I know it’s late June, but I have a September story for you. For three or four minutes let the deep colors of bronze and gold and the smell of burning leaves take center stage, replacing the blue, the high clouds and the shimmering heat horizons of summer.🍁
Imagine maple trees on a large expanse of a green, green lawn. They’ve been there for a hundred years more or less – maybe a little less, but who’s counting?
Now imagine that it’s late September and sunshine is filtering through the leaves of those old maples as they stand sentinel down the north end of that lawn. They extend all the way up the east side and then push in close next to a little house that sits on the southernmost tip of the property. The leaves are blazing in red and gold, and red again.
The grass is still lush and green because the 80 year old who lives in the tiny, but very well apportioned house spent the first 30 years of her married life dragging hoses and Rain Bird sprinklers in every direction around that vast lawn – and the last 30 years making sure the in-ground sprinkler system she “shelled out big bucks for back in ‘93” is still doing it’s job.
This fireball of a lady is Ellen, and she has an uncanny knack of sizing people up and speaking her mind. She’s good at making friends – and once in a a while making an enemy. She says if you live long enough, at least a few people will probably loathe you on some level. “I stopped caring if everybody liked me back during Clinton’s second term,” she says with a toss of her gray head.
When I met her, I wavered between amazement (shock, really) at how she can talk to anybody about ANYTHING, and something akin to envy. She really is incredible. If I’m honest, she scares me a little because if she thinks I’ve done something not quite in line with her opinions, she’ll tell me about it. 😂 You have to be on your toes around this one.
Ellen lives alone but I knew it hadn’t always been that way. Every once in a while she would mention someone named Link…but she never seemed inclined to talk about him and I didn’t want to pry. An old black and white photograph sits on a shelf in her tiny study. I had seen it several times, but didn’t ask questions. She had to invite me into that part of her life…it wasn’t ok for me to knock.
The late September sunshine was making pretty, dancing shadows on the lawn as I walked up Ellen’s drive one afternoon. The windows were open letting the fresh smell of a mild fall breeze into Ellen’s living room when I arrived for what she laughingly referred to later as “Story Hour.” Sitting in her favorite chair with a cup of mint tea cradled in a saucer on her lap, she started talking. Ellen looked at me rarely while she told the story of that black and white photograph; she was years ago and miles away. It was almost like I wasn’t there. I’ve paraphrased her story below; you’ll have to imagine the love, the nostalgia and the hint of sass around the edges when she got to the justice of the peace part.
“I was 19 years old when I met Lincoln. Oh, he was handsome…he was in a few of my classes at University. I was sitting in Literature Class one first semester Tuesday morning and he came in late. The only seat left was the one in front of me. I had seen him before, of course, but that day I really saw him. That entire class period, all I thought about was how handsome he was and how his brown hair curled where it touched his collar. There was a tiny leaf on his left shoulder and I wanted to reach up and brush it off. I would have just died before I got up the nerve to do that!
I remember so clearly…the professor was leading a class discussion on “The Merchant of Venice” but I was way, WAY past thinking about Antonio, Bassinio and Portia! Who cared about Shakespeare when Mr.-Handsome-With-Brown-Hair-And-A-Leaf was sitting in front of me?!
And then he dropped his pencil.
That yellow Ticonderoga No. 2 with no eraser rolled back to my feet and I picked it up and handed it to him. He grinned, said thanks and turned back around in his seat.
I fell in love in those 8 seconds.
When class was over, he stood up, asked me my name and if I was busy on Friday night. I was at a loss for words. Me! At a loss for words! I shook my head “no” but by the time he asked where I lived, I had found my tongue.
That Friday night was the best night of my 19 year old life. We started dating and oh, we had fun! We could talk about anything. He was brave and I was, too! We were at University on the east coast and one Wednesday night, he showed up at my door, “Broadway lights are brightest on Thursday” he said with his lopsided grin. “If we leave now, we can try to get a seat for one of the shows.”
We decided to cut classes the next day (the first and only time we ever did such a thing!) and left then and there. We got to New York City by early the next morning, ate breakfast at a little diner, window shopped, then crashed on a bench in Central Park for a few hours that afternoon. Somehow Link got Broadway tickets for us. Worst two seats in the house, but we didn’t care. “A Passage to India” was magical – and so was my date.
We were so happy…until our parents found out about us. We didn’t tell our families at Christmas break – but we did at Easter. We had talked about how they might react. Lincoln’s family was well-known and wealthy. Mine was not. Lincoln’s family was Catholic. Mine was not. Lincoln’s family wanted him to marry someone named Muriel. Muriel I was not.
But Lincoln stood firm; and so did I. We went back to University after that weekend at home and made some hurried plans. One Friday morning nearly three weeks later, Link picked me up wearing a suit and tie; I skipped down the steps of my sorority house dressed in a pale pink dress I had borrowed from my best friend. We hopped in Lincoln’s car and drove west. Arriving in a small town where nobody knew us, we had a silver-haired justice of the peace marry us. Our witnesses were two clerks from the courthouse. I had turned 20 in early December and Lincoln was 21.
We were babies! But we knew that we belonged together. My heart was safe in his hands and his in mine. We were pretty much disowned by both our families for a time. Lincoln’s daddy never really did come round and so most of that money Link had grown up with was gone in the space of a 5 minute call we made from a phone booth to tell our parents what we’d done.
My parents came around after a few months and we eventually smoothed things over. My mother made me a wedding dress from a Simplicity pattern and she asked us to pose in front of the church in my hometown so that we could at least have one “real” wedding photo. Lincoln’s father died 10 years later and left him a partial inheritance, but nothing like what he gave to his other two sons. We were very, very grateful for what we were given…Link always said that the money his dad made didn’t really belong to anyone but his dad and so to expect getting anything didn’t make sense in the long run. Link invested the inheritance and I’m cared for today because of it.
Children never came for us, but Link and I parented all kinds of people – old and young! – over the years. In the end, I supposed that’s what counts. Link and I lived and we lived joyfully. God gave us wonderful years together and we weathered the tough stuff holding each other’s hands good and tight. In memory of our college NYC adventure, we saved our money and in 1998, we booked our own passage to India. We sat on a bench in front of the Taj Mahal and honored the memory of Mumtaz Mahal and the love she inspired in the heart of her husband. Link built this beautiful cottage for me among the maples and when he died eight years ago, he told me to be brave and to follow when I can. So, that’s what I’m doing, dearie. I miss him every day and talking about him still comes hard.”
I left Ellen’s house late that afternoon with a heart packed full. She has lived courageously and I will always think of her differently now. I’ll think of her not just as an 80 year old with opinions decidedly her own – but as that 19 year old who dozed on a park bench in New York City, ate a hot dog for supper, and then watched from the cheap seats as Gladys Cooper gave a Tony nominated performance on a New York stage.
I guess the point of this story is to listen to those around you. It’s one of the best ways to honor the people we live among. Isn’t it incredible to realize that not a single one of us has an ordinary life? You may think you do, of course, but every day has some thread of mystery running through it…and you’re the one weaving it.
And that means that you just never know what story might live among the maples in your part of the world.
It might be fun to find out.