The Importance of Heroes

Best Friends

I was named after my mom’s best friend, Margaret Mahoney. I did not, however, inherit her great height. Margaret was a second mother to my entire family and came to all of our birthdays, Christmas and Easter dinners, and any other family celebration, which, given we were Irish, must have kept her dance card quite full. She was the younger sister of my mom’s best friend growing up and it just evolved into a bit of an odd-ball friendship, with my mom at 5 foot maybe 4 inches and Margaret towering near 6 feet tall, and opposites in every imaginable way. My mom had 11 children, Margaret chose not to marry or have children; Margaret was a career woman with her own income, my mom was dependent on my dad’s earnings entirely; Margaret didn’t smoke, my mom smoked like a dock worker; nevertheless, they were two peas in a pod for over 65 years.

Growing up, I mostly played in the dirt. Literally. With cars. Climbing trees higher than the boys could. Building forts. Biking over jumps. Losing at Kick the Can. Running topless like a jungle child barefoot down dusty back lanes. I had no Barbie, or dollhouse, or girlie pillows, shoes, bows or barrettes. But every few months, my mom sent me for a sleepover at her best friend’s house and I had to bathe and dress nicely before going.

I will never forget the first time I slept over at Margaret Mahoney’s Kitsilano penthouse suite. I must have been about 4 years old.

In those days, they didn’t have elevators for these places along Kits beach, and as I went up the stairs carrying a plastic Woodward’s bag with my things, I thought I had entered the most glamorous world possible. I touched the rounded, wrought-iron banister, and felt the soft, cushioned carpet below me in a rich red that seemed to go on forever. When Margaret opened the door, I was momentarily blinded, the sun streaming in through a wall of windows, the cream coloured carpet, the white pillows, the teal blue couch, white walls, all so…clean…it felt like I had entered an alternate universe.

Margaret smiled broadly and invited me out onto her rooftop garden and patio. On a hill, blocks up from Kits Beach, the view took in all that was fabulous about Vancouver in the early 70’s. The expanse of mountains, the twinkling blue English Bay, the spattering of buildings downtown, and the roiling, bustling beach below. Margaret mixed a few drinks and brought them out. I don’t know what it was that I drank, some fancy Shirley Temple ‘mocktail’, but I will never forget it touching my taste buds, the sun on my shoulders, the perfection of her garden, the buzzing of cars below along Point Grey Road, the way the planters lined up, like behaved little deities of taste, waiting for Margaret to faithfully water them at dusk.

We ate outside, at her little table, and then had dessert, while on the couch! I’d never in my life seen such a thing, but it felt so grown up, and the way things should be, our cloth napkins draped elegantly over our laps, the sun setting, shadows in long streaks across the apartment, as I scooped up rich chocolate and decadent whipped cream out of a delicate china bowl. Please God never let this moment end, was all I could think of in my four-year old besotted mind.

In her bathroom, there were tiny perfume bottles all lined up on a silver tray and I picked each one up, lifted it to the round lightbulbs that ran across the top of the bathroom like an actress’ dressing room, and memorized the names. Nina Ricci. Dior. Yves St. Laurent. Chanel. I was given my own room to sleep in, by myself, and the couch that served as my bed was ten times more soft than my bed at home and the covers felt like kittens fur and the pillows took my head and kissed it all around.

“Now, here is the clicker dear, you can watch television for as long as you like, just turn it off when you feel ready for bed.”

“I can change the channels from the couch?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes dear, of course you can! That is what you can do here when you stay with me–change the channels from your bed.” Margaret smiled lovingly and kissed me on the top of my head and left the control in my tiny hands.

That night, with the sound of the alley outside my open window, I pressed on the buttons that went cathunk and can still recall that the sound of the channel changing was the most magical thing I’d ever heard, miraculously opening to worlds I had only dreamt of. I can’t remember turning the television off that night on my first sleepover at Margaret’s, only the feeling of having arrived at nirvana, the portal to a world that resembled nothing of where I’d come from but everything of where I wanted to go.

Margaret Mahoney was my hero.

7 Comments

Filed under Memoir

7 responses to “The Importance of Heroes

  1. Cindy Bolger

    Oh Margaret – what a lovely tribute – as always I love love love your stories. They are so totally you.

  2. Monica

    This story made me cry it was so beautiful! And that is my experience as well, being carried away by Margaret Mahoney every birthday – it was the most lovely gift of all. Everything about that woman was elegant and tasteful and lovely and wonderful. I do not believe I ever saw Margaret cross or anxious. And the Kitsilano apartment she had? I finally have a similar one here in San Diego. And I bought my first white leather couch thinking about Ms. Mahoney! You will have to come visit little sister. xoxox

  3. Katherine

    I’m sitting on Gen’s couch reading this beautiful story just about to cry. What a loving and touching piece.

  4. Marylou Wakefield

    This is a lovely story and so evocative of a time and place that lives in my heart. I too grew up in Vancouver in the 60s and had very infrequent brushes with women like your Margaret. Mostly they were women of privilege who lived in Kits and Point Grey and Shaunessey with whom my father did business. On Saturday mornings I’d accompany him to their homes to deliver their priceless antique clocks he had lovingly repaired. I was the wide-eyed 9 year old standing in the foyer (who had foyers in their house?) gazing around, (did I say my mouth was gaping awkwardly?) at the extraordinary signs of their wealth. I loved sharing those adventures with my father whom I cherished. Mags your story has got me feeling all misty. Thanks!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s