LEAVING

The first time I left my mother, I was five years old. She told me I couldn’t go out to play until I picked up my toys. Who could tolerate such treatment?

“I’m running away,” I announced.

“Oh dear, I’ll miss you,” she said, shaking her head, “But if you really want to go, I guess I shouldn’t stop you.”

Mother got my red coat from the closet and tucked my white mittens in a pocket. “You’d better wear these,” she said, “It’s just mid-afternoon, and it’s already chilly out there. It’ll get really cold tonight.” She walked me to the porch, kissed me goodbye and closed the door behind me. I heard the dead bolt slide into place.

Off I stomped. My footsteps slowed, as I passed the house next door. It struck me for the first time that I had no idea where I was headed. After a moment, I turned around. Plopping down on our front steps, I began to consider my immediate future. As the afternoon wore on, I didn’t stir from my spot.

Mrs. Ford, our neighbor, took out her trash and called, “Hi, honey. How you doin’?”

“I’m running away,” I said, and my lips started to tremble.

“You are? Well, I won’t bother you, then,” she said, and went back inside.

As darkness fell, I decided to be generous. I knocked on the door, and when Mother opened it, I strolled past her.

“I’m giving you another chance,” I said, as she wrapped me in a warm hug.

“May I have a kiss then?” she asked. Not yet totally forgiving, I replied, “My kisses haven’t come in today.”

“I love you,” she said, “Come on, the meatloaf’s already on the table.”

After supper, I climbed into her lap and covered her face with kisses. “They just came in,” I explained.

“I’m so glad,” she said, “Now, go and pick up your toys.”

I never ran away again.

But I left, and that’s different. When I left for the first grade. I didn’t have far to go; we lived just across the street from my school. The first day I ran home at lunch, filled with excitement. “Mama! You’ll never guess what’s happened. I can read the words, ‘I can run,’” I shouted.

She enveloped me in a hug. “That’s wonderful!’ she said, “I can’t wait to see what you’ll learn this afternoon.” I hurried back to school. I couldn’t wait to find out either.

Next, I left for college. She waved until my train pulled out of sight. She had helped me pack my bag, and when I got to my destination, I found she had tucked a note among my sweaters. It said, “We’re so proud of you!”

I was beginning to grow up and break away. Yet, when I was lonely, I could phone to hear her voice. Our conversations always ended with, “I love you.” The mail brought peanut butter cookies she had baked, clothes she had made for me, letters full of news from home. I always felt her by my side. Soon after I came home from school, I married and left again to move far away. She remained my touchstone. At first, I phoned to ask trivial things, “Mom, how do you fix that chocolate cake with fudge icing?” She wrote out the recipe and sent it.

Then I phoned to sob out the news that broke my heart. “Mom, I lost the baby.” She came the next day.

Finally, I phoned with words I dreaded to say, “Mom, my marriage is over.” She didn’t pry, assigned no blame. She simply said, “I love you.” I went home to my parents, and got well inside.

Each time I left, she sent me off with a smile and words of encouragement. She never clung, though sometimes she couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes.
I always felt her by my side.

The day came when it was time to leave again. In the past, leaving was a matter of choice, a part of getting on with our lives. Before, I was the one who left. We always knew we’d see each other again soon. Not this time. Mother died ten days after she was diagnosed with cancer. It was not an easy death, but in the midst of pain, she managed to tell me one more time, “I love you.”

I went on living, because that’s what people do. Each morning, I got out of bed and did whatever was necessary. I returned to law school classes, knowing I would soon become an attorney, but that she would not be there to share the day when my dream came true. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t sense my mother by my side.

One evening, as I was going through her things, I found a quotation she had written in the margin of a book, “Love is a very agreeable passion, and sometimes it is stronger than death.” She believed that, and I realized it was true.

