I grabbed the opportunity to lay my eyes upon my grandchild, faced rush hour traffic south on I75 in the rain.
It seemed just weeks ago that my daughter Ruth and I helped move Amulen into his freshman dorm room at Wayne State University. We packed Ruth’s Jeep and my Prius. Now a sophomore, Amulen needed my car and dolly to move his belongings out of his dorm room. “Ruth has to work, so one of my friends will help. We’ll take several trips with your car,” he said. Fine with me. I reserved the morning for the project, and lunch afterwards. Only the Lord knows the next time I’d see Amulen. Mile by mile, my mind wandered back to the January day my dad drove me north on M20 to Central Michigan University. He wore his black suit and tie for the occasion. My younger sister, Libby, and I also wore our Sunday best with our dress coats. The style January 1968. I carried all my belongings in one suitcase, thankful Dad allowed my cocker spaniel, Sweetie, to join us. We arrived at Woldt Hall and found my room on the ground floor, the “terrace.” Just inside my room, Dad pointed to a colorful poster of three women on the right wall above a phonograph. “Looks like you have women of color for roommates,” he said. Dad knew the face of every big band leader and the likes of Perry Como, but he had no interest in his daughters’ favorite Motown musicians. Libby and I looked to each other. “Dad, they’re the Supremes,” I said. “Oh,” he replied. He couldn’t help but know their fame. Our college education began. In contrast to that remarkable day, I drove to Detroit in sweatpants, long-sleeved jacket, and hiking boots for some serious lifting and loading with my grandson and his buddy. However, Amulen and Brett, friends from Economics class, wouldn’t have it. They packed the car. “Jaja, why don’t you go to Leo’s for a cup of tea? It’s right across the street. We’ll unload the car and be right back.” I crossed Anthony Wayne Drive, amazed by my grandson—a Ugandan boy my California daughter and son-in-law fell in love with while working in Uganda. Outside Leo’s, a female and male Detroit police team nodded and smiled, each holding a 7-Eleven cup. “I’m waiting on my grandson to return with my car for the last load of his belongings,” I couldn’t help but boast. “Yes, it’s rather quiet on campus when the students leave for home,” Officer Courtney said. Officer Brian agreed. “They’ll be back fall semester.” Dear Reader, Amulen, Brett, and I ordered the same East African meal at Baobab Fare, located on Woodward Avenue. We lifted our mugs of steamy chai tea and posed for a photo. In my heart, I toasted to their education. To a life well lived with family, friends, significant places, and flashbacks to revive the faded glory of time past. And someday, for grandchildren to lay their eyes upon.
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Lincoln High School, 1967, Speech 2 classIn April 1947, my parents named their first child Linda Lois. For two decades, the name Linda, meaning “pretty”, and Mary, meaning “beloved”, dominated the two most popular girl’s names in the United States. So, why in February 1949 did my parents break from fashion and sign “Iris Lee” on my birth certificate instead of “Mary Lee”? Well, my mother, Sadie Lee McCoy O’Brien, resolved to fulfill a promise and chose Iris, meaning “promise”, although a name not famous. According to my mother’s account, she made a vow during World War II. “When I left the McCoy homeplace to work in a factory in Kansas City, I boarded a room in Mrs. Iris Ellis’ home. In that lonely time, Mrs. Ellis was like a mother to me. That’s why I named you Iris.” Had I known this significant history while a teenager, I may have better brushed off the boys when they hollered in the halls, “Hey, poison iris!” or, “How’s it goin’, eyeball?” “Boys will be boys,” my mother, the elder of four brothers, would say. Meanwhile, I met Mary Schwartz as students in Warren Lincoln High School. One of two Marys to twelve Lindas in our class of 1967, we befriended one another in our Speech 2 class and Synchronized Swim Club. The summer before our senior year, Mary and I boarded a bus to visit my cousins along Peter Creek, Kentucky. My cousin Kathy picked us up at the Williamson, West Virginia bus station and drove us to her home in her shiny 1966 Mustang. I’ve since wondered what possessed my parents to allow their seventeen-year-old daughter to travel south of the Michigan border with an overnight stay in a dingy Ohio motel. My goodness, the freedom of adventure my generation enjoyed before cell phones and social media. Since that landmark summer, several Marys continue to weave their gifts, talents, and lovingkindness throughout my life. For the past twenty-some years, I’ve sat beside Mary Merlo on Mondays in a writing group. We critique and encourage each other’s work, talk about family. The spring of 2011, Mary Ellen Hammarland brought her daughter, Heather, to a Mother’s Day Tea I hosted in my dining room. Within a week, Mary Ellen joined my farm staff. That’s what happens with mutual affection for tea and weeding a lavender field. Thirteen years later, Mary Ellen remains our house and chicken-sitter, and the leader of my neighborhood Bible study. Last but not least, two years ago in church, another Mary entered my life. During one of our conversations after service she said, “Oh, what I’d give for a good haircut.” A daughter of a barber, I replied, “I’d be happy to cut your hair.” Dear Reader, Mary called yesterday. “Iris, please remember to bring your scissors Monday afternoon.” “Will do!” After my critique group, we’ll sit at her kitchen table and admire the pink Easter lily the Rochester OPC delivered to her door—enjoy Panera takeout, and count our blessings. Before I trim Mary’s hair. |
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