What’s on the iPod: I Will Wait by Mumford and Sons
I can’t believe today is the first day of fall. I didn’t get to the shore this summer (not surprising given my surgery in May), nor did I spend enough time in the garden. And yet, the summer was lovely. The garden bloomed without me, and seemed to be giving me the break I needed. The temperatures were as close to perfect as we could get (meaning very few 90+-degree days), and life was at a nice pace. Work wasn’t exactly intruding, but I did need the down time to regain my strength.
Yesterday we drove back from Cambridge, Mass., where we spent a glorious weekend with family. We joined 50 others from all parts of the country, gathering in the Friends Meeting House to remember an extraordinary person — my mother-in-law, Margaret Ann Cross Bean (Possum to everyone).
As is traditional with a Friends meeting, we sat in silence and when moved to, stood up to speak. The hour went by quickly as we heard stories, both sad and hysterical, about a woman whose life defined richness. Her oldest son told of his mother, then 27, living in post-war London and finding the resources to send food to a needy family in France. The thank-you note from the family was written on a photo of a girl in a simple dress, sitting on a stone, her face dirty and dusty and with an enigmatic, haunting expression.
Another relative told of how she felt every time she talked with Possum. “She would make you feel special, like you were the most important person.” That sentiment was echoed by her neighbors, who lived next to her in Phoenix, and who had traveled to say good-bye and to tell the family what she meant to them. “We loved having her attend our parties. After every one, friends would ask us who that remarkable woman was, because she mingled and took an interest in everyone.”
My step-daughter’s husband told of how they would visit her often. “We knew we’d go there and do nothing, but we had such a great time every time.” Even my own story, which remained untold, typified who she was. We had gone to Cape May with her one fall day, a day like today, in fact. We were standing on a sand dune overlooking the ocean. I pointed out the dolphins, which she said were too far away for her to see. Then she spread her arms wide, taking in the view, and said, “I just want to jump in that water naked and go skinny dipping!”
I told her why not? and suggested we go closer to the dolphins. As we walked closer to the water, she touched my arm and said, “Now Lori, you must promise not to look at me when I’m taking off my clothes.”
Oh shit, I thought. She meant it!
I did convince her that we should avoid arrest by staying in our underwear, which is what we did. We bounded into the water, undies exposed, and held hands and laughed as the waves smacked into us.
At the time, she was 88 years old.
That’s the kind of person I describe as a catnip person. You can’t really put a complete definition around why you love being around her, but her presence was essential. She laughed, a lot. She enjoyed life, marveled often at how lucky she was, we were, to see a glorious sunset, experience a wonderful poem, enjoy art, music, creatures, and anything else that caught her fancy. Even to her last lucid moments those weeks before she passed, she was marveling at the dreams she’d had that she thought were real — that wonderful dinner party that was happening just over there (she pointed to the other side of her bedroom), and how she felt so lucky to have been asked to go.
When she went quietly just a few weeks after having the heart attack that ended her 92 years with this world, she had truly lived a life enviable. She’d entertained dukes and poet laureates. She’d seen a queen coronated, and she’d commented on the event with such detail, you’d thought you’d been there, too. She lived and traveled all over the world, following her embassy husband from Sweden to Switzerland to London and beyond. She blazed trails with a quiet matter-of-factness that, in retrospect, was remarkable. Her artwork is stunning, and her writing fascinating. But it was her spirit that was most infectious. When we were on that trip to Cape May, an encounter with a stranger speaks to exactly how she operated.
The woman, maybe in her late forties, was asking Possum about herself. When she learned Possum’s age, the woman replied, “Oh, God love you. How wonderful for you to get out and about.”
After the woman left, my mother-in-law looked at us and said, “Is that woman daft? What on earth does she think I should be doing, sitting at home and doing nothing? What an absurd thought.”
To a spirit that strong, what an absurd thought indeed. Enjoy this next journey, Possum. I know wherever you are, you’re laughing and making those around you feel like they are special. That’s what extraordinary people do.
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