Mother never really left. The way she lived her life remains my moral compass. Born to privilege, she didn’t complain when her fortunes changed, but simply dug in and found ways to keep her family happy and secure. During the Great Depression, she stretched our food each day, to save a little for tomorrow. Yet, when those with no food at all came to our door, she passed out sandwiches. With grace, she played the hand life dealt her. Poverty, war, Dad’s death and cancer, she faced them all and managed to find joy, despite them. Her faith in God never wavered.

I see her smile in my memory. I hear the echo of her thoughts in my own. I find her love when I love others. I feel Mother always by my side, for, “Love is a very agreeable passion, and sometimes it is stronger then death.”

WHEN SOMEONE YOU LOVE HAS CANCER

I woke that day to wonder if life would ever be the same for either of us. The doctor walked into the room, and I knew that it would not. Dick had esophageal cancer.

Back home again, I scrubbed and dusted and swept. Every room, every corner, frantic to exorcise the word that faced me everywhere I turned. Then, furious at treatment being delayed even a day, a moment, when every hour might count, I dashed from one place to another, collecting records and reports. Because I had to do something, I did a silly thing. I spent $250.00 to buy him gold toe socks, enough to last a lifetime, a normal lifetime, and willed him to need them. He still has loads of unworn socks.

The ghastly statistic echoed in my thoughts. People with esophageal cancer, they said, have a 5% chance of living 5 years! I thought of all the people, warm, alive, also beloved, who would lose the battle. Even though I knew it wasn't the prayer I should say, "Please, God," I prayed, "Please, please, not him."

But Dick said, "If such things must be, well then, why not me? I've been so lucky."

We had been warned about all of the terrifying possible consequences of both chemo and radiation, yet there was no choice but to get on with it.

Dick's throat had closed to the point that he could only swallow liquids, and getting enough nutrition was a challenge. I coaxed endless cans of Ensure down him. He was losing weight and the tumor was growing. I panicked each time he choked.

We pictured the molecules of poison being pumped into his body as little warriors, swords in hand, marching forth to destroy the evil, to wipe out every trace. The radiation, skillfully focused on his tumor, left his back burned and his chest raw. I rubbed them with salve.

Dick made no concessions to the treatment. He went about his life as he always had until the final week of his treatment, when the plunge in his red blood cells sent him to the hospital. His body had reached its limit. We have found a treasure of information and support on the EC-GROUP Digest website as it has grown from nine members when we first found it, to thousands from around the world. To send a message to the list mailto:EC-GROUP@LISTSERV.ACOR.ORG  To reach a list owner mailto:EC-GROUP-REQUEST@LISTSERV.ACOR.ORG  The experience has reminded us how the love of family, the courage with which people face the unthinkable and the triumph of the human spirit is the same among all peoples.

As he underwent the radiation and chemotherapy, Dick uttered no complaint, nothing was altered in his soul. Each day, he simply lived, and trusted that God would provide what he needed for that moment. As I slowly became able, so did I.

Had cancer not invaded our lives, I would never have known what shining courage he has and found yet another reason to love him. I would never have had such vulnerability to lay before him as a gift, loving him completely, heedless of the chance of loss. We would never have known how unimportant most things are, what a treasure each day is, and how blessed we are. We're at 13 1/2 years and fully, joyously, in this moment, living. God has been so good to us.

EDITH HAMILTON

When asked which woman author I most admire, my immediate answer must be, “Edith Hamilton.” There is no contest. Other authors come and go, but her works are classics.

Her book, “The Greek Way,” is one of those few works of literature that was life-changing for me. It draws parallels between who the Greeks were and who we are today, in great measure thanks to them. Hamilton describes the ancient Greek approach to life as “The extraordinary flowering of the human spirit.” The names we have heard all of our lives, Socrates, Themistocles, Homer, come to life, and one understands why they still matter to us today.

Hamilton admired the Greeks’ search for freedom of mind and spirit and their pursuit of excellence. Not only does this book provide an intellectual work-out, the language flows like poetry. It is a gem, a joy to read.

Edith Hamilton was born of American parents in 1867 in Germany. She grew up in Indiana, educated in her early years by her parents. She began learning Latin when she was 7, added French and German, and at the age of eight, she was reading Greek. In 1895, she graduated with an M.A. degree from Bryn Mawr College. She then went to Germany, where she was the first woman to be admitted to the University of Munich.

