Finding a Soul Mate (Meant to be Together Book 1)

by Ally Richards

  “Many of them only know life on the farm, but need to understand how to work with machinery when they get here,” Rose informed me.

  What could be better than helping people learn job skills so they could take care of themselves? This was a wonderful idea, and I told them that they could count on me to help.

  “I’m so glad you feel that way,” Rose said.

  As they discussed various upcoming projects, I let them know what I would like to do. One of the projects consisted of setting up an English-language library so students could read about the US and its constitution. I immediately volunteered to run that project knowing I would write a letter to Mrs. Goldenberg back in Iowa for recommendations of books we should purchase for the library.

  Rose was glowing when I volunteered. This was obviously an organization of doers, not talkers. Certainly, this was my type of group.

  Traveling home, I told Manny about ORT and what help I offered.

  Manny told me, “Harry said he and some other doctors want to build a hospital closer to our town. I’m going to meet with him, and some of the other business owners in the area, to discuss plans.”

  Then Avram told us, “We’ve barely been here a week and I feel like I have known these people all my life. I’m sure I’ll get to know Harry well. After all, he’s a card player.”

  We all laughed. Avram was right. He and Harry became best friends. In between card games, Harry showed Avram how to plant and prune fruit trees for our yard. The two of them were practically inseparable in the spring, summer, and fall, helping each other with their orchards. Avram started reading about trees and how to take care of them. Within a few years people from all over our town were coming by to ask Avram or Harry about taking care of their fruit trees.

  On one of his trips to the University in Seattle to learn more about metallurgy, Manny met a university professor that taught classes in arboriculture. He arranged for a private class for Avram and Harry. The professor took the train to our town and spent an entire weekend talking trees and tree cultivation.

  Avram and Harry were like school children. The professor even lent them some books from the university library to study. Within weeks, the two of them memorized the books and sent them back to the professor. One of my strongest memories of that time was watching Avram sitting with a text book, a note book, and a dictionary. Whatever he lacked in brain power, he made up for in effort.

  The two men had an interesting effect on each other. Avram taught Harry how to relax, which included daily walks. And Avram started reading the newspaper every day, as well as getting books from the library so he could become more knowledgeable about the subjects that he and Harry discussed during their walks.

  Prior to their friendship, apparently no one could convince Harry to relax. All he thought about was his Rose, his children, and his medical practice. Not necessarily in that order. Rose tried to get him to relax for years. Nothing doing. Not until Avram came along.

  It started when Avram kept asking Harry to walk with him. Finally, Harry agreed on the condition Avram would give up smoking on their walking days.

  After a few weeks of giving up those foul cigars, Avram started feeling better than he had in years—he gave up smoking completely.

  As for Harry, the walks demonstrated what terrible shape he was in; after a few blocks he was out of breath. “I’m going to start walking every day, Rose,” he told his wife. “What kind of an example do I represent for my patients when I can’t even walk far with my friend, Avram?”

  And so, the two men could be seen on daily walks, rain or shine, every afternoon with the only exceptions being for medical emergencies.

  Rose mentioned to me that Harry told her, “It’s those walks and those fruit trees, you know. I get such a contented feeling when Avram and I are out walking around town or working on those trees. It’s not like relaxing doing nothing, but I enjoy it so.”

  Avram was also thrilled with his new friendship. “Who would have thought—a doctor and a blacksmith? What a wonderful friend I have,” he told me.

  Manny’s business was a challenge at first. The machines were put on the floor without any thought of work flow. After each machine did its job, men would hand carry the pieces to the next machine. The floor was filthy with scrap wood, shavings, and sawdust lying around everywhere. There was one small, filthy toilet for the men to use at the back of the shop. The walls hadn’t been cleaned in years and there was an obvious bearing problem in at least two of the machines. It took many months to improve.

  Manny’s strength and mind soon found the way to success—and we all knew how strong my Manny was, but the following month I found he was powerful in another way. I was pregnant.

  Chapter Ten

  ~ Lessons Learned from Children

  With all her wonderful stories, we convinced Grandma Esther to come live with us.

  Her main concern was that she would be a burden to us so we eventually agreed she could pay us rent. She would have her own apartment at our house with its own entrance.

  Esther flew back to Iowa and I arranged for a moving company to pack all her things and ship them to our home. Before her things arrived, we received a large crate. Joan and I opened it with curiosity and found the cedar chest Manny made for Esther.

  It had beautiful Pendleton blankets inside it, both new designs and old. We also found a hand-written note inside the chest that read:

  Kinder,

  I hope the blankets you place inside this old chest will bring warmth to your lives like your Grandfather Manny brought to mine.

  Love,

  Grandma Esther

  The chest was still in great condition. The finish had worn in a few places and one of the hinges which held the lid open needed repair. It was easy to lightly sand the exterior and put a modern finish on the outside so it would last another sixty-plus years. I also wound a new spring for the hinge so it worked like new. The interior cedar boards needed slight sanding and the chest was as good as new.

