The Blessings of Dolores
I grew up in a white, colonial home with grey shutters and a large yard my dad kept well-groomed. My parents were attractive and image personally important, but not to impress others. Pretty, with good grades, having piano and dance lessons, I attracted attention, but something was missing: commitment. I understand this now as I watch my grandchildren building competency—the older in karate and the younger on swim teams—becoming self-confident apart from appearance.
In sixth grade, Dolores was bussed to school in my neighborhood while I walked. She had a full body and a quick smile, was allowed to wear penny loafers, and could afford to bank a dollar. I was pretty, had to wear lace-up shoes, and brought a quarter as I eyed Dolores’s dollar. I didn’t understand she was Italian with a zest for life while I was reserved and the different cultures of our homes too distant for friendship. Now, it’s different. I have Italian family members and friends.
In 1990, when Stephen* and I met again, he had left or soon would, a $60,000 job to sing his songs to God, with his only income delivering advertisements and recording voice overs. Wherever he performed in groups he gained followers, for he opened people’s hearts with his words, his voice, and his guitar; Dolores was one.
Slightly plump, gently curling hair the color of gathered chestnuts, and soft-voiced, Dolores spoke very slowly, giving the impression she was less than smart. I thought that I was better than she was. She often brought fifty dollars for Stephen, and on one of those days, for the first time, I saw a band of green light connecting us—surprising me. Dolores? It happened many times after that, but Dolores was the beginning.
Recently I remembered her, and regretted my error, realizing that the blessings of Dolores were for me as well as for Stephen.
My realization is, “Truth waits as many years as are necessary to deliver its message.”
*Singer, songwriter, guitarist, my second husband