She returned to become headmistress of Bryn Mawr Preparatory School, a post she held for twenty-six years. Ancient Greeks were the first to recognize the worth of the individual, and Hamilton adopted that philosophy in her job. One of her students called her class, “the crowning intellectual experience of my life.”

Hamilton retired in 1922 and began writing on Greek drama. In 1930, when she was sixty-three, she published “The Greek Way,” her first book. It became an instant classic. It continued to earn many honors. In the 1950s, it was a Book of the Month Club selection. Seven more books followed, which were also highly successful.

In 1957, when she was ninety, Edith Hamilton traveled to Greece, where King Paul presented her with an award and named her an honorary citizen of Athens. She watched as her translation of Aeschylus’ tragedy, “Prometheus Bound,” was performed before the Acropolis.

At home, she was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Letters and was awarded honorary degrees from four universities.

Edith Hamilton died at the age of ninety-six, one week after completing her book on Plato.

LETTER TO MOM

I’ll always regret that you died so soon and I grew up so late. You were gone before I was able to do things for you that I could have done just a few years later. I could have given you season tickets to Oklahoma football games and pretty dresses in bright colors and a real gold bracelet. I could have taken you with me to see the pyramids of Egypt and Paris ablaze with lights and London on New Year’s Eve, as Big Ben chimed midnight. I thought we had forever.

You were gone before I knew the questions I would one day ache to ask. My life was still so much about me that I never realized how much I didn’t know about you. What were your dreams when you were young? Did you ever love a man other than Dad? What would you have done differently, given a second chance? Who was the person you most admired? I have thousands of questions now, but only you had the answers.

I matured too slowly. When I raised my hand and took my oath as an attorney, you were gone. When I learned that I could be both vulnerable and strong, you were gone. When I helped to build a marriage that has lasted for decades, you were gone. When I wrote books and learned to bake a chocolate cake that is almost as good as yours and found peace within myself, I longed for you to know, but you were gone.

You were gone before I realized what a remarkable woman you were.
Do you remember the day we wanted to buy two ice cream cones at Demar Drug store for a nickel each? We hunted everywhere, but all we could find was nine cents. Somehow, you made that seem funny. We laughed till our sides hurt, and you taught me that sharing a laugh and being with someone you love were the most valuable treasures of all.

Do you remember when I was five and decided to run away? You asked me to pick up my toys before my nap, and I said you were mean and I was leaving. You told me you were sorry to see me go, but if that was what I wanted to do, you wouldn’t stop me. You helped me into my red coat, stuffed mittens in my pocket, hugged me and opened the door. I heard the dead bolt slide into place behind me. I sat on the front steps all afternoon. At dusk, I knocked on the door and said I’d decided to give you another chance. You kissed me, said you were glad I was back and told me to pick up my toys. I learned that running away from problems doesn’t solve them.

Do you remember the day I raced in from first grade, shouting that I could read the words, “I can run?” You listened, and you knew that was important, and you said, “How wonderful! I can’t wait to see what you’ll learn this afternoon.” Your enthusiasm fed my own, and from that day forward, I loved school, loved to learn.

Do you remember the evening during the Depression when a man who was hungry knocked on our door? You fixed him a sandwich. We had hardly any food for the next day, but you said, “I can’t turn away someone who has nothing to eat.” You taught me that, no matter what, you must be able to live with yourself. 

Do you remember when I told you I loved a man, and later when I told you love had ended? You listened, as always, but you never pried, never judged. Your arms just opened wide, and you said, “I love you.” I learned that listening with an open heart is one of the greatest gifts anyone can give, and that love imposes no conditions.
 
My mother has been dead for forty years. I don't know if other people do such things, but I still write letters or talk to her sometimes, and in my heart, I know she hears. I know she is hearing me now.
 
