Miss Rena and Me

It is the summer of 1972, and I am playing outside with my 4-year-old brother when he falls to the ground and lies still. I try to rouse him from his slumber, but he begins to shake all over and I grow scared and call for my mother. I race inside the house to where she is preparing lunch, and I tell her that he has fallen and is not getting up. Unsure as to the accuracy of my statement, she goes outside and finds my brother just as I describe.

Shaken by the discovery, she picks him up off the ground and runs inside and calls my father at work to inform him my brother is “having some type of seizure.” My father hurriedly drives home, and he and my mother have a neighbor look after my siblings and me before taking my brother to the hospital.

A few hours later, they return home from the hospital and inform us my brother is being evaluated overnight for something called “epilepsy.”

“What is that?” I ask.

“Epilepsy is when you fall down and shake all over for several minutes like your brother did today,” Mom replies.

I ponder her answer for a bit, before asking my father for some money to buy cookies at the corner grocery store. I tell him “cookies might help to make him feel better,” and so he grants me my wish and hands me a shiny, silver-plated nickel. I hurriedly head to the grocery store, knowing full well the cookies are for me to consume. And, once there, I purchase several with the money I have on hand and proceed to eat them on the way home.

As I am approaching a white house with a screened-in front porch, I notice an elderly lady in her yard pruning some rose bushes. Emboldened by my cookie success, I smile at her with teeth filled with illicit crumbs and say, “Hi.”

She looks at me and says “hello” before continuing to trim the rose bushes. I walk nearer to where she is standing and say, “What are you doing?”

“I am trimming the bushes with shears so they can grow in big and strong.”

“Like me.” I say, knowingly.

She smiles at me before asking for my name. “I’m Hyacinth. What’s your name?”

“My name is Rena. And, I just wanted to say that your name is a flower, you know.”

“I know, because my mom told me. And, she said it is a pretty one too.”

“Like you.” Miss Rena says with a smile.

I clutch the bag of cookies tightly in my hand and say, “I’m six years old, you know.”

“My, you certainly are grown.”

I look at her brown face and hands and say, “How old are you, Miss Rena?”

“I am a lot older than you are, dear. I am 85 years old.”

“Wow, that is old.”

I marvel at her age for a bit longer before saying, “I have to go home now. Can I come back tomorrow?”

“Sure. Stop in any time you like.” She says, before continuing to trim the rose bushes.

I hurry home with cookies in hand, and I am greeted at the front door by my mother. I hand the remaining cookies to her, before telling her about the “neat lady I met on the other street who has flowers in her yard and is 85 years old.”

“You mean, Miss Rena?”

“Yes.” I say, eagerly. I then ask if I can visit her sometime and my mother says, “Sure. Just let me know when you are going over there, okay?”

“Okay.” I say, before heading outside to play.

The next morning, I hurriedly dress and eat breakfast before inquiring if I could go to Miss Rena’s house. As it is the start of summer vacation, my mother says, “Sure, go ahead.”

I race to her house and arrive at the gate to find Miss Rena sitting in a rocker on the front porch. She waves for me to come inside and says, “Good morning, Hyacinth.”

“Good morning, Miss Rena.”

She indicates to me that I can sit in the chair next to hers, so I join her on the front porch. I quickly note that Miss Rena has a bag of fresh green beans in her lap and a tub on the floor in front of her. I ask what she is doing and she says “preparing them for the winter.”

“How do you do that?”

“I can them.”

“What is that?”

“It is when you prepare food for the winter by washing it, cutting it up and cooking it, before sealing it in jars so it can stay on the shelf until you are ready to eat it.”

“Like the vegetables Mom buys in a can from the store?”

“Yes,” she replies.

I ponder our conversation before saying, “Why don’t you just buy your vegetables like we do, Miss Rena. It is much easier.”

She laughs at my suggestion before saying, “Oh, but these taste so much better.”

I watch the repetitive motion of her hands before deciding that snapping beans looks like fun.

“Can I try that?”

“Sure. Let me get you an apron from the kitchen.”

