people whose existence will forever be wordlessly merged with mine. A part of me wanted to walk over, introduce myself, and strikes up a conversation.

The unconfident, socially incompetent spirit that hangs about me like a shroud won the day and I sat still. Perhaps that is best. Breaking the silence might have shattered the myth now turned dream.