I want to tell her how the sky looks in East Texas on this clear winter night. Showers of stars seem close enough to graze my fingertips. The dark eternity in which they shine makes them gleam that much brighter.

We have come for the weekend to our cabin in the woods by a small lake. From the back deck, I search the heavens. The wind's crisp chill sweeps away whatever separates us from the glow that has traveled thousands of light years to touch us in our time. Away from the city and its lights, alone with the world that God created, it isn't just the stars that seem clearer.
 
Will we ever know how many billions of stars are glittering out there? Are we alone in the universe? Somewhere, amid a million far-off worlds, is there a planet where someone looks toward our sun and asks the same questions?
 
Is there a limit to our universe? And what are our own limits? I don’t believe stretching toward whatever seems beyond our grasp is like trying to touch the stars. I think it is God’s plan for us. The winter sky always leads me to such thoughts.
 
The wind is still now, and the only sounds in the forest are the rustle of some wild creature and the plaintive call of an owl. I snuggle into my warm jacket and breathe deeply, taking in the scent of pines and fallen leaves and wood smoke from the fireplace.

Stars are distant suns, rocks, gas, with no life of their own. I know that. Yet, their truth also lies in the beauty and magic which they own, the possibilities they make us stretch to see.

Looking to the heavens, I feel part of a universe where time and distance have no meaning, where galaxies whirl forth in harmony with God's great plan. You understand it all now, Mom. I can only catch a glimmer, like the light of some far distant star, glimpsed for a moment, that I cannot find again.

I begin to search for a special star, the one that's different. I never learned its name, but we chose it as our own when I was eight. It's not impressive, as stars go. We didn't want to share it, and we thought if we just picked this little minor one, tucked close to the Big Dipper, maybe no one else would claim it. Besides, we could always find it there.

We wished on our star, and you hugged me tight. "Each time you see that star," you said, "each time for all the rest of your life, remember how I love you, and remember I will always be there, watching over you."

Years after you were gone, when I no longer believed stars make wishes come true, I still looked for our star. I find it now once more and smile, comforted, warm in the midst of December.

I started to talk about the sky and what it makes me think and feel, the questions it makes me ask on this winter evening of my life. It led me to our little star and you. So what I really want to talk about isn't the great questions of the universe, but love, which you taught me is its one great answer.

Do you remember how I used to write poems? They were never very good, but you always thought they were wonderful. This is the poem I wrote for you.
 

STAR LIGHT, STAR BRIGHT
 
A small, steady star lights the Heavens,
In a place that knows no lies,
Where I'm a child forever,
And memory never dies.
However far I wander, it never disappears,
And there your love shines, waiting,
True North for all my years.

LETTERS FROM ROSE STREET
 
The following group of letters to friends was written when we moved to Rose Street in Crowley, Texas.
  
A COUPLE OF LIBRARIES AND A WAITRESS IN A DINER
 
Dear friends,
 
If you come to visit us in Crowley, you’ll see a bright purple building on your right, just off Main Street. It isn’t very big, but you can’t miss it. It’s the Public Library.

Crowley Library . but not for long!

One of the first elections the town held after we moved here was to decide whether to build a bigger, better library. The vote was yes, and a big painted sign in the librarian’s front yard said, “Thank you, Crowley!” I knew we’d love it here.
 
People who treasure books know the importance of ideas. Tyrants have always feared books, because they understood power of the written word to change minds and inspire people to take action.
 
People who cherish books place a high value on educating their children. They build for the future. The summer reading program here in our library is one of its proudest accomplishments.
 
People who love books are citizens of a civilized society. It’s true today, and it has always been.. The Great Library at Alexandria in Egypt, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, held hundreds of thousands of volumes. It was among man’s greatest achievements before the time of Christ. The burning of the library was one of the tragedies of the ancient world, which scholars mourn to this day.
 
The crisp paper of a new book, it’s ink-not-quite-dry smell, it’s never-opened cover hold the promise of a new adventure, new insight, the discovery of new friends. A worn, marked book, often read over time, is an old companion. Dependable, familiar, it still holds the capacity for surprise.
 
