Jill Eldredge Gabriele

by Jill Eldredge Gabriele

Years later, former Ambassador Dubs would often tell about an unusual New Year’s Eve.

After serving in the Navy during World War II, Spike Dubs joined the diplomatic corp, working his way up to becoming the acting ambassador to the USSR during the Cold War.  The Soviet Union and United States, engaged in an era of intrigue and espionage, had the KGB and CIA deploying spies across the globe, stealing secrets, gathering intelligence and influencing governments.

The few friends who were able to visit Spike and his wife Jane in Moscow, were advised to say nothing other than banalities, as the Ambassador’s residence was known to be “bugged.”  If someone would ask a potentially indiscrete question, Spike would glance at the ceiling chandelier and change the topic. If his guest insisted, Spike would suggest a walk, where presumably, conversation could be unmonitored.

A New Year’s Eve party at the residence found the Embassy staff gathered to ring in the new year together.  After a glass or two of libation, the Americans joked aloud to their invisible interlopers, lamenting their Soviet compatriots having to work on New Year’s.  “Why not join the party?” they chimed.

As midnight drew closer, more quips escaped: “Plenty of champagne, we know you are listening. Why not come over and join the party?”

The Americans cheered as the nearby church bell tolled in the New Year, with “Auld Lang Syne” erupting from the colleagues. But a sharp ring of the telephone quickly silenced the singers, a nervous anxiety replacing the festive mood.

“Yes?” answered Ambassador Dubs into the telephone.  And for a brief moment, all that Spike could hear was the popping of a champagne cork, followed by a dial tone.

Jill Eldredge Gabriele:  Writing has always been a part of my life: project editor at Rand McNally; editor at Mobil Travel Guide; and now for pleasure.

by Jill Eldredge Gabriele

The reality is: it’s hard to be alone.  Totally alone. Alone like I’ve not known for 30 years.  Even after four years of living on my own, only now does this reality dawn upon me, sitting quietly on a pale grey bench in front of the Royal Academy of Arts.  3pm.  The sky matches the bench. The eternally overcast sky of a London winter has the ceiling so low, it loses the tops of the modern skyscrapers.

Yet no modernness surrounds me here.  Not in this empty courtyard, where the sounds of black cabs and red double-decker buses provide an auditory muffled backdrop to the muted sky and architecturally pale limestone.  It’s Sunday, city life is hushed, the weekend hustle of nearby Oxford Street shopping is removed from this urban island.  No more than a stone’s throw from Piccadilly Circus, this courtyard seems somehow devoid of any holiday light or decoration.  Alone.

Undergoing huge renovations, the only exhibit in the museum, holds five small rooms of black and white drawings, inspired by Constable, Gainsborough and Turner.  I find only three large oil canvases with compelling landscapes by the masters themselves.  They provide a few moments’ transport to another time, another place: a lone shepherd resting upon a hard ledge, his flock of sheep grazing in a darkened valley.  He cannot see the astonishing yellow sunset just beyond the trees; some darker clouds make me wonder if a storm will deluge the shepherd. The deep green forest provides a foil between the sun and valley; a softness juxtaposed with boulders and a distant mountain.  The green provides me hope and a slight softening of the scene; warmth, a care, much like the resting shepherd. He may get wet, but the sun feels warm and eternal; a feeling of something grander, omnipotent, ever present.

Pulling my discouraged soul out of the disappointingly small exhibit, I feel overwhelmingly dispirited.  Black and white drawings indeed.  Constable, Gainsborough and Turner?  They are color and light personified: my needed fix for elevation out of the winter doldrums thwarted.  The museum is in hibernation, all seemingly packed safely away, with precious little sign of life or oxygen.

Exiting the building, looking upwards towards the street, I feel the tremendous strength of a two story Roman arch entrance on elegant Ionic columns, framing the occasional flash of red or black as the world quietly bustles by.

The top two stories feature windows in a 1 – 3 – 1 theme, granting upward motion, while being subservient to the grand arch beneath. The three center windows, nearly touching one to the other, were us: nearly Siamese, attached at the side.

A united family unit, living our connected life, side-by-side. One darling daughter, artistic, astute, petit but fiery, one delightful son, sharp-minded, perceptive, scholarly and soccer-mad were my constant companions. Both wise beyond their years, their places were very empty.

Four final adornments point my eye to the heavens – looking like individual candlesticks piercing the oddly lilac-grey sky.  The furthest left and right columns secure lightning rods.  These seem very much like my two children, having ascended into adulthood, leaving me alone. Our family now detached.  Separated. (The reality is far less bleak, yet my desolate feeling pervades.) In their youthfulness, they attract problems and power to themselves as they venture forth, trying new avenues and adventures.

I worked hard as a parent, to plan for my own job obsolescence, helping prepare my children for an independent life. Why did I not prepare myself for the same?

Romanticizing the past is human nature. We long for what we cannot have. And so, time to reinvent ourselves. While we will always be parents, our identity must continue to develop.  We are no longer needed within the confines of our home and heart.  And thank heavens.

