Regrets?

It was an innocent question,  nothing malicious or intrusive intended.  A group of women sitting in a beauty salon, not really friends, possibly acquaintances, bonding for an hour or so on a wintry day.

"Do you regret any of the choices in your life?"

The silence was remarkable, especially when the chatter had been so loud for the past sixty minutes.

One by one, we looked at each other waiting for the first to speak.  And as I listened to the others, I remembered the eulogy given at my Husband's farewell.  It was a young priest who dwelled on the choices my beloved had made in life.

He spoke of Art's enlisting in the U.S.MARINES before his 18th birthday, choosing St. John's to complete his education.  A decision that resulted in our meeting and marriage.  Our shared choice to marry when his assignment from the FBI arrived, and our mutual desire for the four children God sent into our life.  As I listened to the words in the quiet chapel that morning, I thought back on my own life and my own choices.

Today sitting in the comfortable salon, my memories returned rather to one impetuous choice I made and have always regretted.  My Dad had never disapproved of anything I did except for that one memorable night when I embarrassed him so badly.

It was early in the War Years.  New York had mobilized against the possibility of an attack by air.  Each of the city streets had their own Air Raid Wardens; one man was appointed in charge.  They wore helmets and white badges that crossed over their coats for identification and of course, carried whistles.  Primitive by today's standards, but de rigueur in those years.

We never knew if it was a valid alert or just a drill, but when the wardens were alerted, whistles blew in each building, and lights were extinguished.  I did not like being in the dark, and I was accustomed to having my own way.  While I was quite young, I was also willful.

That night, oh so long ago, and yet still remembered, the alert went out, by radio I  believe, and the sirens pierced the city's silence.  Dad quickly got his equipment; he had been selected to be the Chief Warden for 58th Street from Ninth to Tenth Avenue, and ran quickly down the stairs.  He was a serious man and conscientious in his obligations.

Within minutes the commands were carried out, and the block quickly went from being well lit to total darkness.  Almost, that is, but not quite.

There was one flickering light breaking the rules; just a small shadow of illumination, but coming from where?  The small band of wardens could not determine.  Was it a signal for the dreaded planes to attack?  And where was it coming from, almost impossible to assess in the black night.  New York City had never known this kind of fear before.  War still had not crossed the vast Atlantic Ocean nor touched our reality.  Now for the first time, Manhattan was considered to be a viable target.

Each warden was hurriedly assigned a building to locate where this violation emanated from.  Time was running out.  This was the first instance there had been such an occurrence during any of the air raid alerts.

The men grouped together, searching buildings, one by one, running up the five flights of stairs in each tenement desperately looking for the source of the flickering light.  It was almost like a Morse Code signal; on for a second and then off again.

Finally it was located  It was coming from a building close to the end of the block.  The six wardens marched in unison to each floor, searching each apartment and finally arriving at the second apartment on the fourth landing and entered our home.

As they walked through the long hall of the railroad flat, they reached the living room and stood in astonishment as they saw the staccato white light coming from under the sofa and saw the flashlight in my hand.

It is probably best to let you guess the end of the story; not difficult to do.

I don't recall the punishment, but I have never fogotten the hurt look on Dad's face and his embarrassment.

Suddenly I became aware of the silence in the salon, and I realized it was my turn to describe any regrets to the ladies who had finished their stories.  I quickly decided it was probably best not to tell this one.  It seemed merely to be a childish unimportant recollection, but I knew differently.  Obviously, mine couldn't be considered a major life changing incident; certainly not a decision to end a marriage or declare bankruptcy, yet in a sense, it was life altering for me.  I had made a conscious choice without any consideration for the well being of others, and I suffered the consequences that night.

During the years that followed I have always remembered that early lesson in life about testing love, even one that had always seemed unconditional and ever being careful never to hurt one you love and who loves you.

"Do I have regrets?  There are a few."