Memories From Childhood

 NATIONAL GRANDPARENTS' DAY !!! September 7:
I was so blessed to know a great-grandmother and a great-grandfather growing up. Both were a real "hoot".
 
> Great-grandfather would take me to the local grocery, set me on the counter to show everyone his great-grandchild BUT . . . only if I was clean and dressed up. This big nosed, bald man loved any old western on television. He went dancing every Saturday night in his pin-stripe suit with watch chain dangling and chewing Black Jack gum. He swallowed a teaspoon of Vicks Vapo Rub every night at bed time. The man lived into his 90's with one kidney.

> Great-grandmother worked as a tailor at a men's store, would take us to the circus and eat cotton candy. She took us to the fair and rode the roller coaster with my brother and the ferris wheel with me. She bought tickets and took us to TV wrestling matches where she would sit on the front row and yell, "Git him, git him!, pin him down!" She was an old lady who never grew old. I will never forget the way she washed our hands - not with a cloth but with her hands. I remember the way she washed my eyes open with a warm cloth, when I had whooping cough.

> Paternal grandmother was a "vamp" singer in the style of Kate Smith and Sophie Tucker was a professed Catholic who never went to church. I remember watching her get ready for an appearance by putting on false nails and lashes, shaving and repainting her eyebrows and using those long metal waving combs to set her hair. She baked the best sugar cookies in the world and always made amazing cakes for our birthdays: dolls in cake dresses, a merry-go-round with animals that carried candles, cars and clowns. At Easter, she turned eggs into dolls. She loved to braid my hair and tie big bows on the ends. Her kitchen drawers were toy chests full of wooden spoons and cookie cutters.

> My mother's mother (my American Indian grandmother) was up at dawn to prime her well pump and hoe the corn before the sun got hot, in a large straw bonnet. She canned the best bread and butter pickles and let me eat all I wanted. There was a metal bucket of water in the kitchen with a rusty ladel that everyone use. She always had a black cat around - said they were lucky. Her outhouse had a wasp nest at the door and - two seats - ? I climbed her apple tree with a salt shaker and ate until I was sick. I sat in the limbs of the mulberry tree, overhanging the road, and flicked little green spiders off the berries to eat them as cars passed below. (Mother would have whipped me if she knew.) I ran her corn fields until dark, playing with kids across the road. I remember warm baths in a galvanized tub beside her pot belly stove while she poured baking soda water over my chicken pocks. And, she had the gentlest stroke when brushing my hair and relating Indian folktales. We ate diabetic ice cream and she always let me run free. She was my favorite.

> Grandfather said she didn't know how to boil water when he married her. They separated before I remember. He was a house painter and when my father left, grandfather moved in to be chief cook and babysitter while mother worked. He practiced tough love and taught me to cipher, cook, look people in the eye, shake a firm hand, stand up straight, color mixing and how to run a chalk line. He played the harmonica and spoons and we danced with abandon. We cleaned wallpaper with putty, painted the walls every two years and I listened in awe to his childhood stories of a one room school house he walked to in his bare feet in 12 inches of snow - up hill both ways. No one messed with his grandkids and we adored him to pieces.

I do not remember any of them ever going to church on Sundays. The Indian grandmother is the only one I know of who read the Bible. God provided a rich heritage and some great memories.

Chapter One, EPILOGUE

The memory of a moment stays with us for a lifetime - Unknown
 
We need not destroy the past, it is gone - John Cage
 
> It was the dawn of color television and the Howdy Doody show, Ed Sullivan, poodle skirts, saddle shoes, drive-in theaters, the jitterbug, jukeboxes and candy buttons on paper. The milkman delivered to your door and the family doctor still made house calls. Women stayed home, wore aprons and cooked Maypo for breakfast. It was convertible cars, the polio vaccine, home perms and Alaska became a state. It was Elvis, Mickey, Uncle Milty and American Bandstand. We caught pollywogs and fireflies, played hopscotch and jumped rope to Double Dutch. It was the magical time of childhood wonder and innocent discovery.
 
> Sorting through old photos and stirring memories reveals nothing especially noteworthy about my first eight years on this earth. My childhood seemed, then and now, not to be unlike any other child's.
 