Miss Rena returns a few minutes later with another bowl and the apron. She helps me tie the apron on me before placing the bowl on the floor in front of the rocker, and motioning for me to sit down. Upon my doing so, she hands me a bag full of fresh green beans and then shows me how to snap the ends off the beans before tossing them into the bowl.

She sits down in a chair next to mine and watches as I prepare the beans. I try my best to mimic her bean-snapping motion, but I am having limited success. Miss Rena eventually helps finish preparing the beans before gathering up the bowls and heading toward the kitchen.

You’re coming in, aren’t you?” she says to me from the entryway.

“Sure.” I reply.

I follow her into the kitchen and watch as she washes the beans, places them in a pot on the stove, seasons them with salt and pepper, and cooks them for ten minutes. She then places the beans into jars with specially prepared lids, or “canning jars” as Miss Rena likes to call them, before placing the jars into a pot of boiling water on the stove.

I watch her actions with interest before saying, “Why are you boiling the jars?”

She explains that “it helps to seal the lid on the jar so no germs can get inside,” before heading to a cupboard adjacent to the stove and taking out a jar similar to the ones in the pot. She grabs a small saucepan from another cupboard before opening the jar of beans and emptying the contents into the pan.

She places the pan onto the burner and heats the beans, before dishing some into a bowl for me. She hands me the bowl, along with a fork and says, “Try some.”

I look at her, before spearing some beans onto the fork. I blow off as much steam as possible before placing the beans into my mouth and chewing. To my utter surprise and delight, I find the beans to be moist, tender, and seasoned to perfection.

I inform Miss Rena of this fact, and she graces me with a smile. She then helps me out of the apron I am wearing before handing me a jar of beans and saying, “These are for you to take home.”

I thank her for letting me help with the canning, before hurrying home with my newfound treasure. I find Mom in the kitchen, preparing lunch, and I ask if she will heat up the beans for me. She agrees, and I sit with my siblings in the living room watching television until lunch is ready. Mom eventually calls everyone to the table, and once there, I heap a generous portion of the beans onto my plate. I then sit at the table, savoring the flavor of the best green beans in the entire world.

***

A week or so later, I return to Miss Rena’s house and find her sitting in a rocker on the front porch. I sit down in a rocker that is adjacent to hers and I ask her what she is doing.

“Just sitting on the porch…watching the cars go by,” she informs me.

She then proceeds to tell me what life was like for her when she was my age. She tells me she was born in February 1887, on a farm in Mississippi, and that she helped to raise crops and pick cotton when she was younger. I ask how it was to live during that time and she says “my family didn’t have much – some land and a horse, but we made do with what we had.” Miss Rena then explains that the streets were unpaved back then and people got around on foot or via a horse and buggy.

“A horse and buggy? Cool!” I say.

She smiles at me before handing me a pamphlet from the table next to the rocker. “This has similar stories in it. Take it home to your mother. She can read it to you, if you like.”

I look at the pamphlet and note the word Awake at the top and underneath it an image of a person herding cattle near farmland. I say, “I’ve never seen this before. Where did you get this magazine?”

“At church, dear.” Miss Rena then tells me she is a Jehovah’s Witness and that as part of her faith she is to bear witness and spread the Gospel from door to door. But, her advanced age and declining physical condition have made travel difficult, so she sits on her front porch and preaches to the occasional passersby.

I tell her my family is Catholic and that we don’t have to preach door to door. “I sit in church on Sundays and listen to a priest talk. Oh, and sometimes, Daddy falls asleep during mass.” I add.

Miss Rena laughs at my admission before patting me on the hand and saying, “I’ve nearly fallen asleep a time or two myself. Church can get long sometimes.”

I continue looking through the booklet while she talks. But, a few minutes later a vehicle stops in front of her house and a black male climbs out, takes a white plastic bucket out of the back seat of the car, and makes his way to the front porch.

“Morning, Miss Rena. I brought you the stuff like I promised.”

“Oh, good. Would you mind carrying it into the kitchen for me?” She says, upon rising from her rocker.