There should be a celebration in this success:  “Mission accomplished.”  But not like George W. Bush’s aircraft carrier.  My two frigates occasionally return to harbor, needing a little help with refuelling, navigation or logistics.  But then, they up-anchor again and hit the high seas, as they’ve been taught.

I wonder: can the harbor move?

Jill Eldredge Gabriele:  Writing has always been a part of my life: project editor at Rand McNally; editor at Mobil Travel Guide; and now for pleasure.

by Jill Eldredge Gabriele

As assistant manager of the Waldorf Astoria hotel, my job was crisis management. Forty-two stories tall, 1,900 guest rooms, 7 restaurants, this midtown monolith held daily catastrophes. Each day was different, and I never knew what awaited me.

Sometimes, hunky firemen would clunk through the lobby asking, “Where’s the fire?” Some guest would have phoned in the smell of smoke, semi-regularly generated from the trains running beneath the hotel. Built on stilts, the Waldorf had its own secret rail station, which could whisk away visiting presidents.

Occasionally, I would arrive early for a buttery croissant and coffee at Oscar’s cafe, just opposite the Bull and Bear pub. Between the two restaurants was a slender escalator, to the main lobby, where my desk awaited. The morning had begun quietly when an Oscar’s waitress ran up to me.

“You’d better come quick! An employee is passed out at the bottom of the escalator and the steps are slicing her to pieces!”  My feet ran, as my mind raced, imagining the gruesome scene awaiting me. Bolting down the escalator, I spied a group of people encircling a young woman, who was sprawled out. The moving tooth-edged stairs were repeatedly slicing her arm. Blood oozed from her head.

I gingerly moved her arm from the repeating deli-slicer stairs. “Call 911 and grab some napkins from the Bull and Bear, NOW!” I whispered to the waitress. “But they’re Irish linen!” she complained. I glared in disbelief and she disappeared, reappearing moments later with the burgundy napkins.

Gently applying pressure on the various bleeding points, I motioned for people to disperse. No one moved. How could I lighten the mood as we awaited the ambulance? I doubted she could hear me, but what was the downside?

Glancing at her nametag I said, “Well, Nancy, you’ve gotten yourself into a little bit of a pickle here, haven’t you? Listen, if you wanted a break so badly, all you had to do was ask!” Getting closer to her ear, I whispered, “Hey Nancy, you’re going to be fine. Emergency services are on their way, you have a few superficial cuts, but you’ll be back home tonight. Just relax, we’ve got you covered. I’m staying with you, until I hand you over to the best looking EMT in the group.  Come find me when you’re back. I’m Pat, and I’m good for a coffee.”.

One arriving EMT raised his eyebrows at me…this wasn’t looking good… and I quietly gulped. “Good work,” he whispered as they whisked Nancy into the ambulance. I went upstairs to file a report.

The following week was particularly crazy. One guest sheepishly calling on the house phone, had been robbed by a prostitute he had invited up to his room. Could I please send some clothes up to him? A U.S. senator had arrived four hours ahead of schedule; could he check in early? The presidential suite earmarked for his arrival had been trashed by a bachelor party the night before, with whipped cream on the walls and furniture broken. I took a deep breath. It was going to be one of those days.

And so, it was over the heads of some bowing Japanese dignitaries that I glimpsed a serene smile. As the woman approached, her smile broadened. It was Nancy. I left the bobbing bureaucrats to the international desk staff.

“Nancy! Great to see you! You look well! How’s it going?”

“I just wanted to thank you. I heard every word you said to me. Every word. By the way, you were right. Rob was the best looking EMT. We’ve got a date tonight. You still good for a coffee?”

by Jill Eldredge Gabriele

I heard a small voice cry out: “Mom!”

A young, heavily pregnant woman had boarded my southbound A train at 125th Street with her 3 year old son. The evening rain-drenched commuters were packed together like soggy sardines. As the young mother looked imploringly for a vacant seat, a young man stood and smiled. Well, I thought, maybe the world isn’t going to hell in a handbasket.

The train lurched forward. Smugly steeled for the non-stop to 59th Street, my mind wandered into a New York cocoon. Just think how much faster this is than the traffic above. Especially with this rain…

“Mom!” the child insisted. “I really have to GO!” My reverie interrupted, I exchanged raised eyebrows with a commuter. The next stop was at least 14 minutes away.

Nearby, a woman tilted her head back, finishing her coffee. Quickly shoving the empty coffee cup into her neighbor’s hands, she jerked her head towards the impending doom. A tenuous hope crept across the young mother’s face as she gratefully accepted the empty cup, and smiled weakly at her son.

“Maaaahhhhhm!” the boy whined, his eyes darting around the crowded car. The child wanted privacy.

As if on cue, the three nearest people turned their backs on the child and opened their coats, as if flashing the train’s inhabitants.  Startled eyes were raised and then lowered in semi-reverence. The train clicked on, as did the time. At some point, the coat wall relaxed, as did the child.

At 59th Street, the doors opened. The mother clutched her son with one hand and the coffee cup in the other, disappearing into the crowded station like every other New Yorker.