> Adults have little understanding of the influence they possess on the lives of young children. In many ways, we become imprinted by those who are the strongest personalities in our young lives. It is said from birth to four are the years that set us on the course of who we will become. I am sure Mother, Pop and Mother Carmichael left their mark on me, in one way or another. Our development through early life is part nature but also part nurture.
 

I looked like a little boy without my bonnet.

> There were a few struggles for, and within, our little family. All families struggle with internal and external relationships. We learned give and take. Jerry and I were very close as children but, one occasion, our tempers were so riled during a physical altercation that we threatened each other with knives. Grandfather stopped that little drama before it turned tragedy. The next day, we were trying to fight each other's battles or defend against a common enemy. We grew through all of it.
 
> Back then, God was the invisible friend I talked to and the subject at church. My life was about friends, school, fishing, parakeets and dress up. Children are truly blessed to have their own world and a direct line to the ear of God. Children are indeed on God's priority list. Need prayer? Ask a child to intervene for you.
 
> We are tested daily. The greatest trial in my first nine years was overcoming not having a father. When a parent leaves or gives up a child, that child's small world insists this is their fault. Children take these huge burdens on themselves. Until he left, I was "Daddy's Girl". After he left, I craved the comforting male attention I had grown used to. This had a huge affect on my life for many years to come and is still part (albeit smaller) of my emotional baggage. He left an unfulfilled hunger in each of his children. My sister and I yearned for the paternal presence that is the role model for a girl's choice of male relationships. My brother just wanted a father's guiding hand and approval for a "job well don, son".
 
> A large part of my character is defined by my mother's heart. It cannot be explained any other way - example is a great teacher. What do we know of giving, if not witnessed by us of those we admire? What does anyone know of compassion without suffering?
 
> I believe that God listened to this child from the first time I called on Him, wishing upon a star in the night sky at the very early age of 4 years. He hears every word from the lips of a child. Let me state right here and now, there have been a few times when I felt lonely, but I cannot remember any moment when I felt alone - ever.
 
> There are no coincidences, no accidents in God's perfectly ordered universe.. Everything in the life of a believer happens for a reason. As you continue to read my story, you will see why I have come to believe this way. Our lives come together in the end for a divine purpose.

* To be continued . . .

* This continuing story begins with the post on Dec. 30, 2024

See "Entertaining Angels Unaware"

 

One Negative Thing

 The only negative . . .

thing I can say about Pop: he was a bigot. I remember some terrible stories he told and comments about other peoples that made us laugh and wince at the same time. Grandpa had been in the Second World War, and there was a family rumor that he had even been a member of a very well known subversive group. All his names for Italians, Germans, Black People, Japanese, and more, were new to us. (Interesting fact: Grandpa's family had roots in Creole country.) Even at our young age, we found his comments embarrassing though in the privacy of our own home. Mother is the only reason I can give that none of Pop's theories influenced us. She never saw any differences in human beings. We just accepted it as how Pop was; that was not us. We all make excuses for those we love.

 

I never knew him to go to church but for one of my weddings and his funeral. I never knew him to read the Bible or heard him say a prayer. To his credit, he never spoke against Christianity, though he had his own definite opinion of other religious sects. I can attest to him as a believer. I remember an occasional mention of God, or heaven when he talked to us. It was always matter-of-fact as though that is just the way it is; God is God and He is. 

 

> > > > > You do not have to be a saint for God to use you. < < < < <

 

Let me interject right here that I do not remember grace being said at our daily meal. A short blessing was given at large family gatherings on holidays. My husband and I do not begin a meal without thanks for and blessing on our food, at home or in public.

 

I adored my grandfather. Every time he left the house, I needed to go with him. I was his shadow, taking three steps to every single stride of his long gait. I hung on his every word and believed every story he ever told. He never took anything for himself and gave everything he had to Mother. His undershirts were riddled with holes and he went barefoot all summer. He wore white painters' pants that were spotted with a rainbow of color blotches. In just a couple years, he would save my sister and I from the greatest terror of our young lives.

 

Jerry and Pop were never as close as either would have liked but Jerry respected him. I remember comments my brother made as an adult; always with great respect and admiration for Pop.

 

 

 

What all of us learned and received from this man cannot be priced in any way. The wisdom he taught and the laughter he injected cannot be measured. I could tell stories for days from memories I would not give up for any prize. He lives on in our memories and through our lives. It broke my heart, years later, when he had to be admitted to a veteran's nursing home and this old man cried for me to take him home with me. (I find myself in tears just at this writing.) He died there from his third stroke - or giving up. I am so sorry, Pop.