Penny’s Diner in Hearne, about halfway between Houston and Crowley, is an old-fashioned silver diner, looking like something out of the fifties. They make a scrumptious hamburger, and we stopped there the other day.
 
I began talking with the waitress. A thin woman in her thirties, she wore a bright pink Penny's shirt and cap. She told me she was from Bremond, just down the road.
 
"It only has 800 people," she said. Then she gave me a big grin, "But we have a library!"

I expressed amazement that such a small town would have its own library.
 
"Well, we just have seventeen books," she admitted, "But we'll get more. We have to start somewhere."
 
She said she still has to come to Hearne's library when she wants to pick up a book to read. I asked what kinds of books she likes.
 
"Not romance novels! They're just a waste of time. I like learnin' books," she said, "Learnin' is more fun than anything.”
 
My visit with her had me smiling all afternoon. I decided on our next trip, I’d pick a few books to add to the shelves of the Bremond Public Library. What happened was my writing club took the library as a project, and we collected over 300 books to add to their shelves. A few of us took them to Bremond, and what fun we had! We even made the Bremond newspaper.
 
If you don’t have a card for your local library, I urge you to get one. Learning really is more fun than almost anything.
 
Love,
Ramona
 
 

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
A CHANGE OF SEASONS
 
Dear Friends,

 Fall is almost here. Dick laughs and shakes his head when I say that. He points to the thermometer, which still hovers in the nineties any time after noon. I don’t care. Trust me on this, I know such things. Summer is just about over.

A hint of coolness in the air, early in the morning and at dusk, says autumn. The birds know. Their babies have left the nest, and the adults seem to be just hanging around, gathering strength for a long flight south. They remind me of guests, lingering after the party is over, hating to leave, because it has been so much fun. The trees know. A few of their leaves are starting to lose their lush, deep green. Days are growing shorter.

I’m excited about the coming of fall. I want to see the leaves of our big sycamore all golden and bright as the sunlight itself. I want to put away the tired cottons of summer and unpack colorful sweaters and wool pants. I want to turn on a TV one evening and be greeted by something other than re-runs and movies like “Revenge of the Nerds II.”

Soon it will be football weather, and I can root for the Crowley Eagles, the high school team whose stadium is only a couple of blocks away. Everyone is pulling for them. They may have a chance to win the state championship this year, but in any event, they’ll be fun to watch.

Skies are never as blue as they are in October. It’s a time of harvest, of gathering the fruits of your labor, to use and enjoy. It’s a time to hope for a chilly evening, when you can light the first fire of the season in the fireplace.

But right now, I will enjoy the last days of summer. I will listen to the cooing of the doves early in the morning. I will let Greta romp outside in the sprinkler, even if she does get muddy. Before I say goodbye to summer, I need to paint the glider in the back yard. I’ve been meaning to do that ever since I bought the can of bright green paint last spring. I need to eat lots more cantaloupes and plums and watermelons. Nothing ever tastes quite so much like heaven as a sweet, fresh peach. Before you know it, they’ll all disappear for another year. We need to cook more hamburgers on the grill and have the family over to share them. When summer ends, not sooner, and not later, it will be time to move ahead to fall.

I had a friend named Ella, who was the happiest person I have ever known. Her hours seemed to sing with joy. I asked what it was that made her so relish every day of her life.

She told me, “Why, I guess it’s just that I always live this moment, not the last one, and not the one to come. Each time, each season of our lives offers its own blessings. I don’t waste my days longing for yesterday. I don’t wish away today, waiting for what tomorrow will bring.”

Ella aged gracefully. She always kept her zest for life. And she remained an active participant in whatever each new moment brought until the end. I think she was a very wise woman.

Love,
Ramona

LETTER FROM ROSE STREET
 
DICK'S REUNION
 
Dear Friends,
 
Dick just got home from his fifty-fifth high school reunion. He visited
with people he hadn't seen for decades. Then he drove around Tulsa, to
see the houses where he grew up, his old neighborhood and his schools.
The changes in people and places shocked him. He said he couldn't wait to
return to Rose Street. I know how he felt.
 
