Hugs
by Catherine Rush
Hugs. Vastly underrated and desperately needed. To be clear, when I am talking hugs, I am talking the good kind. The open loving mutual exchange of good wishes and mutual generosity. It feels like falling into a featherbed but unlike the bed, sends rest your soul.
I had that experience recently.
I’m not a stranger to hugs, I give them often and happily. My husband and I must hug at least a half a dozen times a day. Sometimes they are long “never let me go” hugs and sometimes they are of the “Sure, I love you, too” type. I am a discerning hugger. I know the conversation of hugs. I know the difference between the “we’re supposed to hug because we are family, but I don’t like you very much” hug from the “I can’t believe we’ve been friends for 40 years and if you die first I will never forgive you” hug. Some people can’t help the way they hug. My mother for instance. She was a wonderfully generous person and wanted everyone to feel loved and supported. She was okay at holding you when you cried, because she understood that, but she was abysmal at the full-frontal hug of which I speak. Instead she would flinch at first touch, try to back away, and then succumb with as close a replica of a real hug as she could manage. She’d never been touched growing up. No one in her family touched each other with love and well wishes. Touch was not an invitation, it was a threat.
I learned to hug from my father. A huge ex-Marine of a man, my father did everything big. Big laugh, big jokes, big love, big hugs. His hug enveloped me and communicated that I was loved, cherished and protected.
I imagine not giving and receiving those kind of hugs must be a lonely place.
It was the anniversary of his death, New Year’s Day, and I stood in front of the flour section at the local grocery store. I have very few rules in my life but one that has proven worthy is the injunction to Make Something Every Day. I find making something, however small or trivial, brings me joy. Today will make bread.
I was just planning to dip my toes into the bread baking waters so I didn’t want a big sack. I wanted something for a one-shot deal. No commitment required; No old flour sitting on the shelf five years from now because I killed the yeast and baked a deadly weapon and not a loaf of bread.
I joined a crumbling older man with three items in his cart in front of the mesmerizing array of flour choices. His face was a map of concentration and concern.
“My son has a new outdoor pizza oven. I have to get the flour.” He said turning to me as though voicing his quest might bring him closer to its completion.
“What does he need?” I asked. “We’ll find it.”
His blue eyes grew hopeful and his diminutive height increased at least an inch. “It’s called Double O.”
I’d never heard of a numerical flour before, but spotted a small parcel directly in front of him, just below his line of sight, with two zeros on its label. The old man erupted in laughter. We turned to each other in recognition of our mutual success. He opened his arms wide and offered me a hug. Now that kind of invitation doesn’t happen every day and only a fool would turn down a grateful hug from a relieved old man. I accepted his invitation and he gifted me an open, happy, grateful hug.
He thanked me profusely, smiling a joyful smile, albeit missing a few front teeth.
“My son has a new pizza oven outside. He lives all the way up Bond and then way off on a dirt road. My wife had died twenty-seven years ago.”
“I bet you miss her.” I said, thinking of my father. He did not answer the question, but looked at the shelves instead. I let the moment pass realizing my mistake. I may be able to talk about missing my father, but he was of a different generation.
“My son’s having all his family over this weekend. Cousins and children and aunts and uncles and their children,” He paused, “and then there’s me!” he spread his arms wide in demonstration of his me-ness. We laughed together at his brazen admission of exclusion.
He thanked me again. I didn’t want to let him go, though I knew I should. He had a list. A quest.
“What kind of pizza you having?” I told myself he needed company.
“I’m going to get a huge provolone. My son has this new outdoor pizza oven.” This was the third time he’d told me this, I worried that he might not be the best person for his son to send out shopping alone.
“Will you get pepperoni or salami?”
He shook his head with light disdain, answering with pride, “Italian ground beef.” He lifted his cane from the shopping cart and showed me the sticker with his name on it. “I think this qualifies as an Italian name, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Razo. I think you probably know your way around a pizza.”
We laughed, he thanked me again. We hugged again. He looked at me,
“It’s nice to hug. It’s been a long time since I got a hug.”
“You’re a very good hugger.” I said in my expert opinion.
And we embraced each other one last time. We held onto each other. I wished him a Happy New Year over his shoulder.
