I woke up early and headed downstairs to begin what I was sure would be my Wednesday and Friday routine—at least until I moved and could read the paper alone at my own breakfast table. Duke was waiting at the door. Since I had returned home, Dad had an excuse not to walk him.“Why should Duke be walked twice?” he asked. Duke merrily led the way out the front door, and I saw the paper resting safely between the iron railing and the boxwoods, perfectly placed by a hurried paperboy.
About the time we hit the sidewalk, I spied Grant’s image two blocks down, coming my way. I did a one-eighty, ducked, and tugged at Duke’s leash to follow. I climbed the stairs in a crouched position and headed safely back inside. As I closed the door quietly, I tried to catch my breath.
“Good boy, Duke,” I said, reaching down to pat his head and feeling nothing.“Duke!” I screamed at the end of a leash that disappeared to the other side of the door. I opened the door just a crack. Duke was staring at me in disgust. I opened the door and snatched him in as quickly as possible. Then I waited. Duke sat by me, stoic and calm, while his master was fidgety and anxious.
“It’s really nothing,” I assured him.“We’ll leave in just a moment. It simply didn’t feel like the right time.”
After a good ten minutes, Duke and I headed to the park where we nestled ourselves on the closest park bench. It still gave me chills to see my picture on the front page of section B with my name underneath, knowing my mother had nothing to do with it. Duke was thankful for the breather, and I strapped his leash around my ankle and began to read the second and final part to my first human-interest story.
I tried to savor it, knowing I’d experience this first only once. For all the pain of the week, I had come to realize how little I had appreciated first things. My first kiss,my first love . . . even my first public failure. These moments pass too quickly,moving from magic to familiarity. So I read slowly and appreciated every dotted i, comma, and period.
I owe this city an apology. But first, I must apologize to the woman who was the subject of my Wednesday column. To act as if it was my right to tell someone else’s story was presumptuous and arrogant. It is a privilege to know a person; it is an honor to know her story. And it is a treasure to be given a person’s time, which is what you offer me on Wednesdays and Fridays. Wasting it with thoughtlessness was inexcusable. I assure you, if you would entrust your time to me once more, I will handle it with grace and caution.
I have learned a great deal over the past twenty-four hours. I have learned the real human-interest story I sought had nothing to do with the story that I spent days investigating. There is much even for me to learn about my treatment of those entrusted to me. In a way, Savannah’s beauty queen was entrusted to me, and I failed her. In desiring to help her fly again, I clipped her wings instead. I hope she will forgive me.
I’ve also spent the last twenty-four hours asking myself many questions about loss and disappointment and defeat. No one wants anyone to see his or her failures. And by exposing another’s, I lived my own. The lesson was hard. But the outcome will hopefully make me more aware—aware that failure and loss, when accompanied by a true desire to learn, is often the necessary road to achieving a dream.
We experience loss every day. I lost a book deal because of a misguided attitude. I lost a good human-interest story because of arrogance, and I almost lost this opportunity to commune with you, right here on these pages, because my failure tempted me to throw it all away.
My greatest failure, however, was the misconception that another’s loss paled in comparison to my own. A fine lady taught me that one. She caused me to realize that even if the dream isn’t yours, the death of it is no less significant.
This beautiful city boasts at least two women who know the secret of weathering loss. One stands on the corner of one of our squares, selling books and dispensing smiles. Katherine Owens has faced the loss of a dream and the loss of her love. The loss of a dream introduced her to the man of her dreams. And the loss of that man propelled her into yet another new dream. She could have wallowed in her world of disrepair. But she knew, even on dark nights, that opportunity awaited her. And morning always showed up. Mrs. Owens will tell you that to lose is only to begin something new, to discover something you would have missed had success taken you down a different path.
The other woman has taken on challenges I would never have the courage to face myself. My mother has loved her husband and children, breathed life into this city, and found jobs for people in whom she’s seen hidden potential, and all this after losing her own greatest dream. Yet Victoria Phillips refused to allow that loss to define her future, and as a result, her life has touched the lives of all of us who live here, and none more than mine.
We experience loss in families, in football games, in the stock market. But what if in the midst of those losses we could remember the successes? What if in the moment the marriage seemed to be crumbling we grabbed hold of each other and remembered the wedding day, the birth of our children, the sharing of dreams, the telling of secrets, the love that we’ve made, and the heartbreaks we’ve shared? Could focusing on the fulfillment of the past allow us to realize that today’s conflict will pass as well?