“Sure thing, Miss Rena.”

I follow them into the kitchen of the house and watch as he places the gallon bucket onto the table.

“Wait here, please. I want to fetch my purse and give you some money for your trouble,” she tells the man.

“Money is not necessary, Miss Rena. But, thank you for offering. Well, I must be going. Have a nice day,” he says before leaving.

I watch him leave before saying, “What’s in the bucket?”

“Crabs,” she says.

I peer into the bucket; curious to see the crabs. The only ones I had ever seen were the ones stuffed on a half shell that my mom occasionally serves for dinner. But, to my horror, I find the bucket filled with live crabs scrambling over one another in an attempt to get out of the bucket.

I recoil in shock at the discovery and say, “What are you going to do with them?”

“Boil them and eat them for dinner.”

“Boil them?” I think, in disgust. I watch as Miss Rena reaches into a cupboard, removes a large pot, places it on the stove and uses pitcher after pitcher of water from the sink to fill it. She chats with me while waiting for the water to boil and continues telling me stories of what life was like for her as a child. Once the water reaches maximum boiling temperature she says, “Help me lift the bucket over to the pot, will you?”

I comply with the request as best as I am able by lifting the bucket from the bottom while she carries it by the handle over to the pot. Once the bucket is balanced on the rim of the pot, Miss Rena asks me to stand clear so as to not get splashed with boiling water, and she proceeds to dump the entire bucket of crabs in.

Upon doing so, I hear loud, high-pitched shrieks and I say, “What is that noise?”

“That’s the sound crabs make when they are boiled.”

I open my mouth to say something in regard to her statement, only to hear a high-pitched shriek and see an object fly out of the pot and land at my feet. I look down to see that it is a live, hot crab; scrambling across the floor in a vain attempt to outrun its fate.

I let out a high-pitched shriek of my own and clutch Miss Rena’s skirt in abject terror. She pries my fingers from her skirt, reaches down with her hands, picks up the wayward crab and throws it back into the pot of boiling water.

By this time, I am overcome with feelings of terror and disgust. I say, “I am going home now.”

“Now? Wouldn’t you like to stay for lunch and try some crab?”

I look at her wizened face and hands and say, “No thanks, Miss Rena.” I then hurriedly leave the kitchen, head out the front door and down the path to the front gate. I exit the gate and run the remainder of the way home. Once there, I head into the living room and sit down on the couch. For I know, without a doubt, that it is a good day not to be a crab.

***

A few more weeks would pass before I would return to Miss Rena’s house. By this time, I had gotten over the heebie-jeebies from the crab incident, and I looked forward to seeing her. I approach the front gate and find her sitting on the porch, much like the last time I visited. She smiles at me in recognition and waves for me to come inside.

“Glad to see you, Hyacinth. How have you been?”

“Fine,” I say, before filling her in on the details of my life since the prior visit. Once I finish, Miss Rena rises from her rocker and heads toward the kitchen, with me following suit.

Upon reaching the kitchen table, she grabs a container of flour and sugar and places it on the table.

“What are you doing, Miss Rena?”

“I am making chocolate chip cookies for a church function tomorrow. Would you like to help me make them?”

“Sure!” I say, happily. I love helping my mother make cookies at home. She allows me to stir the batter, and upon finishing baking the cookies, lets me lick the beaters or the bowl clean of any excess batter.

I watch as Miss Rena carefully measures out the various ingredients before stirring the batter. She occasionally stops stirring and lets me stir the stiff batter, so as to allow me an opportunity to “cook.” Once the cookie dough is fully prepared, Miss Rena drops heaping spoonfuls onto a cookie sheet and then places the sheet into a preheated oven.

I sit at the kitchen table talking with her while the cookies are baking. Their delicious aroma quickly fills my nostrils and the kitchen, and I eagerly anticipate sampling their goodness. However, my bladder decides to fill to maximum capacity at that exact same moment, and I am torn between my desire for a cookie and the need to void my bladder.