  It fit into our home as easily as Esther did. She joined us when she wanted and stayed in her apartment when she wanted. She and Samantha developed an especially close relationship. They went for walks together, read together, and baked together.

  Joan became pregnant six months after our wedding, and if it was possible, Esther was happier than ever thinking about, and planning for, a new baby in the house.

  Great-Grandma Esther was absolutely walking on air, thinking about the baby. I was so relieved that she would be here for Joan during that time, especially since Joan’s mom was gone.

  Joan’s sister, Golda was nearly as happy as Joan—both she and Aaron had been with Joan during the dark days of her mastectomy and were overjoyed to find out Joan was able to have more children.

  I imagined Esther spending her days reading and taking it easy after she moved in. Wrong! As soon as she was settled in her apartment, she called up the local ORT chapter and told them she was back in town. The daughter of an old friend of hers, the woman Rose she had told us about, drove over the next day to pick Esther up to attend a luncheon and meet more of the local ORT members.

  Now, Esther has different groups of ORT members in her apartment a few times a month. One time she was telling us she had to head to her apartment and make a spice cake for the women who were coming over. I offered to run to the local bakery to get something for her so she wouldn’t have to bake.

  She looked at me as if I was crazy and said, “Only if they make spice cake using Rose Mendoza’s recipe.”

  I don’t know why that was funny, but Esther sure did.

  We’d been trying to involve Samantha in getting ready for the baby as much as possible too. She’d been having a difficult time understanding the new baby would be a boy. When we went to the children’s furniture store, she kept picking out items more suitable for a girl. Joan kept trying to explain to her she should be looking for things a boy would enjoy.

  Hands on hips she explained, “Mom, I have a tough
time talking to boys. I sure don’t know what they want.”

  “What do you think your dad would want?” Joan asked her.

  “Come on, Mom! He’s going to be too small to drive a boat or something from Dad’s car collection—and unless he’s like Nathan, he won’t care much about math for a lot of years.”

  When we asked Samantha how she could help her brother become part of the family, she told us, “I can help him by telling him he has a strict dad and mom.”

  Nine months later, Ari Minkowski entered our lives, and Samantha had been right about one thing, Ari wouldn’t have Nathan’s interest in math, but things with engines—don’t ask!

  Once Ari came home, he never lacked for attention. Between Esther, Joan, Samantha, his Uncle Aaron, his Aunt Golda, my cousin Dov, and his wife Cora, some of the family were wondering if the first words he would say were going to be, “Put me down!”

  One Saturday morning, Joan was seated on the deck overlooking the lake outside our bedroom. Ari was around ten-months-old, and she was holding him in a standing position on her lap when a seaplane with an old radial engine flew slowly down the lake. As its rumbling sound passed in front of them, Joan noticed Ari turned his head toward the sound and his eyes followed the plane as it cruised down the lake.

  She started watching when loud boats raced past. Ari always stopped what he was doing to look for the source of the sound. In fact, Joan claimed that Ari was imitating engine noises before he started talking and “motor” was his first actual word.

  Joan noted that, as a preschooler, Ari’s favorite time was when I would take him for a ride in one of my antique cars. He especially enjoyed a noisy ride in my shiny black Superformance GT40. Joan was convinced that the black GT40 was the first love in Ari’s life.

  Ari was single minded. He did what he wanted to do and no amount of explanation would deter him. This was most frustrating to Joan, but less so for me. For example, I warned a three-year-old Ari that he should stay away from the street because he might get hurt. The next day Ari came up, stood in front of me with his little hands on his hips, and angrily told me, “I went near the street and I didn’t get hurt.”

  “Oh yes you did,” I yelled, grabbing Ari on the back of his collar with my left hand and giving him a quick slap on his bottom with my right.

  Ari learned quickly that it wasn’t a good idea to upset me, because there might be hell to pay. But he knew he could get away with more when Joan was involved, because that generally meant a lecture, after which he could go back to doing what he wanted. It wasn’t long before he found that he could debate with his mom during the lectures in order to extend the time before he had to start doing some household chore.

  When he tried to argue with me, I would tell him, “Do what I tell you first, then we can discuss why.”

  Naturally that defeated the purpose Ari had in mind—putting off when he had to start doing some chore.

  I eventually would get tired of hearing Joan and Ari arguing and would tell him in a stern tone, “I don’t want to hear anymore debating between you and your mother. When she tells you to do something, you do it first and you can debate about it after the task is done to your mother’s satisfaction. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Dad,” a thoroughly chastened Ari would reply.

  When Ari went to school he didn’t have many friends, mostly because few of his classmates shared his interest in things with engines, and none of them had his knowledge of them.

  Samantha loved school and everyone wanted to be her friend. All her teachers loved her too. Even the teachers she didn’t enjoy weren’t aware she didn’t like them.

  Ari started reading during his fourth year and read anything to do with engines. Appropriately, the first pure fiction book he read occurred in second grade and was titled, The Red MG. He wasn’t much of a student and was generally bored in class. Oddly enough, by fourth grade he became a voracious reader who also liked historical fiction. His latest read was Exodus.

