July 31, 2003


  • Today Mom invited me along for a potluck picnic in Golden Gate Park with a couple of her female coworkers, Sallie and Diedre.   Afterwards, we toured the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where they're presently exhibiting the work of Russian painter Marc Chagall.  We had a really nice time.   Diedre, whom I've heard so much of but had yet to meet, was so neat.   We drove to her apartment in the Mission District to pick her up.   We were somewhat early and had gotten distracted talking when a knock on the car window alerted us to a radiant young woman with long golden hair, penetrating grey eyes, and a flawless peaches and cream complexion.   She smiled warmly at me, introduced herself, and her voice was so clear and gentle and light, she seemed like an angel.   I remembered my mother saying the girl did lots of volunteer work with handicapped children, so that completed the picture.   I couldn't believe it when she said she was thirty-two; being good must stop the aging process, for she appeared no older than twenty.   But I couldn't help feeling a little shocked when, making room for the quaint wicker picnic hamper she'd brought in the back seat, she unveiled the cumbersome brown wooden cane she always carried.  I hadn't seen it under her jacket, which she had draped over her arm.   So Diedre was handicapped herself.  She walked with a bad spastic limp, from a childhood bout of polio.   She'd been born in a foreign country where they often don't have vaccinations.   Beneath her professional linen outfit she was thin and frail.   But what courage!


    Humorous chatter of her doting engineer husband quickly returned me to my initial impression.   Of course, someone would want you; you're so beautiful, I thought.   And the limp was soon forgotten as Diedre's larger than life personality overpowered it.   She did everything perfectly.   Even Daddy would've envied the colorful cold gourmet rolled tortilla wrap sandwiches she made, accompanied by a marvelous shrimp salad and fresh lemonade in a decorative thermal carafe.   The food everybody else brought seemed thoughtlessly thrown together or too fattening and unhealthy in comparison.  


    The muggy day having erupted in a light summer shower, we decided to lunch in the car.  "Oh, how delightful!  Now we can eat to music!"  Diedre exclaimed in her habit of thinking positively.  She opened her basket and handed us each a red and white gingham napkin to spread on our laps.


    It was fascinating hearing her adventures with "physically challenged" children as we ate to the strains of low classical music.   She didn't need to have any children of her own, she claimed, with so many like these needing her love and attention.   I silently reviewed my own volunteer work, much of it with foreign students who spoke English as a second language.   Maybe I should go for a teaching credential.   Maybe my career should be more service-oriented, instead of material and striving.  I actually did find it more personally rewarding.  Diedre was just the inspiration I need to be patient and strong.