The little girl sighed, her breath crystal clear and lingering. She put her shoulders back and took her first step onto the dirt road she had to travel in order to catch the school bus. The year was 1935, and she was 7 years old.
Every school day, morning and late afternoon, she had this same path to follow. The narrow dirt road she traveled was surrounded on each side with tall pine trees, pine trees that harbored the monsters this little girl knew existed. She had seen several on this dreaded road while riding with her father in the family car. She expressed her fear to her parents several times, always resulting in nothing more than a guffaw from her dad and a look of disbelief from her mom.
“Mildred,” her mom would say, “those black bears will never go after you. They are more afraid of you than you will ever be afraid of them. They stay right in the deep woods all of the time.”
Mildred did not believe her mother’s words for a second, but she honored her parents and did not want to be disrespectful. Her two older sisters and brother rode on another bus that came earlier. They made it perfectly clear that they were not afraid.
“You would be if you had to walk it alone,” she said under her breath.
And so, on this frigid November morning, Mildred once again headed down the frightening road, her eyes dancing from one side to the other in search of supposedly docile black bears.
Thankfully, there was no black bear appearance during the following years. Each morning, however, Mildred kept her vigilant eyes and mind focused on a possible unwanted appearance of a notorious Maine black bear. During the winter, the bear would go into hibernation but that had no impact on Mildred; she never gave up her fear.
Mildred blossomed into a lovely young lady with long brown hair, blue eyes and delicate features. She was adorable and smart. She caught the eye of a dapper young man who swept her off her feet and, as young adults, they married in a rustic, magnificent church not far from their home.
Her wedding photo nearly takes my breath away each time I see it: a white wedding dress complete with a train of lace that is enriched with silk roses and tulips. The bottom of this glorious train swirls around her silk shoes and then flows down the altar. Her headpiece is a silvery tiara that frames and enhances her ivory skin.
That very wedding photo, surrounded by a golden, ornate frame, now resides in my dining room, along with her corner china cabinet that belonged to her own mother. They are gifts to me, but they will always belong to her. I am merely the sentinel and protector of her treasures.
Her final days were spent with the knowledge that life was slipping away, and on a warm September morning I went to her apartment and there she was in her chair, no longer living in the embrace of this world. I did not have the opportunity to say goodbye or to tell her once again that I loved her. We had shared many of our beliefs and secrets there in her tiny apartment, and I was thankful for that time with her.
If I had been given the privilege to plan the celebration of her life, it would have been much different than it turned out to be, yet I learned one of the most valuable of lessons. You see, we are not always given the opportunity to step forward and take control, even though our thoughts and ideas seem more grand and more appropriate. Sometimes, we must bite our tongues and step back out of respect. Love needs to be the guide, and not self pride.
The woman I speak of was my former mother-in-law, and I chose to watch over her with an occasional phone call or visit, yet it became so much more. I never dreamed I would grow to love her so deeply. I miss our talks. I miss our lunches together. I miss our shopping trips. And what about that ride in my convertible with melting ice cream cones in our hands and eventually in our hair?
One of her favorite sayings was, “We have to love the people.” Such simple words of wisdom.
Thank you for all you have given me and for the honor of being a part of your life. Until we meet again.
Belinda Wilcox Hersey lives in Caribou with her husband, Kent. You may email her at belindahersy@gmail.com.