 

There is no death, only a change of worlds. . . 

Chief Seattle, Duwamish Indian.

 

* This continuing story begins with the post on Dec. 30, 2024

See "Entertaining Angels Unaware"

Grandmother's House Cont'd . . .

 

Grandchildren were never disciplined and allowed to run free on the "farm". On occasion, time was spent with children from across the road, running through the rows of corn with our imaginations right behind. We wandered great emerald jungles that would hide us until fireflies came out to play. The green apple tree was a favorite place while sitting on a limb with salt shaker in hand and a guaranteed bellyache to come. Green spiders were flicked off the mulberries as I sat among curtains of leaves and watched cars pass on the black top below. Mother would have had a coronary, if she had known. (She would have done her imitation of a flock of attacking birds.)

 

As stated earlier in my story, God was a constant companion.  I merely had to acknowledge Him to feel His presence.  In quiet solitude at grandmother's house, there was a lot of time to just "be in company of" my invisible friend.  He was there in the rows of corn, we shared mulberries and fed clover to the rabbits.  I was never alone; I ran with abandon without fear; my imagination soared beyond the clouds that built scenes of angel hair castles.

 

STORY: Chickenpox arrived when I was visiting Grandmother one winter. I remember a large galvanized tub she set up in the living room next to the potbelly stove. Into the water, which was heated one pail at a time, went baking soda and she poured it by the pitcher full over my lesions. Mother came to visit with one of the most unusual dolls I had ever seen; fourteen inches tall in a black and white nun's habit - rosary and all. ? (You remember: Mother sent the priest packin'.) Still strange to me. One thing about being sick: you feel so good when you are well again.

 

Grandmother would braid my hair and relate Indian folktales. Her brush stroke was so gentle and patient - not like Mother's. She was diabetic and shared her sugar-free ice cream which held a special attraction for me. I could eat an entire pint jar of her homemade pickles in one sitting with never a scolding. It was a magical world that was evidence of God in my life. Grandmothers can be such a special blessing.

 

 

 

 

STORY: I remember one visit in particular. My younger uncle was in his mid-teens, living at home and I was half his age. I used to torment him to get attention when outside excursions were called on account of rain or feeling restless. I was doing anything I could think of to take his attention away from his television program. The last time I did this, he carried me upstairs to his bedroom, laid me face down in the middle of his bed and pulled my panties down.  He then proceeded to rub his member between my thighs. I made such a commotion that he let me up. I ran and my visits to grandmother began to taper off.  On the couple remaining visits, I made it a point to know where my uncle was at all times so I could be sure to avoid him.  I was in my adult years before I related this story to my sister. Guess I felt like I asked for it. Guilt is a difficult thing for a child to cope with.  And, this has always been difficult for me to understand.

 

My uncle was a pubesic teen age boy is my excuse for him.  But this incident robbed me of a joyful part of my childhood.  I was now banished to the inner city of a crumbling neighborhood where we were no longer allowed to leave the safety of our own small yard.  No more running through emerald cities or climbing trees.  No more feeding clover to rabbits or drinking well water from a rusty ladle.  No more hours spent alone with my imagination or tales of illusive Indians.  Most of all, no more sitting with those gentle hands braiding my hair.

 

Diabetes was taking Grandmother's eyesight. She read her Bible cover to cover and back again, until the magnifying glass no longer worked for her. She and Grandfather were never divorced but they did not live together in my lifetime. 

 

 

 

Years later, Grandfather had three strokes over a period of several years. It was so sad for me to see him wither into such a frail person. It was just a few weeks after he died that Grandmother was taken to the hospital for exploratory surgery. She was failing fast and no one knew why. The doctor found cancer in her liver and sent her home to be with her family. She did not linger. Doctors could not understand why she never complained of any pain. To this day, I believe she withstood everything as long as Grandfather was alive. When he was gone she no longer cared to be here. You cannot chose who your heart will love.

 

To be continued . . . . .

* This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

A Two-Seater Outhouse

 

I hope for nothing, I fear nothing - I am free

 

Life is the dream from which we wake to the reality of death.

 

Summers with my maternal grandmother are some of my most treasured memories: corn fields, rabbit hutch, well water, coal heater and pickles.

