At the gym where I go several times a week there is a Kid’s Club, a place where staff watch your child while you work out. I’ve been going to the gym since February, when Polina was 6 months old. The manager of the gym is named Barb. She has long grey hair that once might have been black. It cascades down the length of her back as flower girls once wore in the 1970s. This is in contrast to other aspects of her appearance, which are more conservative. On her nose sit almost transparent spectacles. She usually wears dark clothing, which lifts your gaze to her face, which is much lighter. She is a bit heavyset, but somehow it fits her.

When I first met her, she seemed pretty stern. My child cried intensely when I tried to leave to work out, and she kept telling me, “She’s fine. She’s fine. She has to get over it.” Easy for her to say. It’s not her kid pulling at your heartstrings. I would not have continued going to the gym if Polina kept crying, and she stopped because of another person working there, a Filipino woman nicknamed “the baby whisperer” who managed to not only calm Polina but also get her to… fall asleep! I was grateful for the time to take a yoga class, lift weights, and/or jog. I was grateful that for an hour (or two if I wanted to) I could take a break from being a mom and do something for myself. With a baby, that can be hard to do, especially when their naps do not follow a schedule (try as I did.) So I was grateful, very grateful for this time.

It has been nine months and I now sometimes go to the gym in the evenings. Polina has gotten used to the people there and doesn’t cry anymore. She is sometimes so involved in playing that she doesn’t immediately see me. I’m very happy that things are working out. I see Barb often as she works mornings and evenings Saturday to Thursday. Her only day off is Friday. She still seems stern to me, but I’ve caught a few glimpses of her tender side. About a week ago as I was leaving, a child was crying for her mother. “You’re fine,” she said in her usual pragmatic voice. After I exited the gym, I realized that I had forgotten to sign Polina out from the kid’s club. I went back and saw Barb lovingly playing with the same child. Her back was to me and she didn’t see me, but it was a side I hadn’t seen from her before.

Another time recently (this week actually) I saw her rocking in the rocking chair staring off into space. The look on her face stayed with me. It was contemplative, as if for a moment she let down her stern side. Another time I overheard her saying to another person that since she is divorced, she will celebrate Thanksgiving with her children on Friday instead of Thursday. I forgot exactly which adjective she used, but it was something like, “I’m not a traditionalist.” It struck me how she made good from a bad situation, and what challenges lie behind a person’s facade.

Another time (last week) as I was putting on Polina’s snowsuit, Barb commented that it reminded her of what she wore when she was growing up in Alberta, Canada. I didn’t know Barb was Canadian, but then the accent came out when she said “aout.” It was another window into her personal life.

Perhaps it’s because I had and still have such a poor relationship with my own mother that I gravitate toward people my mother’s age and want to be friends with them. Perhaps I also gravitate toward them because I find comfort in an older person’s maturity and don’t feel like I have to “fit in” like I do with people my own age. For several reasons, I was drawn to her, and I wanted to make her something for Thanksgiving. I kept thinking “bread.” My rational side thought it might be a bit funny to give someone bread for Thanksgiving instead of say… pie or cake or cookies, but every time I thought of Barb, I thought of bread.

As it happened, I made five loaves of bread by Thanksgiving day, more than my family could eat for a while. I made three sourdough and two pugliese, so I wrapped one freshly hot sourdough and a pugliese that had cooled off from earlier in the morning. I knew there would be Barb and another girl working that day, and it wouldn’t look nice to only give a loaf to Barb. I took them to the gym, eager to finally meet the moment, because it took me three days to make the starter and sponge and I got up at 6:30 this morning to turn the bread over for the yeast to rise yet again. Thankfully, the two loaves from the same batch that I kept for myself tasted great. I hoped Barb and the other girl working that day would like them.

I got to the kid’s club and I didn’t see Barb. “Did Barb leave?” I asked, my heart falling as it was noon by this point and the kid’s club was only open for another hour.

“No, she went to Rite-Aid,” said the girl.

I showed her the breads that I made, and they got a good response. When I came back after my workout, I saw Barb with a huge smile on her face. I had never seen her so happy, and it made me really happy.

“I can’t believe you made bread!” she exclaimed. She chose the sourdough, which I was happy about because it took the longest to make. I was happy that the bread made her happy.

The next time I went to the gym, the kids club looked sparser.

“Where’s Barb?” I asked.

“Barb doesn’t work here anymore,” said the Filipino woman.

It was clear something had happened. Some of the toys were gone, and I learned they were going to get some new ones. I was very saddened by the news. I had gotten used to seeing Barb, even though she could be strict. I was glad I had seen her more tender side before she left. It wasn’t my business to inquire what happened. All I was left with was a feeling of sadness.

So this is an ode to Barb.

To you.

Thank you.