  Joan and I were called in by Ari’s fourth grade teacher, “When we do arts and crafts projects, Ari does them poorly and tries to finish them as quickly as possible, without putting any effort into them.”

  Joan saw I was getting angry and she put her hand on my arm to signal to me to calm down.

  I glanced at Joan with what I’m sure was an annoyed look on my face then said to the teacher, “I think cutting and pasting are a waste of time for fourth graders. Do you have any idea what level of reading Ari is at?”

  “He does well on spelling tests and his reading skills are adequate, but he doesn’t seem to show any interest in the stories we have in class.”

  “Adequate? Adequate?” I said as my blood began to boil. My voice was getting louder as I became angrier.

  “I brought one of the books he’s currently reading at home. It’s The Tell, by Leon Uris. He just finished reading Exodus. The next book he’s asked for is Chesapeake, by Michener. If you’re his teacher, why didn’t you know that he was way ahead of most of his classmates?”

  “I’m certainly aware of his reading skills.”

  “Then tell me which of your other students are reading the same books as Ari,” I demanded.

  The teacher was getting flustered and tried to regain control of the situation, “I think this misses the point—”

  I cut her off. “No, that is the point. You are boring the hell out of my son, and I suspect that’s true for many of his fellow students. If you don’t like what I’m saying, then we can head over to the principal’s office and discuss it with him. I am furious that my tax money isn’t educating my son.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr. Minkowski. I just wanted to make sure you were aware of Ari’s shortcomings, as far as his school work is concerned.”

  “I want to assure you, you have certainly informed me of the shortcomings around here.”

  As Joan and I walked out to the car, she could see I was about to explode. “Okay, you’re right,” she told me, clearly trying to head off an argument. “We should have put him in private school to begin with. They don’t have a clue what to do with exceptional children at some schools. I’ll start looking into private schools as soon as we get home.”

  As it turns out, private school was perfect for Ari. After being there for a few weeks, one of the school counselors called Joan and suggested Ari should be tested for Attention Deficit Disorder. Joan talked to our children’s pediatrician who said we should try a medication that would either make a huge difference or not do anything. Fortunately for Ari, it worked. His grades shot up in all his classes.

  This had an additional effect. As the pediatrician was describing the symptoms of ADD, Joan realized that was exactly what I experienced. So, she managed to set aside a few of Ari’s pills for me to try. Not only could I concentrate on subjects other than mathematics, but my mood swings disappeared. I went to my own general practitioner for a prescription for the same medication. I learned from my doctor most people with ADD self-select a career that accommodates their ADD.

  “In fact,” he told me, “more ER docs have ADD than they would care to admit.”

  I regularly thanked the Lord for that medication, as did Joan who found living with me much improved. When she saw me getting angry, she started asking if I took my medication that day, at which point I looked at her, either telling her no and calming down, or giving her a dirty look because I had taken the medication and was still angry. This would sometimes be followed by a verbal explosion on my part, while Joan would try to calm me down.

  I often called Joan my emotional thermometer, as she would try to take over the situation to remove me from the environment that was causing me to get angry. Interesting enough, Ari also developed this skill as he became older.

  He would tell me, “You’re getting angry, Dad.”

  More often than not, this would surprise me, as I wasn’t even aware I was getting angry. I usually calmed down when Ari told me that.

  This surpris
ed my father. “You listen to him?”

  “Why shouldn’t I listen to him? He’s almost always right.”

  * * *

  Esther and Samantha were spending Saturday mornings together each week while Ari, Joan, and I walked over to my cousin, Rabbi Dov’s house for Torah study. Each week we reviewed part of the Torah and the commentary various Rabbis have written concerning that section of the Hebrew Bible.

  One Saturday, when Jonathan was eleven, Dov had just concluded the session for the day and was telling us the reading in one week was fascinating because of the commentary by the great scholar Rashi. Jonathan became quite agitated at this point—it was difficult enough to understand him when he was calm, but when he was excited it was particularly challenging. Dov looked at Nathan, who was better at understanding what Jonathan was saying when he became excited.

  “He said the commentary you are referring to is at least four weeks away and not next week.” Nathan told us.

  One of the group members was bent over at his desk, looking to verify what Jonathan said. With a huge smile on his face, he sat up straight and said, “He’s right, Rabbi! He’s Right!”

  “Pardon me, everyone, fortunately for us, my son, Jonathon, has corrected me,” Dov said with obvious pride. “Looks like I have a real Torah Bocher in my house.”

  Dov called his wife, Cora, to come over and learn what Jonathan had accomplished. Naturally, she was beaming when she heard.

  “See? What do I always tell you?” She said smiling at Jonathan. “Look what you’ve contributed today.”

  Torah stories fascinated Jonathan since he was little and when we thought he was just sitting and doing nothing in his wheelchair, he was thinking about those stories, and especially the commentary he’d heard about them.