 

She lived in the country in a long house covered with roofing shingles that looked like red brick, with a crawl space that set the house up on cinder blocks. Overhanging the road was a large mulberry tree, and a sour apple tree grew beside the dirt driveway.

 

So many wonderful memories retained all these years later, play like a picture album across my mind. There was the red checkered tablecloth with condiments in the center, her bed that sagged in the middle and the black cat under the coal burning, cast iron heater. This all-too-brief time in my life leaves me with wonderful food for peaceful daydreams.

 

> Her well water was a favorite drink of mine and I remember her saving enough at night for priming the pump, next morning, in the winter to get it started.

 

> There was a two-seater outhouse that I never did understand. I cannot imagine sitting in passing conversation with a fellow traveler. Under the eaves of the outhouse was a wasp nest that always gave me cause for concern. I remember my youngest uncle's rabbit hutch and the glorious cornfield that she hoed every morning at 5 a.m. in her straw sunbonnet. I was always excited to help.

 

> Inside the house, the kitchen held the galvanized metal water bucket with the rusty enamel ladle everyone shared for a quick sip. There were two cast iron heating stoves, one in the eating area, the other in the living room at the other end of the house. This one served to heat the two upstairs bedrooms in the winter because heat rises. In between was her bedroom and a makeshift pantry with a curtain that hid the shelves of canned goods.

 

Aunt, Grandmother, Mother

 

> The two bedrooms upstairs had beds heaped with blankets in the winter. One bedroom was occupied by my mother's youngest brother with the other generally reserved for visiting grandchildren. Behind the heater in the eating area was a fourth bedroom reserved for one of my older cousins who stayed more with grandmother than her own mother. In a small mud room off the back of the kitchen was the bucket used when it was not convenient to trek off to the outhouse. That was one cold metal bucket that left a ring around your butt if you sat on it. And, you better sit down squarely if you didn't want an overturned bucket.

 

> Grandmother had been an only child and wanted a large family. She lost three children at birth, two were twins. Nine babies survived that she and Grandfather raised through the Great Depression.

 

> I loved visiting. One summer, Mother called to ask if she would get to see me before school school resumed. "Are you ever coming home?" Every opportunity to visit Grandmother was accepted with great enthusiasm. Her country residence was always an adventure of monumental proportions. Every bit of it was adventure to this city girl and Grandmother was in her element with grandchildren around.

 

To be continued  . . . . . 

* This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

"You're Just a Bunch of Little Heathens"

She gets up while it is still night; she provides food for her family.
She speaks with wisdom and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
(Quotes from Proverbs 31)

 
> Naomi Bonnilee Radner (ficticious name) was my proud, fiercely independent mother. Since she was the greatest influence of my life, there needs to be enough about her that the reader can understand just how much of an influence. For such a woman to be my mother is evidence that God loves me.

 
> She was the middle child of nine siblings. I thought she was perfect and the most beautiful woman in the world. Raven hair and dark eyes with olive complexion that tanned to bronze in the summer along with her good proportioning, gave her the appearance of a doll. Five foot/two inches in stocking feet, she was always a lady and fiercely outspoken. A "tomboy" as a child, she could, and would, stand up to anyone. The proof was her nose; a wide flat nose that had been broken three times: first, tumbling from a tree, and twice from fighting. She frequently informed me that she once had a pretty nose - just like mine.

 
> She loved and missed my father to the day she died. After he left, with a teenage waitress, I remember nights hearing her cry herself to sleep. Their relationship caused her so much emotional pain that she made wrong choices more than once. She wore a tough shell about herself that kept her emotionally out of reach in order to protect that softest of hearts. One of Mother's proverbs: "You can't choose who your heart will love."

 
> Faithful and generous to a fault, mom was fond of telling us there was always someone worse off than we were. I remember a couple Christmases that we were required to give up a possession that was in good condition (preferably something we cared for.) This was how we were to learn sacrifice for someone else and the joy of giving. You do not give something that you yourself would not want and there was always something to replace it.

 
> Ever heard the teaching that you are to do as though you were doing it for/giving it to Jesus Himself - ? Mother was that example.

 
> She also had a lot of "proverbs" that were frequently repeated. "Tell me anything but a lie" and "You can do anything you put your mind to" are only two of the dozens that come to mind. My all-time favorite, "You're just a bunch of little heathens". When I was an adolescent, she was fond of telling me I was special. Mom was sure I was going to do something that would prove it. I needed to hear her assurances but took them as just a mother's love.