The oven bell rings to indicate the cookies are done, but I can wait no longer. “Where’s the bathroom? “ I say urgently to Miss Rena.

“Around the corner…over there,” she says, while pointing in the general vicinity.

I make the mad dash to the bathroom, but just as I arrive, the zipper gets stuck on the jeans I am wearing and I am unable to unzip them in time. I end up completely wetting myself in the bathroom.

Mortified by my predicament, but desperately wanting a cookie, I begin to cry. Miss Rena hears me crying and comes to see what is wrong.

“What’s the matter, honey?” She says gently, through the bathroom door.

I am mortified. I can barely speak. “What six-year-old wets herself?” I wonder. I choke back sobs before finally admitting, “I wet myself, Miss Rena!”

There is a moment of silence on the other side of the door before I hear Miss Rena say, “Is that all? Oh honey, it will be alright. We’ll clean it up in no time. Now, don’t you cry.”

A minute or so passes before I hear Miss Rena again outside the bathroom door. She gently urges me to unlock the door and once I do, she enters the bathroom and hands me a towel. “Now, I’ll turn around and you remove the wet bottoms you are wearing and wrap this towel around your waist to cover up, okay?”

She turns around, and I do as she requests. Once she verifies that I am finished, she uses another towel to dry the bathroom floor.

I sit on the side of the tub, with tears streaming down my face, all the while she is cleaning up. Miss Rena continues the task at hand until the floor is clean and dry and then says “Now let’s take your bottoms to the washer and toss them in, and then we will dry them once they are done.”

I follow her into the laundry room and watch as she tosses the items into a washer with some detergent and begins a small load. Miss Rena then directs me toward the kitchen table where the first batch of cookies is cooling on a wire rack, and indicates for me to sit down.

I sit down, with tears streaming down my face. Miss Rena removes a napkin from the table dispenser and dabs away the tears while saying, “Honey, it’s alright. Stop crying, okay?”

I comply with her request, and she fetches me a glass of milk and a small plate of warm cookies and places it on the table in front of me. I gobble the cookies down and drink the milk while listening to more stories from her childhood, before deciding that I feel much better. Miss Rena smiles in satisfaction, and asks if I would like more cookies. I indicate no, and she gathers up the empty plate and glass and places them into the kitchen sink.

I don’t know what overcame me at that moment, but I ask, “Miss Rena, were you ever married?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And…your husband?”

“…is with Jehovah now. He died many years ago.”

I make a sad face at the news before saying, “Do you have any kids?”

“I do. I have a son named Peter.”

I am surprised to hear her say that, as I had not seen anyone visit her during the month or so that I have known her…well, other than the crab man, that is.

“He comes to visit you, doesn’t he?”

I hear Miss Rena wistfully sigh before saying, “He is grown now and married with kids of his own, so he stays pretty busy.”

“Too busy?” I wonder. “How could he be too busy for Miss Rena?” Did he know about her marvelous-tasting green beans and delicious cookies? Did he know about her fearlessness in the face of a runaway crab? Did he know about the power of her forgiveness and the ability to make one’s tears disappear? Did he know how truly special his mother is?

Just as I open my mouth to speak, the dryer buzzer sounds. Miss Rena rises from the kitchen chair and retrieves my pants and underwear from the laundry room. She returns and hands me the clean-smelling, warm-to-the-touch laundry items before saying, “Here you go.”

I take the pants and underwear into the bathroom and put them on. They feel good against my skin and help to bolster my shaky confidence. I return to the kitchen and thank Miss Rena for the cookies, milk, and childhood stories before heading for home. It has been an exhausting day for me, and I am more than ready for a cookies-and-milk-induced nap.

***

Several more weeks go by. By now, it is late summer and school is starting again in three weeks. I am visiting Miss Rena almost daily now and helping with various chores around the house. On this particular day I arrive early and find her sitting on the front porch in the rocking chair. She seems somewhat tired this morning, and I say, “Is there anything you need me to do?”

She says, “Actually, there is. Would you fetch me a large bowl from the kitchen?”

“Sure.” I reply. I return in short order with the bowl and await her command.

