Matches

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When I came across a tin of matches this morning, while looking for something else, memories flooded back. Matches. I collected them for about twenty years. I didn’t smoke and only used them to light candles.

For instance, the French restaurant, La Goulue on Madison Avenue – all upscale chic, elegant and stylish; catering to the upper eastside ladies who lunch.

I rushed in because I was meeting a couple from IOWA, Representative Berkley Bedell and his wife. He had an Alternative Health Foundation and my upper eastside friend was a huge proponent and supporter of alternative health.

I decided to introduce them and she suggested the place.

I asked the maître d’ if either had arrived. He glanced up and nodded behind me, to the wall by the front door.

I turned and stood staring for a few seconds: Yoko Ono, John Lennon’s wife was standing there, all in black; tights, short skirt, long sleeve black top, and a black beret. Looking bored.

Standing next to her were my Iowa friends. She in a nice cotton shirtwaist dress, tennis shoes (because I’m sure they walked across town) and he was in a cotton seersucker suit and tennis shoes, too. The contrast was almost too much for me to handle.

I think for the Maître d’ too.

I walked over and hugged them both, welcomed them to Manhattan. It was then that my upper eastside friend came in and we had a long and wonderful afternoon talking about government, alternative health and life.