Re: [Fandfs] Revelations- Connections - Magic

[Mary D Winegarden <mwinegar@sfsu.edu>]

The day before yesterday, as I began chopping onions for a rainy-day stew, I grabbed my favorite blue-denim apron from the closet.  It was a gift from Cynthia, of course, and I felt that she was right there with me in the kitchen as I tied it around me and continued chopping.   I think it’s my turn now: to share private grief with old friends (and even some strangers) who’ve posted farewells to our beloved second-mother, surrogate-grandma, favorite landlady-innkeeper, autodidact Shakespearian scholar-voracious reader-library devotee, activist-matriarch, gourmet cook and keeper of the hearth: our Cynthia.  

She welcomed our nutty family over thirty years ago one autumn weekend and, despite the mischief our small boys wreaked on the playroom and Cynthia’s whale calendar (taken for a swim in her bathtub), she invited us back!  No one but Cynthia would have invited us back.

Like Susan, I’ve felt a pang that I didn’t know the particular pleasures of growing up in the Highlands—the early rituals of wild games and comic-books. But we had Cynthia, who made us feel so welcome for the next three decades, and who showed us how to be, if not better, well, happier parents.

So  thank you, Cynthia for all you gave me, from the trivial to the profound: 

For indulging our kids every visit with those small boxes of (mostly forbidden) sugary cereals (each name marked in bold ink, no cadging from a sibling’s supply), with the added treat of the silver-straw spoons to drink a glass of milk while washing down Oreos from the never-empty tin.

For providing an everlasting supply of toy guns for our boys to play with on the patio, for reassuring us that allowing a little gun-play—outside the house—would not lead to our sons becoming homicidal maniacs as adults.  For all those big-wheels—and the tire swing! the dress up clothes, the dollhouse!  Archie comics, endless shelves of favorite children’s books—plus the dogs, chickens, ducks & Herman the parrot—so our kids never ran out of things to do after a morning on “Cynthia’s beach.”

For Bingo on New Year’s Eve—such a quintessential Cynthia invention,  entertaining both kids and adults—like Easter: the egg hunt for the kids, the beer hunt for the adults, everyone gets to play.

For the magic of the owl’s eyes gleaming in the fireplace, the “witches’ fire” reflected in the glass windows; the crackling warmth as we’d gather as the sun set over Bird Island.  For the drop of sherry (and more) to ease into dinner-making.   

For ladies night (how many years ago?): an impromptu female-only gathering when I came down for a weekend respite on my own. A group of us (Penelope, Molly, Honey, Janie and Judy?—yes, Judy was there with her wicked lovely laugh—and we drank Jamison’s and got tipsily giddy together. 

For all the letters and cards, the love that shone through your distinctive handwriting, all the birthdays you remembered and solace you gave,  especially when I was devastated by the sudden loss of my sister, and you reminded me to appreciate what we have, here and now.

For all those succulent roast beef and roast chicken dinners, for the casualness of it all as we helped ourselves, finding a spot around the dining table or the coffee-table, depending on how many showed up that night.  For the ease with which you accommodated extra guests when they inevitably would show up—never a problem as you added more pasta to the pot or dug leftovers from the fridge. 

For the nightly miracle of the loaves and fishes, your ever-comfy living room full of sprawling people and dogs, and your stocked kitchen, as we shared in the loading and unloading of the dishwasher.  For the occasional “Oh, hang the expense,” if the teapot was empty and had twice been refilled with hot water: “Make a fresh pot.”  The flip side of the usual “waste not, want not”: your thrift was legendary, but you were never so rigid that small indulgences could now and then be tolerated as “quite the ticket.”

For those raucous after-dinner conversations as we drank more wine and found ourselves looking up words in Webster’s, pondering the etymology of proverbs, checking on lines from Wordworth or Shakespeare:  “To love that well which thou must leave ere long.” When on one of those evenings Geoff somehow became known as “The Colonel,” you played along every step of the way.  (Did this begin when Geoff teased you about the ancient lump of cheese he found in the back of the fridge, claiming that it pre-dated Louis Pasteur?)

For hosting our wedding (with much help from the clan)—after claiming with loud conviction that our daughter Kailey was right, that it was high time that we got married after our 34 years together.  The wedding itself was memorable and hilarious.  You wore that silly plastic mask, sitting in the back row on the patio; when Phil the minister asked if anyone objected to this union, you stood up and hollered:  “I do!  I don’t think they’ve had enough time to get to know each other!” in your richly ironic voice.  And everyone cracked up.  

For also hosting, a few years before that, a “second wedding” for Geoff’s mum to Ken, former spitfire pilot and dancing partner.  You were delighted that Dorothy had found her “boy toy” (ironic wink, again.)  The priest looked so much like Spike Milligan that Dorothy got a giggling fit halfway through the ceremony.

For the joy of standing with you on highway 1 not long ago: waving signs, chanting for an end to the war in Iraq.  For always taking a stand when it mattered.

And now our younger son, Daniel (who took his first steps by pushing that small green chair around your living room), will  soon marry his sweetheart Lyra on the same patio.  Remarkably, it was Lyra’s mom, priest Linda Campbell, who happened to move to Seaside a year earlier and was welcomed by the family, who spent time with you in your last weeks—your very last night—praying with you and helping you let go of this world. 

For the ever-growing and deepening circles of our existence: so many coincidences that brought us all to the Highlands.  Susan was our first link: her British friend John Hoyland had worked in Red Ladder with our Brit friend Richard Seyd, who first came down with Sigrid (a decade before her death in 1990), and then said to us: “I want you to meet Cynthia.  I think you’d like her.”  So many such connections emerged over the years: our first Easter we re-met our beloved Judy Flanagan, who had been our midwife when I gave birth to Jonah, our firstborn, in 1977. 

Like the jasmine (whose scent will always make me feel that I’m sitting on your patio, enjoying an afternoon cup of tea with you), all of these gifts will continue to flower in our hearts.

I can never thank you enough, dear Cynthia.  I am wiser, more grateful, more generous and more joyful because of you, and will love and cherish you forever.

With love to all, 
Mary Winegarden (Hoyle)


3/21/11


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