Miss Rena slowly rises from the rocker and asks me to accompany her to the backyard. I do as she requests and see a tree that is burdened with ripe fruit. Miss Rena informs me it is a fig tree and that the fruit must be harvested for preserves she will make later. She then says, “Would you pick as many figs as you can from the tree and place them into the bowl for me?”

“Okay.” I say. I begin plucking the figs off the tree in rapid succession and watch as Miss Rena attempts to do the same. She is able to pick one fig per my three, as her arthritis is acting up, but she helps nonetheless. I watch as her gnarled fingers reach for a fig on a branch nearest me before seeing her pluck it off the tree, wipe it on her apron, and eat it.

“Is it good?” I say.

“Yes, try one.”

I pull a fig from the tree, wipe it on my pants leg, and eat it. It is sweet, delicious, chewy and somewhat addictive. I deposit several more figs into the bowl before plucking another one from the tree and eating it. Pretty soon, more figs are going into my mouth than in the bowl and Miss Rena is laughing alongside me.

“Careful honey. You’ll give yourself a bellyache.”

I hear her words but the figs are calling to me. I eat several more in rapid succession before realizing I am stuffed beyond words. I finish plucking figs from the tree and hand the completely-filled bowl to Miss Rena.

“Here you go.” I say, cheerfully.

“Thank you dear. Let’s go inside now and make some preserves.”

I look at her and suddenly say, “Oooh, I don’t feel so well.”

“Oh dear,” she says, in concern.

I excuse myself from the preserve-making session and head home to recuperate. And, I have learned a valuable lesson this day. One should not eat the equivalent of one’s body weight in figs in one session. It is better done in two-to-three sessions.

***

School eventually starts in the fall, and I am forced to limit my visits to Miss Rena’s house until the weekends. But as soon as possible each Saturday morning, I race to her house to help with chores or to sit next to her on the front porch while she reads stories from an Awake pamphlet or regales me with tales from her childhood.

On this particular day, I find Miss Rena in the front yard attempting to pick up pecans that have fallen to the ground from a large tree in her yard. I quickly ascertain what she is trying to do and I say, “Wait, Miss Rena. Let me do that for you.”

I hurriedly enter the gate and begin scooping handfuls of the delicacy off the ground and depositing them into a large bowl that Miss Rena has strategically placed on the steps of the front porch. I bend over repeatedly and scoop handful after handful of the pecans off the ground, while marveling at their various shapes and sizes. I eventually say, “What are you going to make with the pecans, Miss Rena?”

“Oh, nothing. I am just going to eat them.”

“Eat them?” I think. Why, Miss Rena is renowned for turning the earth’s bountiful fruit into something preserved and delicious. I have only to look into the pantry that is adjacent to her kitchen to know this fact. Her prowess at canning is legendary in our neighborhood.

I continue chucking large handfuls of the pecans into the bowl until it is filled and hand it to Miss Rena. She takes the bowl from my hand, returns to the front porch, and sits down in her rocker with the delicacies. She takes two pecans, places them side by side in the palm of her left hand, closes her fingers around them and squeezes them tightly together. I hear a cracking sound and I say, “What are you doing?”

“Opening them.”

“With your hands?”

“Yes.” She replies.

I watch as she turns the pecans over and repeats the same squeezing motion, and see her rewarded with two perfectly split halves in their God-given shell. Miss Rena then strips away the remaining shell before eating the meat of the pecan. The entire procedure takes less than 30 seconds to complete. I am entirely impressed.

“Can I try?”

“Sure, honey.” Miss Rena has me hold open my right hand before placing two medium-sized pecans in the palm. I close my hand around them and attempt to mimic Miss Rena’s squeezing motion, to no avail.

“Ummph!” I say, while squeezing my hand tighter. The pecans will not budge under my hand. They will not crack open.

I hand them to Miss Rena. “Something is wrong with them. Can I have two different ones?”