Today I challenge you to reject loss and disappointment as your companions. Let’s resolve to face our crippling moments with the courage of Katherine Owens and Victoria Phillips. We will face lies and deceit, unfairness and cruelty, bad economies and sickness. What we do in the face of such circumstances is what will set our course. It is what will lead us to a corner bookstore or to the Chamber of Commerce. What will you do in the face of your life losses? Whatever you do, rest assured you will never be the same for having met them and faced them well. Nor will the life of our city.
Until Wednesday,
Savannah from Savannah
Someone sat down beside me and started petting Duke. When Grant’s face registered, paper, park bench, and me all about went flying. So much for avoidance.
“Have mercy! you about scared me to death,” I said, crumpling the paper to my chest so I could grab my heart.
“Well, you were so focused I didn’t want to bother you. So what did you think?”
“What did I think about what?”
“About your article.”
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed that I had been caught reading my own work.“Well, I just wanted to see if it had to be edited much.”
“Savannah Phillips, I know you. You would read me everything you wrote. You would call me at three in the morning just to read me something, whether I was cognizant or not,” he said, laughing.
I couldn’t believe he would bring all of that up. They weren’t things I wanted to remember just then.“Well, that was a long time ago,” I said. I stood as if to go.
“I’m sorry. Just wanted you to know you made the right decision. Well, I’m sure I’ll see you soon. And I would really love for you to meet Elisabeth.”
“Well, I’m sure we’ll meet eventually. I really need to hurry. I hope you have a good day. It was nice to see you,” I said as I walked past him.
“It was nice to see you too. Nice tan,” he said as he headed in the opposite direction. I turned to watch him jog away and knew I must choose how this loss would define me. There was the convent option, which might afford me a teaching position at Saint Vincent’s Academy. That wasn’t appealing. There was the “I’ll never love again” recluse option. Paige would never allow it. Or there was the option to live my life, write well, and perhaps one day meet a man who would rock my world like Jake did Victoria’s, or Jim did Katherine’s, and experience that cataclysmic risk of marriage. Or maybe not.
I stared into my closet. Each color represented some-thing to me. Khakis reflected my nature of somewhat predictability. All the black represented my desire to fit in while standing out. And my flip-flops represented my need to feel free. Today, I wanted to reflect something different. Something less safe. Something, dare I say, more Savannah. Today required a dress, a blue denim sleeveless wrap dress. So I put it on and slid my feet into my cute leather-between-the-toes Kate Spade sandals with matching bag.
Vicky was pulling out of the garage as I came out the side door. She backed up to position herself beside my car, stopped, and rolled down her window. “Savannah Phillips, you look absolutely breathtaking. Have you met a man?” she asked, staring at me.
“No, it’s Friday and I feel like wearing a dress. I do that sometimes, you know,” I said, opening my own car door and sitting down where I could see her eye to eye.“I was hoping I’d see you before I left. Would you have time to go to lunch today? I have somebody I’d like you to meet.”
“You must be ill! Do you have a fever? We need to get you checked. Maybe you have Lyme disease. You know, Duke is probably loaded with ticks and you might have gotten one on you. Get out of the car, go upstairs, and let me take your temperature. That thing could be sucking the blood out of your brain as we speak,” she said, turning off her car.
“Mother, please. I am fine,” I said, starting my own.“And Duke doesn’t get out enough for a tick to even find him. Seriously, I want you to have lunch with me. Today is a special day.”
Well, that stopped her ranting. “Then yes, Savannah, I would love to have lunch with you, and it is a special day. Your article was one of the nicest things I’ve ever read. I am supremely proud of you, supremely proud. But promise me, if you ask to go shopping with me too, we will head straight to the emergency room.”
“Would that really be so shocking?”
“As shocking as if you said you had always had a secret desire to enter a beauty pageant yourself.”
“If I ever say that, I’ll need more than an emergency room, I’ll need to be admitted for psychiatric evaluation. I’ll see you at noon. Let’s meet at The Lady & Sons.”
“I’ll see you at noon. Get checked, honey. Really, get checked,” and she drove off in her Mercedes coupe convertible that she bought purposefully so Duke could never ride in it. Dad bought the SUV so Duke could ride in it whenever he wants.
I placed another call on the way to Dad’s shop. Another invitation to lunch. It was accepted. Then I called Claire. I told her that I should have enough money to move into the new place in about a week or so. I asked her to see if that would be OK with the landlord. She assured me it would. But I told her to check anyway.