 
> Mother was a vain woman with a definite idea of how a lady should conduct herself and how she should dress. She grew up in a time when ladies wore hats and gloves to go shopping and television commercials showed housewives with hair combed, make up on and aprons over their dresses.

 
> Mom never went out of the house without makeup, hair combed and coordinated clothes. She detested jeans for women and bare legs were out of the question; stocking were required. All this from a girl who came from a large farmer's family who lived grew up climbing trees in the countryside.

 
> STORY: A particular day comes to mind when I was going to visit my grandfather in the VA hospital. I was a grown, married woman at the time. It was the 1960's, the age of "bra burning". I stopped at mother's house along the way. When I came in the door, she immediately demanded to know where I was going "like that". I responded "to see Pop". "Not like that, you're not" was her decree. She took me into the bedroom and "put" a bra on me. That was that.

 
> She was stylish and loved "layaway" for quality items. "You get what you pay for" wan another of "Naomi's proverbs". She would deny herself something if one of her children was in need but she did not deny herself. That was part of the lesson that taught us to respect her. "You have to respect yourself to get respect from others".

 
To be continued . . . .

A Small Family Unit

> The barrel chested father of my mother was a great mentor.

He taught me how to cook, "cypher" and run a chalk line. He spent many years as a professional painter and took pride in his work, often pointing out public buildings that he worked on. "Hold your head up and stick your chest out. You are as good as anyone else" was a constant part of his stern teachings; I adored him. He has been a huge influence on me. This man was undeniable evidence of God in my life.

 

 

 

As far back as I can remember (age 4 or 5), I talked to God. Before Mother sent me to Sunday school, I talked to God. Memories are clear of looking up at stars and talking to Him. I have no recollection of why other than it must have come from my mother. There have been times in my life when I felt lonely but never have I felt alone; there is a constant presence.

 

I often wonder if it wasn't because I was first born. The Bible defines special blessings for first born children. God says, "The first born of every womb is mine", "they belong to me". Parents are to dedicate their children to God (for His particular care throughout their lives) with special emphasis on first born. It's like offering the first of the flock for sacrifice, or tithe. With all God provides for us, this is all He asks - a small part. Jesus was "first born among many" and the supreme sacrifice. Samuel's mother, Hannah, gave her first born to become one of the greatest prophets to anoint the first God ordained king of Israel, David. I believe God has special work for "His" first born. I am not talking about favoritism, just singled out with a special purpose. Just a thought.

 

My brother, Jerry, was only eighteen months younger and we were as close as twins. I am ashamed to admit we left my poor sister, Karen, five years my junior, on her own other than torment from us. She did rebel with jealousy and "tattling" on our mischief. It is a wonder she survived the two of us or that she even grew up liking us. This serves as a testimony to her beautiful nature.

 

 

We were not to wander beyond our own yard after school unless on an errand to the corner grocery, so we became a tight family unit. Gradually, Mother distanced herself from her siblings - all but her favorite brother, who lived next door with his wife and six children. There were frequent visits from a sister who would come to cry on Mother's shoulder about her abusive husband. Early on, I do remember Thanksgiving and Christmas at our house with meals conducted in shifts so everyone got fed. There were lots of cousins, food, conversation and football games on the television. This stopped when it became too much for a single working mom to provide.

Childhood Memories

 

There were warm summer days, laying in the yard and watching tiny ants busy at their business. When I learned there were no two snowflakes or blades of grass alike, I took time to search them out. Reeds of grass were examined with great caution and snowflakes were caught on the tips of mittens to compare before melting into droplets.

 

> Among Native Americans, there are two times in life that a woman is considered a "changing woman". The first from child to woman, the second from woman to "silver hair". Mother entered the second change early in her life, her mid 30's, with great difficulty. There were terrible mood swings, depression and adjusting to her body's inner radiance. She often said she could understand why women used to be admitted to asylums during this time of their life. We thanked God those days were in the past.

 

> During one of her many moments of depression, she sat on the back stoop surrounded by her three adoring children, my brother's arm around her, as she sobbed uncontrollably. She was apologizing to us for not doing a better job as a mother. We had no idea what she was talking about.