Miss Rena takes them from me and gives me two new ones to crack open. But, I meet with the same result. I then watch as Miss Rena takes the pecans that I had previously tried to open and cracks them effortlessly in her hands. I know then, it is not the pecans, but me. I am simply not strong enough to crack them open.

Miss Rena finishes peeling away the remaining pecan shell before handing me the halves to eat. I pop them into my mouth and enjoy their taste and texture. Miss Rena cracks open two more pecans and eats before doing the same for me. And, we sit there, shoulder to shoulder, for the remainder of the afternoon talking and eating pecans opened with her strong and capable hands.

***

I continue to visit Miss Rena on the weekends during the remaining school year and into the next summer. We often talk about what is going on in our lives, work on puzzles, read, cook, or sit next to each other on the front porch and be, as Miss Rena likes to call our doing nothing at all.

Thankfully, my parents are tolerant of my frequent absences from home and encourage my interaction with Miss Rena. So, one can imagine my dismay at finding out, on an early October morning, that they are moving my siblings and me into a larger home more than three miles away from Miss Rena.

“We’re moving?” I say, in disbelief.

“Yes. Your father and I found a larger home for us to live in. You will like it.”

“What about our friends, and what about Miss Rena?”

“You will make new friends in no time. And, we will visit Miss Rena whenever we can.”

I race to Miss Rena’s house to share the awful news.

“I have to move Miss Rena!” I say, with tears in my eyes. “I don’t want to go. I want to stay here, with you.”

“Now, your mother and father are doing what is best for the family and you have to go along with it.”

Go along with it? I am livid. I feel like pulling rotten figs from the tree in her yard and hurling them at my parents. I feel like yelling at them at the top of my lungs about the unfairness of their actions. Where was my vote in this decision-making process? Why wasn’t I consulted beforehand?

I burst into tears instead, only to feel Miss Rena’s arms envelope me. I stand there, in her kitchen, crying into the skirt of her dress until my tears run dry. After which, Miss Rena says, “I’ll miss you too, honey. But, you must listen to your parents. They are doing what is best for the family.”

I know, deep in my heart, that she is right. But, I worry about Miss Rena. Who will look after her? Where is the son she claims to have? And, why has he not visited? Who will help her pick figs from the tree or pecans from the yard, if I am not here? Who?

I dry the remaining tears from my eyes and sit down in a chair at the kitchen table. Miss Rena prepares a bowl of ice cream for me with an extra-large helping of chocolate sauce and sets it down in front of me with a spoon. I gulp the ice cream down and begin to feel better. I thank her for the treat and head home to my well-meaning parents. I am still upset, but I am no longer angry.

***

We move to our new house a few weeks later. My family finishes packing the moving van and car and I ask if I can tell Miss Rena goodbye.

“Sure, go ahead,” my mother says.

I race to her house to say goodbye, but I find she is not home. Frustrated, I return to my mother’s side. After a final check to ensure everything is packed, we climb into the vehicle and head off toward our new home. As we round the corner and drive past Miss Rena’s house, I find myself looking for her in the yard. I know she is not there, but I can’t help but look. I may be seven years old, but I am wise enough to know this is probably the last time I will ever get to see her.

***

I learn of Miss Rena’s death in December 1980, shortly after my father dies. By this time, more than six years has passed since I have last seen her and a lot has changed in my life. I am no longer little, having achieved physical height and maturity upon reaching puberty, and I have friends in the new neighborhood. I am also engrossed in academics and sports at the local school I attend, and am adjusting to life without my father, who passed away of a heart-attack at age 49 in August 1980.

My mother relays the news to me of her death after a prolonged illness, and that a service is planned for later that afternoon. One of my older siblings is in town visiting family, and he agrees to drive me to the old neighborhood so I can pay my respect to her family. We pile into his vehicle for the twenty minute ride to Miss Rena’s house. Upon arriving there, he deposits me curbside before driving to a friend’s house a block over.

I note that the house has not changed much since my last visit. There are rose bushes, pecan trees, a screened-in front porch with two rockers and a squeaky front gate. The only change I can see is people milling about the yard visiting with family and friends. I walk around for a bit, looking for a familiar face; perhaps someone from the old neighborhood. I see a man standing to the right of the yard, and I note that he seems familiar. I approach him and say, “It is a pity about Miss Rena. I am going to miss her.”

