Shadie was a generous soul, with a special knack for finding sensitive gifts. On one particular Christmas Shadie made Jean's mom Sylvia very happy, and you would understand much about him just from that story. But telling it requires a picture of the world of the Lewis family in Ann Arbor. That was the world I knew him in, and one he loved as much as I did.
He first rented rooms in Sylvia's house on Burgundy Road after Jean's dad John died in 1991. That was four years after he broke up with Jean when she moved to California. The split-level house is built on a hill that slopes downward from the street, and Shadie shared the bottom level with Jean's brother Ray. For Sylvia, the arrangement had the obvious benefit of turning extra rooms into extra cash. But the real attraction was having someone she could depend on to perform crucial household tasks when she traveled on vacation, such as caring for her beloved cats. As the years went by Shadie became part of the family, and Jean would say that his most important role in the household was facilitating communication between the Lewises.
The Midwest enchantment thing could be projection on my part. Back in the late 90's when Jean and I met, "flyover country" wasn't a term anyone used for inland America, those vast swaths between our coasts. But I had the provincial Bay Area disdain that term expresses, and a comprehensive ignorance of the upper Midwest to go with it. And then there they were, a world of the educated elite, like you might find in Silicon Valley.
John Lewis had been a chemical engineer, who worked on nuclear fusion and other research projects. Sylvia earned an advanced degree too, at a time when few women went to college; photographs from her student days show a determined young woman in severe wire frame glasses, whose visage is softened by kindness. Every December 24th the Lewises had Christmas dinner with Will and Millie Thomas, a custom that started in the early 50s when both couples were newlyweds. Will was an inventor and entrepreneur who made many innovations in industrial processes; Millie, with a Master's degree in social work, was ahead of her time like Sylvia.
But it wasn't their accomplishments that made the deepest impression on we Midwest imports, it was their style.
You could say that style was quiet, decorous, friendly. A night and day difference from the angry theatrics that had been the staple of my previous family lives, and from the tumult in Shadie's native land. I felt kinship in what we had fled, in what we had found. When Jean and I visited Ann Arbor, a leisurely evening with Shadie at a bookstore coffeshop, talking about ideas, was part of the routine. Behind the words, it seemed we were upholding the principle that life could be interesting at a conversational tone.
Sylvia might have described her family's style as Protestant, and she would have a point. She was the only child of practicing Methodists, and accepted the teaching and customs of that faith until she was finishing high school. Then she decided that she no longer believed in the Apostle's Creed. When she went to college at Northwestern she took an anthropology class from Lewis Browne. Browne's book, "This Believing World," is a guided tour of the major absurdities embraced by credulous humanity. Sylvia read it; realized that the world was filled with pious souls convinced of incompatible notions, none of which were necessarily so; and said goodbye to what remained of her Methodist faith.
But she held on to the Methodist customs tenaciously. She wanted her Christmas carols, her Christmas trees, she cultivated an unassuming personal presentation. If you're Jewish and have encountered the concept of "cultural Jew," you get the idea. She met John at a Methodist youth group.
Sylvia never told me that John objected to her skepticism, but in deference to her mom, their three children, Jean, Anne and Ray, started out in Methodist Sunday school. Then when her mom died Sylvia felt free to switch the family to the Unitarians, where customs without faith was more the rule than the exception.
Sylvia became a fixture in the Ann Arbor Unitarian community. She seldom missed a Sunday service, but as adults, her three children were nor regular churchgoers. being brought up within the confines of religious faith, they did not have a strong need for cultural Protestantism as a bridge to the secular world.
Sylvia danced every dance at our wedding. She was already in her 70s. In our pillow talk we called her a force of nature, and were only half joking. Younger Unitarians sought her guidance on how to solve problems with aging parents, and Sylvia bestowed advice with the authority of someone who seemed to straddle generations. As in her youth, she was a force to be reckoned with.
And so she remained after dementia started in, although a force that remembered the importance of doing things her way even after she had lost her grip on what that way actually was. Dementia started slowly, the occasional absent look, and thinking it was morning when she woke up from an afternoon nap. Shadie had been thinking of moving out, but decided he needed to stay on in her hour of need.
Sylvia's Unitarianism became even more important to her as she entered deep old age. Once she fell on her way to the early Sunday service, was treated in emergency for light injuries, and went to the late service promptly after her released. She was that devoted, and sharing a pew with her was always part of our Ann Arbor visits. She would often tell us tales from her spiritual journey, including the pivotal role of Browne's book. Shadie understood that she wanted to pass the torch.
It came to pass that one December, after Sylvia had just started the big decline, we went back to Ann Arbor for the holidays. The Lewis family had a leisurely Christmas morning routine. We'd sleep in, and then have bagels and lox around the Christmas tree before opening gifts. That year we'd noticed an oddity in the presents arrayed around the tree. Amidst the various sized packages there were some small flat cubes, one for each of us, all from Shadie. When we opened these gifts, we saw that they were all the same book: "This Believing World" by Lewis Browne. He had even bought one for himself.
The book had fallen out of print, these were not easy gifts. But there we were thanks to Shadie, all on the same page and honoring Sylvia's quest for truth. And honoring Shadie too, living in exile from a clerical regime. He was a brave, gentle, and generous person, and on that Christmas morning he created a glowing moment showing one of the best things about what it means to be part of our family.
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