 

> We were happy kids. We had no idea our lives might be different from others our age. We had food and clothes, went to school, argued with each other, played games, ran outside and managed to, occasionally, get into mischief. 

 

> Meanwhile, my paternal grandmother was a constant thorn in the side of Mother. From the day my parents were married, she never accepted mom as a suitable mother for "her" grandchildren. She always knew what was best for everyone. Never mind she made a shambles of her own life. An unhappy "know-it-all" with nothing better to do, she created a project for herself. 

 

> Unknown to us, she spent weeks taking us kids for "interviews" to meet various people she had chosen to adopt us. When Mother found out what she was doing, Grandmother was out of our lives. Devastated, she reluctantly accepted who was really in charge and was gradually allowed to visit with us, in her car, in the driveway. It was years before she entered the house again.

 

> In later years, I was in my teens, we had a particular falling out and I dismissed her to a minor role in my life. She eventually took her retired living to Florida where, we were told, she later died of cancer.

 

 

> "Flossy" (stage name) spent a career as a "vamp" singer (also called "torch") in night clubs. I remember watching her, at a very young age of four or five, dress and create her make-up with false nails, lashes, metal hair clips, shaved brows and sequened gowns. I used to listen to a vinyl record she made, over and over. Her voice was described as a cross between the great Sophie Tucker and Kate Smith. She once taught me a stage routine that I used in a school variety show, which made me the talk of the school year.

 

> To give her the credit she deserves, there were many years that would have been even more meager had it not been for her loving generosity. Those Christmas holidays would have been all but nonexistent, and she attended every one of our birthdays with a novelty cake she created and gifts of clothes and toys in an atmosphere of family celebration. The fly in this ointment is that she never let us forget who gave it and was always reminding us to thank her - again.

 

> During my grade school years, Grandma plied me with icons and literature of her Catholic religion. When I confided this to Mother, she advised,"Listen politely, then do what you want." She always said, "If you want Linda to do something, tell her not to." This was a truth that can not be denied. Grandma's pushing turned me away from following the religion of her choice, but was a great learning experience.

*  This "Book Blog" begins with my first posting on Dec. 30, if you would like to follow this story from it's beginning.  This biography is on going until the finish of the book.

Entertaining Angels Unaware

AS A YOUNG CHILD, I walked to a neighborhood church every week.

> At this point, my religious life was either social or recreational with summer church camp along with the usual songs and stories. There was no real understanding. Bedtime prayers were occasional with the sense of an invisible companion I could talk to any time. 

 

> Sometimes, people walk through our lives leaving footprints on our memory that mark our personality. Sometimes, we entertain angels unaware of doing so. Such a person left her footprints in my childhood.

 

> This special lady lived alone down the street and attended the same church. She was frequently called on to give prayer during church service and her prayers were lengthy. She didn't leave out anyone or anything. We became acquainted and developed a wonderful relationship. She was widely known as "Mother Carmichael".

 

> No telling how old she was; anyone over the age of forty seems old to a young child.

 

> All her furnishings seemed antique to me. She did not own a cat. She had no television, and she was frequently seen doing her own yard work. Mother Carmichael would even climb a ladder to wash windows and clear gutters of leaves. I would go to her house on Sunday mornings and we would catch the church bus together, after our church merged with another outside our neighborhood. There would be evangelist programs on her radio and I would watch her comb her long silver hair to tie in a knot at the nape of her neck. After the bus returned us, I sometimes stayed to visit. I genuinely enjoyed the company of this woman who was so "different". She never said an off-color word or spoke a tidbit of gossip. There was a quiet peace in her home that didn't exist anywhere else in my world. 

 

 

 

> At this point, Mother Carmichael was my only spiritual mentor. Occasionally, I would stop after getting off the city bus from school. She would be sitting in her front porch swing or raking leaves and we would share. She was always patient and made time for me, always interested and a good listener - I could be a chatterbox.

 

> As I grew and became secretive, the visits gradually became fewer and farther between. I have no idea what ever became of her. I don't remember anything about a family. She was still living in that same house when I graduated from high school and got married. She was so unlike anyone I have known before or since.

 

> The peace that I felt in her presence has never been forgotten. I fin, in my senior years, that I consciously strive for that illusive peace. If not for the lovely Mother Carmichael, I might never have a reference point for this peace. I know now that gentle lady was evidence of God in this world.