Silhouettes and snapshots; women who touched my life...

"She was powerful not because she wasn't scared, but because she went on so strongly, despite the fear." ~ Atticus

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I have no idea what drew me to her cottage. Lively conversations were filled with words long forgotten, hands in constant motion across the table top, and fingers stretched flat and wide to smooth wrinkles and bumps out of a flowered yellow and orange plastic cloth. Not as vision, but feeling, expressions of smiling and cozy and discovery linger as wordless clouds of energy in this quiet place where things could be learned from a woman whose face, outlined in white, I no longer see.

When my mother discovered I'd been visiting our neighbour she asked me to stop, to consider the woman's need for privacy and rest over time spent with an inquisitive four-year-old.

Years later, recalling the village and the elderly woman, hearing regret in my mother's voice, I began to understand that a growing wisdom may carry its own cost...

"I'm sorry I stopped you...," she said, "...maybe the time together kept her going - gave her something to look forward to."

By then we'd learned that soon after my last visit, the quiet-spoken woman was found dead, without family or friend to share her days.

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About the same time, I was given a large-print book depicting the life of my first hero - Joan of Arc. Too big to be held in small hands, I would secure the hard cover on my lap so pages could be turned easily over and over as I studied her horse, her armor, her spear. This face, framed differently, again without feature, was young with shining inch-long hair on a head held high and steady. I loved the book and loved the girl whose long, straight back had something to do with the beginnings of knowing and wanting a then unnamed strength - bravery.

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By third grade the word intelligence had begun to mean something and could be connected to a person. As my teacher, Mrs. Gaines, would stand at the blackboard full of energy and hope and inspiration, the connection was easy - she was that - the word in motion.

In her classroom not a minute was wasted scolding students who spoke out of turn or failed to meet expectation - her intelligence took the form of common sense and the shared mission of discovering potential was what this room filled with eight-year-olds was about. How I wanted to please her, to align with and respect her effort, pay attention and learn, even obey.

Once again, I hold no visual memory of her features, still, her message was stored long enough for it to one day be understood, then visited and re-visited thousands of times; identify and tend to what matters, ignore what does not - the gift of perspective.

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In my late teens traveling to Europe by freighter, I was intrigued by a passenger I learned on day three of a ten-day crossing was actress, Evelyn Keyes. Her career begun at the end of the silent film era, spanned decades and would continue until a final film appearance in 1989.

While Ms. Keyes and her husband, band leader Artie Shaw, sat reading on canvas deck chairs mornings and afternoons, I carefully studied a woman whose calm, self-assured voice, soft, with a gentle tempo, seemed absent any need to compete or prove or win.

hudson valley morning

There are no movie star features or fashionable deck outfits remembered for me to describe. What I do remember is day after day Ms. Keyes wore the same white cotton tailored shirts, slim 'dungarees' and clean, white sneakers easily identified by the glued-on navy blue logo - that little square piece of rubber with three raised letters - "KED".

I recall her face only for its glow and lack of covering at a time when women were told beauty came with bright red lips and black eyeliner, carefully drawn upward, cat-like and seductive at the outer edge of each eye.

How stunning she was. How quietly confident. A lesson in life about the way it can be done - with simplicity.

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A more recent impression is of a woman whose features are impossible to recall and mean little compared to what she was about. A tweedy professor in sensible shoes with a tight bun at the nape of her neck, she was tall and thin with a steady expression that gave away nothing. This may have been her way to maintain distance between herself and a classroom full of needy first-year college students whose conversations may have been of little interest beyond the necessary.

Riddled with doubt, I entered her classroom convinced that planning and persistence would make up for lack of intelligence. With a best possible work ethic I would challenge and survive the threatening assumption that my classmates were brilliant, while I was an imposter, allowed in for good behaviour. Unfortunately, in Ms. Phillip's strict presence, lacking in warmth and loaded with what seemed like negative judgment, my shortcomings were affirmed while insecurities grew bigger than my doubt. I would be revealed.

On a day Ms. Phillips was handing back a graded essay the class was asked to write entitled, "The Room", she bent down to whisper the only thing she had said or did say through the entire semester - nine words that changed my life...

"I hope you'll go on to get your Ph.D."

How could this be?! Did I hear her correctly? I played what she said over and over again in my mind. I never responded. I never asked. I doubted myself, but trusted the sincerity of this no-nonsense woman. She'd given me a seed and it was my job to make it grow. Tucked away for safe keeping, it would be guarded, never taken for granted, and sparingly, in times of uncertainty, I would pull up this remarkable gift of encouragement.

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A more recent moment when a woman caught my attention took place as I headed north to my tiny village on a commuter train out of Grand Central Station. A simple experience, not exactly profound, but, delightful.

After catching up with texts and emails I was ready to settle in for the two-hour ride with a book. As we tend to do transitioning from one thing to another, I looked up and gave the car a quick scan. It was packed. Standing room only. Most noticeable was the downward angle of a sea of heads and necks with faces staring at the screens of cell phones, computers and tablets. With the exception of one - only one. Two seats ahead, across the isle I saw a woman with a different kind of slouch, both hands holding a hardcover book, the curve of her back more natural, her head held even with the pages she was reading.

"How unusual...", I thought. "How interesting...!" She was interesting. Choosing what suited her best - unlike the rest.

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As I write many more women come to mind...

...the young ER doctor assigned to what might have been the worst possible place to be during the Covid epidemic, where rooms overflowing with the dead were only relieved by the use of body bags placed in refrigerated trucks on the streets of New York City. Meeting by phone, I never saw her face, but, I saw her courage as she acted in spite of the crippling fear she felt every single day.

...the young mother who carefully and systematically saved two dollars a week out of her grocery allotment until she'd gathered the cost of a bus ticket so she and her infant could flee her physically and emotionally abusive husband. And on that bus, a stranger returned from one of the many stops along the way with three small containers of milk when he figured out she'd run out of milk for her 6-month-old son's bottle. She saw his kindness as a sign that somehow she would be o.k. In time, she was.

...and, another young husbandless mother who walked three miles each way to her job as a bookkeeper in a jewelry store, with every step feeling the ground through open holes in the soles of her shoes. Determined to brighten her child's life, she bought a stroller in a second-hand shop for fifty cents then covered it with red and white striped paper. On her long walks she wore something she would never sell, the diamond ring left to her by her beloved grandmother, believing it gave her the stamina and determination needed to keep going in spite of living without all that every young mother should have.

After decades of life and work, there are many stories remembered. Imagined or observed, the characteristics and behaviours of these women leave behind impressions of courage and creativity and independent choice. I am touched by all the beauty one could hope for, found and recalled not in appearance, but in what they stood for or stood up to, in what they gave freely, or taught or shared, in dignity and pride, in generosity and love, in kindness and strength.

Yes, of course, be and look the best you can when you step out into the world. But, think goodness rather than approval, validating, rather that validated, health rather than youth.

Be what you look up to. Spend your time with good ideas and deeds. Share your gifts. Be brave. Waste no time, but take time to savor the moment. Today. Now. Don't wait. Please don't wait.

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Until next time!

ah