Mr. Arensberg

Now that Grandfather Charlie is dead, my thoughts go back to the earliest contact with him. I was not much older than you, Jan, when my Mother first took me to her law office and introduced me to “Mr. Arensberg,” her boss.  (My father had already left at that time and Mother and I lived in a small apartment in Pittsburgh.)  I understood that Mr. Arensberg was someone very special, and treated him accordingly.  He treated me accordingly, and we always had a very pleasant relationship, something like that of Winnie-the-Pooh and the Stoutish Gentleman who comforted him when he fell from the window.  Remember?  Whenever we met, we complimented each other on having lost weight, though we both remained rather “stoutish.” 

When Mother had to prepare for a court trial, she often brought me down to the office with her on Sundays, as she had no baby-sitter for me.  While she worked, I would sit, reading, on the leather couch in Mr. Arensberg’s empty office, next door.  His was a large, beautifully furnished office, as he was one of the Senior Partners in the firm.

Many years later, while I was putting Mother’s bureau drawers in order (a job I liked to do), I accidentally came upon a picture of Mr. Arensberg as a shy young man.  I was surprised by this discovery, which I never mentioned to Mother.  I understood then that Mr. Arensberg was indeed someone very special, and more than a boss to her.

Once when I was at the office with Mother, Mr. Arensberg took me out to a movie.  It was a very scary whodunit called, “Night Must Fall.”  There was an Irishman, Danny, who was always whistling the “Londonderry Air,” and carrying a strangely-shaped bag.  He was suspected of having a human head in the bag, and of being the murderer sought by police.  Mr. Arensberg and I delighted in reminding each other of this gory experience months and years later.  I recently found a pencil drawing of this head-shaped bag in a book he gave me.  It was signed, “Danny.”  And when I reminded him of the movie, not long ago in Florida, he remembered it and laughed, although that was almost 40 years ago. 

Once when I was a little younger than you, Eva, Mother and I visited Mr. Arensberg at “Compton” for Sunday dinner.  I had never seen such a large estate, nor such a gracious house.  In fact, I had no idea that such places existed outside fairy tales.  I especially remember the dining room with its early American dining-set, so simple and graceful, its small, old-fashioned windows and cupboards.  We had a wonderful southern fried chicken, prepared and served by Francie, whom I know Eva remembers.  I didn’t know then that in years to come I would often sit on those straight-back chairs in that charming little dining room, eating Francie’s delicious concoctions.  On that memorable Sunday I met the first Mrs. Arensberg, whom I didn’t like, and the youngest of their four sons, Jimmy, who was twelve at the time.

Another memory stands clearly in my mind, but from a much later date.  I was newly married to Christian Bay, and we were driving across the country from New York City to Berkeley, CA.  Mother was for some reason out of town when we came to Pittsburgh.  But she had instructed me to call Mr. Arensberg when I got there.  This I did, and he, now a widower, invited us to drop in for a cocktail.  We had a pleasant visit and just before leaving, he asked us to accompany him to the garden.  He picked a most unusual coral-colored rose and handed it to me.  Then I knew how much he loved my mother.  While staying in Berkeley that summer, we received the happy news of their marriage.  He was 69 by that time; and Mother, 53.

Some years later, when Christian and I had separated and I had come home to Amberson Ave. for Christmas, Mr. Arensberg (whom I then called, “Charlie”) showed how much he loved me.  I was very depressed during the holidays, missing the Norwegian Christmas that I had enjoyed so much, and all my Norwegian friends and family. I felt like a stranger in my own land.  None of the Christmas festivities cheered me up at all.  None of the gifts meant anything to me.  There was a deep emptiness inside of me that nothing could fill.  Mother was upset by my despondent mood.  But Charlie understood what was needed.  On my birthday, which as you know follows New Year’s Day, he gave me a magnificent rare book from his own library.  A priceless art book containing court portraits by the famous painter, Holbein.  I later learned that he tried to replace that book and found it was no longer available.  I recognized the excellence of the drawings and felt overwhelmed by the gift.  The emptiness was filled.

Something similar happened recently, in his 94th and last year.  I had offered to order a book about Dickens for Grandfather Charlie, knowing this writer was a life-long favorite of his.  He wrote back that he would rather buy this book for me.  Then he went to Pittsburgh, where his heart was damaged by the cold, which resulted in several days in Intensive Care at the Palm Beach Hospital.  He almost died.  But soon after his return home, I received in the mail the very book he had promised me, full of beautiful pictures and fascinating text.  How he managed that, I’ll never know.

It is because of this generous and noble spirit that I dedicate this story to him.