Happenstance

Ardelle Hirsch
Aug 30, 2025
5 min read

It’s been a wistful, nostalgia-filled summer.

Reminiscing at an unexpected reunion with my college roommates, reconnecting with a dear childhood friend after losing contact for 50 years, visiting the apartment I rented in a gorgeous Victorian house in Glens Falls while student teaching, remembering how sick my dad was during all those years, recalling the decade caring for my mom after that, and the long years of a debilitating illness before my ex died a dozen years ago. The grandkids were so young then...

That mental memorabilia jostles about as I try to keep it under 70 miles per hour on the NYS Thruway, heading over to Stuyvesant Plaza in Albany, to have lunch with my beloved granddaughter, Skyler Marie.

I’m wondering, how is it that she is even HERE; thinking about how random everything is; wondering what would have happened if an intriguing high school/college “person-of-interest,” now a retired legal scholar and prolific author (whose treasured letters still sleep tight in my nightstand), had turned around on Dow Avenue in Carle Place, Long Island that summer of ’68 and come back, instead of waving enthusiastically, driving off to Harvard Law School, and marrying someone else?

What would have happened if I didn’t break up with Rich, my college fiancé, who became an OB/GYN after his mom died of ovarian cancer? I was engaged to him (twice) during college, when in a Days-of-Our-Lives style melodrama, I broke it off, took the ring back, then broke it off again. What if I had kept that ring?

What if, when he headed off to Mexico that summer for med school and a big white sandy beach, I hadn't returned home to help mom care for dad, or relinquished my Rockette-themed dreams and a desire to see my name in lights on the “The Great White Way” and gone with him?

Well, I certainly wouldn’t be driving over to Peaches Café right now, arriving 15 minutes early for lunch with Skyler Marie, who simply would not exist.

Happenstance.

Arriving too early, I make a quick stop at the ATM. Every September since my kids (now in their 40s) graduated, I give them some back-to-school cash for new sneakers. Back then, $50 covered new Keds, but here I am today, withdrawing enough cash to cover a car payment, for a few pair of new sneakers for my kids and grandkids, a feel-good tradition that still makes me smile.

My 20-year-old about-to-be-a-junior granddaughter arrives. Early. Wearing similar outfits, we start talking before we sit down, not wanting to waste 10 seconds, both of us breathless, having trouble taking turns, talking over each other, excited to see each other for the first time this summer, trying the patience of the heavily tattooed waitress who is trying to share the specials and hoping we don’t keep her table from turning over quickly in this recently renovated, popular café.

Skyler speaks with great exuberance, making big gestures with beautifully manicured nails, telling colorful tales about her summer adventures, and her back to school jitters. She and her plutonium-fueled stories have the rhythm of an animated “Disney on Ice” extravaganza – dazzling smile, sparkly jewelry, spectacular big eyes, exhilarating animation.

A bi-lingual bio chem major, she’s very bright and talks eagerly about her upcoming research project, her practicum, a 6-hour weekly lab. She’s very excited she’ll have her own molecule to monitor. I tell her as a junior in college, I was very excited to have my own cat secretly sequestered in my dorm.

I’m impressed with her exploits and ask for details about her practicum. “It’s like a recipe, Nan – you just follow the directions but you need to be careful you don’t start a fire or blow anything up!”

I wish she had saved that part for dessert.

She asks about my summer: the background acting gig (a featured role I didn’t get), the classes I’m taking at University at Albany in writing and the history of art, a possible new job.

She’s had a busy summer: a sports injury, a power lifting bench comp in Pennsylvania, weekends at camp, time with family and friends, coaching cheer at Shaker, several concerts, working at the tea shop, spending hours at the gym.

“Do you ever think about how random everything is?” I ask.

“All. The. Time!” Eyes wide open, she punctuates each word, then takes a long breath and responds slowly, repeating for emphasis in Garamond font 72, “I think about that ALL THE TIME!”

Racing words elbow their way to the table; “I mean what if I had left 10 seconds later? Would I have had a car crash? What else might have happened? What if we didn’t meet for lunch today? What would be different? I think about stuff like that all the time!” she assures me.

My finger is pointing at her pretty self. "You wouldn't be sitting here right now I if I didn’t break up with someone named Rich, my fiancé in college - twice!" a story she hasn’t heard before.

She’s fascinated to hear stories about my 20-year-old self. She almost faints when she learns that I asked my roommate Susan (who she recently met) to teach me how to smoke, because I had the lead role in a college production that required I smoke on stage and I wanted to look natural holding a cigarette.

“Nan. YOU SMOKED????” Incomprehensible to her. I remind her that it was the 60s, when everyone smoked, even news anchors on TV. But I was up to a pack a day by the time the play opened and smoked for 7 years. Addicted.

“Even after you were married???” She is incredulous. “You SMOKED at your wedding???” I did. She is stunned.

Before we leave, I unfold some cash into her bag for new sneakers, an agenda item for today’s lunch. She tries (unsuccessfully) to return half the money, insisting it’s too much. Very sweet.

After lunch, I send her the selfies we took and some photos of my 20-year-old self: one in a dorm with Susan, a cigarette dangling from my hand, another, one of me with Rich, an engagement ring on my finger. She loves these photos of my college years, and I love sharing my memories with her. I’m glad we make time to get together. It matters to me.

There have been plenty of “high-low-medium-rocky” moments in my richly blessed, happy life. Is it all random - or is it written? Two marriages (I remained lifelong friends with both, even though divorced) - both now deceased. Two incredible kids, two grandkids – I adore them all.

How many zillion decisions did I make in the past 77 ½ years before getting into my car this morning to meet up with Skyler Marie for lunch? Did I make all those choices or were those choices made for me? I’m sure not even the greatest philosophers, theologians, physicists - or even the Magic 8 Ball - know for sure.

I don’t know how it happened that we’re here today at Peaches Cafe, but I’m glad it did. All of it.

Exactly the way it did.