He says “me too,” and extends his hand in greeting. “Hi, I’m Peter. And you are…”

“Hyacinth.” I say.

He looks at me and smiles. “So, you are Hyacinth. My mother spoke of you often over the years. It is nice to finally meet you.”

I exchange additional pleasantries with him before he is called away by another family member. I mill around for a few minutes more, before deciding to meet my brother at his friend’s house. I walk the remaining blocks through the old neighborhood and glance at the various houses. The neighborhood is still familiar to me, but it is no longer home. Miss Rena is gone from here, and any semblance of home has gone with her.

***

Twenty more years would pass before I would think of Miss Rena again. By this time, I had achieved the major milestones of attending high school and college, doing a four year stint in the military, marrying my soul mate and having two children. I had settled into domestic bliss in a small house in South Dakota and gotten a job as a secretary at a local bank in my spare time. I was especially enjoying my role as mother to two lively girls; Emily, who was seven years old, and Ellen, who was two.

On the particular day in question, my eldest daughter had arrived home from school and was busy playing with a friend of hers, named Sam. Sam’s parents lived a few blocks over from us and were hardworking people who were often forced to stay late at their jobs, and would ask me to watch over her until they could arrive home. I never minded watching Sam, as she was a sweet girl with an inquisitive mind who loved playing with Emily. I also knew Sam’s parent’s marriage had hit a snag recently due to personal issues and they were struggling to make their relationship work while providing a loving home for their daughter.

I often incorporated home-cooked meals that Sam liked into the family menu so that she could feel more at home. I also included her in family fun activities, like baking cookies at home, playing board games, or the family movie night.

Unbeknownst to me, the extra attention I was showing to Sam during the week was starting to irritate my daughter, Emily. She approached me after Sam’s parents had picked her up from our house and said, “Mom, why does she have to be here all of the time. It is starting to get on my nerves.”

I looked at her before carefully choosing my words. “Sam’s parents have to work late and they need me to watch over her.”

“But, does she have to eat here all of the time? Can’t her parents feed her dinner?”

I said, “Her parents do not arrive here until late, and it hardly seems fair to make Sam wait on the living room couch while we eat dinner, now does it?”

I could see Emily mulling over my question before I said, “Can I tell you a story about when I was a little girl?”

“Sure.”

I then told her about the summer of 1972, when I was six years old and my younger brother had fallen ill. I said, “I was lonely and bored at home because my parents were busy taking care of my brother and I had met a kind, elderly lady named, Miss Rena. Now, Miss Rena had taken an interest in me and showered me with attention by telling me stories about her life, playing games, baking cookies, and letting me pick figs and pecans off the trees in her yard.”

“Kinda like you are doing with Sam now, huh?”

“Yes, honey. And, because Miss Rena showered me with love and attention, I was not lonely anymore.”

“I see. Can we visit her?”

“No, honey. She is in heaven now. But, she taught me an important lesson about being kind to other people. Do you understand what I am saying, Emily?”

“Yes, mama.”

I hugged Emily and told her I loved her. “I am proud of you for being understanding about Sam. You are a good friend to her.” I then watched as she skipped off to play with her younger sister, knowing I had imparted a bit of Miss Rena’s wisdom on her that day.

But, what I most knew at this moment was the impact Miss Rena had on my life. Miss Rena was like a surrogate mother to me, at a time when my own mother was busy handling my brother’s health crisis. Her positive influence on my thoughts, behaviors and deeds when I was younger is what allows me to reach out to Sam now in her time of need.

In addition, Miss Rena taught me that our elders should be valued and appreciated. Older people have knowledge, history and traditions that can be imparted on younger generations. Too often we dismiss the elderly as being unable to contribute to society or outliving their usefulness. Miss Rena contributed much in the way of my education as a spiritual person, a storyteller, a guardian of tradition and a friend.