Maybe they had a bad day...maybe you caught them after they had a bad moment...maybe they are having a bad time overall. Maybe they are incredibly organized, or hopeful, or cautious, or optimistic. Maybe you shouldn’t judge when you don’t know what happened or is happening in their life. You don’t know their story or, at least, their complete story. Maybe something that happened years ago still impacts them. Everyone has a story. Here is a chapter from mine.
It was April 10, 1976. A Saturday. The first weekend of spring vacation and our day at my parents’ liquor store in South Norwalk, Connecticut was almost at a close. I was sitting at a table that my sister and I had sanded and painted mint green, either reading or drawing - I can’t recall. Both my parents were behind the counter when a man walked in and asked for a bottle from the refrigerator case behind them. Instead of taking money out of his pocket to pay for it, he took out a handgun and demanded money from our cash register.
Holding the bottle over his head, my dad yelled, “Get the hell out of here, you SOB!” While coming around the counter, he was shot and went down before he got far, dazed, onto the floor. My mother, also holding a bottle, came out from behind the counter and began to chase the man from the store. I moved from my table and stood in front of the refrigerator where the beer was kept. They passed right in front of me, him moving backward, her facing him. They both went out the door, my mom hitting him with the bottle before he ran away. I was still frozen in front of the refrigerator that was filled with Budweiser and Colt 45. My mom opened the door and came in - she was bleeding, there was a hole in her leg. She walked to the phone hanging on the wall and called the police. My dad, still quiet, in shock, holding his leg. I was ten.
What happened immediately after that is a blur. The ambulance came, the police came. My parents were taken away and my sister and I got to ride in a police car - I learned about military time that night. We were eventually taken to a friend’s house. We stayed with them until my mom’s Aunt Millie and Aunt Mary came up from the Bronx to look after us.
My mom was in the hospital for a week. The bullet had passed through her leg and she would physically be fine. My father’s kneecap was shattered by the bullet - he would be in traction for six weeks, then on crutches, followed by a brace and physical therapy. He still has the two screws in it.
There are fragments of memories from this time. My mom visited my dad in the hospital when she could. At least once she brought a pasta dinner for everyone in his hospital room. She was still going in to run the store. I can only imagine some of the conversations that took place. I was only ten and not privy to many of them. My mom was legally blind and didn’t drive. To get back and forth from the store and the hospital, she depended on public transportation, taxis and the kindness of others.
The kindness of others. Who knows what would have happened in the aftermath if not for the kindness of others? The McGuirk family looked out for my sister and me until our aunts came. Mr. McGuirk was a godsend to us. He helped my mom out a lot at the store. Then, there was Arnie. We knew Arnie from when we shopped at the Grand Union grocery store before we started shopping at Pathmark. My parents would talk to him every week. They lost touch for a while, but after the shooting Arnie came to the store. Most days. He would help my mom with different tasks, but sometimes he would help just by sitting in a chair, arms crossed. He was a big guy. Effectively, he became our security. There were some regular customers who helped out as well. The community reached out to us. The police officers in the neighborhood would check in with her. One of the customers was a contractor and reconfigured the store floor plan so it was less open - creating a fortress of protection.
Eventually, the doctor would tell my dad that the Connecticut winters would be hard on his recovering knee. As far as I know, this statement was the catalyst for action by my parents, but I have to think it was more like a permission slip to cut their losses. After all, it must have been difficult for my mom to go to the store every day (except Sunday) wondering just how safe this was, would it happen again, would they be as “lucky” the next time? Could they afford to stay?
It all happened quickly (at least from the perspective of a now eleven-year-old girl). Possessions were sold, plane tickets were bought, some things were stored. On December 15, 1976, we landed in Florida and stayed with my Aunt Tessie. Within a week, we had purchased a Plymouth Volare station wagon, loaded it up and drove to St. Petersburg where we began a new chapter of our lives. While there is something to the attitude of “this happened, it’s over, dust yourself and move on,” there are always feelings you can’t shake, thoughts that stay, questions that linger. Sometimes in the quiet dark, insidious thoughts invade your subconscious.
Our lives were different - my dad went back to making a living as an accountant - we hung our wash out to dry and tried to remember to bring it in before the afternoon storms rolled in - the Florida humidity became my hair’s biggest foe. While my father would sometimes refer to the shootings, my mother rarely did, at least not to me. Maybe she tucked it away, she was too busy dealing with the here and now. My parents didn’t have health insurance while they owned the store, and we were sending money to my dad’s doctor for years after we moved away. Three years later, the state of Connecticut flew both my parents up to testify at the trial. My dad testified, my mom did not. Other than remembering the colors of the clothes he wore, she would not be able to identify him with certainty in the courtroom. I am sorry that they had to revisit the crime.
My dad said there were numerous charges against the man. He was sentenced, and as far as my dad knows, he served his time. My parents never shared his name with me. It’s probably a good thing. In this age of the internet, I’m sure I would have googled it if I knew it. Occasionally I wonder about him, though. At some point, I hope he learned from his mistakes. I hope he found the love of God or the love of a good woman and turned his life around. I doubt he ever gave us a second thought. I think he just wanted money. He was close enough to kill my parents, my sister, me. I thank God that he aimed down. Maybe he didn’t take our money that night, but he did steal from us. He stole opportunities, time with our extended families, choices.
As a result of this, there are some “triggers” for me that I won’t waver on - I don’t ever want guns in my home and I never want to own my own business. I learned many lessons from my parents - among them adapting, forgiving, accepting your hand and dealing with it with the tools you have. My family was a very tight unit, maybe tighter than we would have been if we had stayed in Connecticut. Laughter, kindness, doing your best, these were part of our make-up. While what occurred was tragic, it wasn’t a tragedy because we recovered in ways we didn’t expect and we experienced kindness through our community. It was a long time ago and I am looking at it with a different perspective. I’m sure when we were in the thick of it, there might have been flashes of anger, angst, grief. I’m sure there were days that someone could have judged our behavior, not knowing the backstory.
Whether they share it with you or not, everyone has a story. Some chapters are fascinating. Some, not so much. Really, though, because of mine, I try to remember this fact and choose kindness. Because, I don’t know your story - and it might make a difference.
