I was in the midst of preparing for an early departure for sales, demonstration, and delivery to the east coast in August 2006. The phone rang. Lois, a classmate in the fourth grade at Leonard then again in high school, was just in town from her home in North Carolina. She called to say she was having a birthday luncheon for her mother at two tomorrow afternoon. Mrs. S’s ninety-sixth birthday was a ‘can’t miss’ situation. Apart from the fact that all of her friends were gone, I would deal with delays in my trip to attend.
Tribute was due for a lady that nourished the best in all her students and those around her. My dad fondly spoke of how she and her boyfriend gave him a ride in the rumble seat of their car when he was eight. Her third and fourth-grade teachings in my life founded an art and literature understanding in me. My daughter was four years old when she felt her warmth and has almost always been with me to take this grand lady to dinner or just visit. The two now share U of M as an alma mater and literary appreciation.
Mrs. S held on to a value system of those that came before us. Her son was editor of the Detroit News. Her daughter was a soloist for many years with New York’s Metropolitan Opera, then an investment banker on Wall Street.
In recent years, she has dropped her trademark red lipstick and let her hair go natural but her beauty will never fade. Her permanence is reinforced by maintaining her home at 123 Elm Street for the past sixty years and the past thirty alone. Passing there in 2000, I spotted her trimming around the trees with a hand mower. I stopped to ask but of course, she didn’t need help.
In 2003, her first book was published. It was written in the seventies. Over the past decade, she has revitalized her earlier writings. She was disgusted that publishers will not take handwritten manuscripts so her great-grand-kids have pitched in to get things on a computer. Her mind has clearly suffered little. Yet during my last visit, I had to correct her that it was my dad not me that rode in her rumble seat.
Tribute was due for a lady that nourished the best in all her students and those around her. My dad fondly spoke of how she and her boyfriend gave him a ride in the rumble seat of their car when he was eight. Her third and fourth-grade teachings in my life founded an art and literature understanding in me. My daughter was four years old when she felt her warmth and has almost always been with me to take this grand lady to dinner or just visit. The two now share U of M as an alma mater and literary appreciation.
Mrs. S held on to a value system of those that came before us. Her son was editor of the Detroit News. Her daughter was a soloist for many years with New York’s Metropolitan Opera, then an investment banker on Wall Street.
In recent years, she has dropped her trademark red lipstick and let her hair go natural but her beauty will never fade. Her permanence is reinforced by maintaining her home at 123 Elm Street for the past sixty years and the past thirty alone. Passing there in 2000, I spotted her trimming around the trees with a hand mower. I stopped to ask but of course, she didn’t need help.
In 2003, her first book was published. It was written in the seventies. Over the past decade, she has revitalized her earlier writings. She was disgusted that publishers will not take handwritten manuscripts so her great-grand-kids have pitched in to get things on a computer. Her mind has clearly suffered little. Yet during my last visit, I had to correct her that it was my dad not me that rode in her rumble seat.
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