Thomas Wolfe was right. You can't go home again. But if you could, what
place would you pick?
 
In the late 1930s, my folks rented the upper floor of a house on
Fourteenth Street from Miss Hostettler, for $22.00 a month. I was five.
We lived there ten years.
 
As you entered, the stairway led up to a landing with a stained glass
window, the only one I'd ever seen outside of church. At sunset, when
mother called me in from play, the sunlight shining through the glass
cast rainbows on the stairs.
 
One bedroom was Grandma's. At night, she pummeled her plump feather bed to its greatest height and eased into its depths. In the morning, she
covered it with the wedding ring bedspread she had sewn with even, barely
visible stitches.
 
When she came to live with us after Grandpa died, she brought along a
square black clock, which she wound every evening. Its chimes marked the
hours of our lives.
 
The other bedroom was Mom and Dad's. They had to rent it out once in a
while to get the money for Miss Hostettler. Then they slept on an iron
bed in the dining room. Their closet was small, but their clothes never
filled it.
 
I slept in the living room on the rollaway bed. On cold winter nights,
Mom would heat a brick, wrap it in a towel, and tuck it next to my feet
to keep me warm. We stored the rollaway in the big walk-in closet at the
top of the stairs.
 
My dresses hung there in a neat row. Mom made them from flowered feed
sacks Dad brought home from the store where he worked. She often sewed
until late at night, trimming them with rickrack, so they'd be pretty.
 
Once, she bought some pure white organdy to make a pinafore for me. I
liked to look at it, hanging slightly apart, and touch the tiny pink
flowers she embroidered across its ruffles. On the special days that I
wore it, Mom tied a pink taffeta bow in my hair.

When I wanted to be alone, I perched atop the rollaway, pulled the chain
to turn on the light bulb and closed the closet door. In my private
world, I cut out paper dolls and read "Big Little Books" and dreamed.
Dusty, the little dog of questionable origin I brought home from the
SPCA, usually squeezed in beside me.
 
Every summer afternoon, Mom made a pallet of quilts for me on the living
room floor, and I took a nap. A light breeze stirred the curtains at the
open windows and "Claire de Lune" drifted in from the soap opera on the
radio next door as I fell asleep.
 
An old Steinway piano stood in the corner of the living room, a carryover
from pre-depression years. Dad could never afford lessons, but he played
by ear. Lifting his hands high, he pounded out "Turkey in the Straw" and
"Red Wing" and "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain." I sat on the bench
beside him, singing along to hymns like "The Old Rugged Cross," learned
on Sundays at the Olivet Baptist Church.
 
Mom did our washing on a scrub board, filling two big tubs with water,
which sometimes splashed onto the linoleum floor. She added Ivory flakes
to one tub, and used the other to rinse. After wringing out the wash by
hand, she carried it downstairs to the clothesline. When everything
smelled sweet and fresh from drying in the sun, she carried it back
upstairs and sprinkled it for ironing. She pressed everything, from dish
towels to clothes, with a heavy iron that she could only turn on or off.
 
At the round kitchen table, covered with oilcloth, we played Old Maid or
Monopoly or Chinese Checkers. We'd gather around the radio to laugh at "Fibber McGee and Molly" or to hear Mr. Roosevelt speak. After his fireside chats, we said our bedtime prayers, reassured by the knowledge that he was in charge of the country. It was there that we heard him declare war on Japan, after the Pearl Harbor attack. The news of his death shocked everyone. Somehow, we never thought of him as mortal.
 
When the war ended, it was there that we learned the news.
 
Grandma did most of the cooking, and I often came home from school to the smell of chocolate cupcakes baking. I knew she'd made them just for me.
 
She canned green beans and corn relish and piccalilli, and when the man
who sold big, purple concord grapes in wooden baskets came to our door,
she made jam and jelly.
 
Dad worked at the grocery store his uncle owned, and there