I think we both felt better. He shuffled down the aisle on his way to Costco for provolone. I stood staring at the shelves of flour, thinking about the miracle of human connection.
I had that experience recently.
I’m not a stranger to hugs, I give them often and happily. My husband and I must hug at least a half a dozen times a day. Sometimes they are long “never let me go” hugs and sometimes they are of the “Sure, I love you, too” type. I am a discerning hugger. I know the conversation of hugs. I know the difference between the “we’re supposed to hug because we are family, but I don’t like you very much” hug from the “I can’t believe we’ve been friends for 40 years and if you die first I will never forgive you” hug. Some people can’t help the way they hug. My mother for instance. She was a wonderfully generous person and wanted everyone to feel loved and supported. She was okay at holding you when you cried, because she understood that, but she was abysmal at the full-frontal hug of which I speak. Instead she would flinch at first touch, try to back away, and then succumb with as close a replica of a real hug as she could manage. She’d never been touched growing up. No one in her family touched each other with love and well wishes. Touch was not an invitation, it was a threat.
I learned to hug from my father. A huge ex-Marine of a man, my father did everything big. Big laugh, big jokes, big love, big hugs. His hug enveloped me and communicated that I was loved, cherished and protected.
I imagine not giving and receiving those kind of hugs must be a lonely place.
It was the anniversary of his death, New Year’s Day, and I stood in front of the flour section at the local grocery store. I have very few rules in my life but one that has proven worthy is the injunction to Make Something Every Day. I find making something, however small or trivial, brings me joy. Today will make bread.
I was just planning to dip my toes into the bread baking waters so I didn’t want a big sack. I wanted something for a one-shot deal. No commitment required; No old flour sitting on the shelf five years from now because I killed the yeast and baked a deadly weapon and not a loaf of bread.
I joined a crumbling older man with three items in his cart in front of the mesmerizing array of flour choices. His face was a map of concentration and concern.
“My son has a new outdoor pizza oven. I have to get the flour.” He said turning to me as though voicing his quest might bring him closer to its completion.
“What does he need?” I asked. “We’ll find it.”
His blue eyes grew hopeful and his diminutive height increased at least an inch. “It’s called Double O.”
I’d never heard of a numerical flour before, but spotted a small parcel directly in front of him, just below his line of sight, with two zeros on its label. The old man erupted in laughter. We turned to each other in recognition of our mutual success. He opened his arms wide and offered me a hug. Now that kind of invitation doesn’t happen every day and only a fool would turn down a grateful hug from a relieved old man. I accepted his invitation and he gifted me an open, happy, grateful hug.
He thanked me profusely, smiling a joyful smile, albeit missing a few front teeth.
“My son has a new pizza oven outside. He lives all the way up Bond and then way off on a dirt road. My wife had died twenty-seven years ago.”
“I bet you miss her.” I said, thinking of my father. He did not answer the question, but looked at the shelves instead. I let the moment pass realizing my mistake. I may be able to talk about missing my father, but he was of a different generation.
“My son’s having all his family over this weekend. Cousins and children and aunts and uncles and their children,” He paused, “and then there’s me!” he spread his arms wide in demonstration of his me-ness. We laughed together at his brazen admission of exclusion.
He thanked me again. I didn’t want to let him go, though I knew I should. He had a list. A quest.
“What kind of pizza you having?” I told myself he needed company.
“I’m going to get a huge provolone. My son has this new outdoor pizza oven.” This was the third time he’d told me this, I worried that he might not be the best person for his son to send out shopping alone.
“Will you get pepperoni or salami?”
He shook his head with light disdain, answering with pride, “Italian ground beef.” He lifted his cane from the shopping cart and showed me the sticker with his name on it. “I think this qualifies as an Italian name, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Razo. I think you probably know your way around a pizza.”
We laughed, he thanked me again. We hugged again. He looked at me,
“It’s nice to hug. It’s been a long time since I got a hug.”
“You’re a very good hugger.” I said in my expert opinion.
And we embraced each other one last time. We held onto each other. I wished him a Happy New Year over his shoulder.
I think we both felt better. He shuffled down the aisle on his way to Costco for provolone. I stood staring at the shelves of flour, thinking about the miracle of human connection.