Her Weather-beaten Fedora

Mrs. McLane lived in the neighborhood forever before my family arrived. So said the neighbors who greeted us when we moved into our new home.

On that day in 1974, we four kids tumbled out of back seat of our wood-accented, Country Squire station wagon. A boundary of old trees and a split rail fence stood to east of our driveway. Just beyond the trees, I spied a small woman wearing a weather-beaten fedora. She walked into a tiny, older home incongruent with the modern ranch homes populating the area. Fresh green grass, abundant-purposeful gardens, and a fruit-filled orchard surrounded her home. With a quick glance at the beauty and a simple breath of the fragrance rising from fruits and flowers, I understood why they said Mrs. McLane refused to sub-divide her property when developers began building homes around her.

My family bought one of the new homes in what was fast becoming a new suburb outside of the city. Young families had already begun to populate the neighborhood, and we were welcomed with friendly visits.

The neighbor kids ran through the yard and greeted us. Two of the older girls grabbed my sister, Debbie, and they ran off together. I stayed with the boys. The biggest neighbor boy held a football in his hands. He was a little bigger than my oldest brother, Jeff, and a grade ahead of him in junior high school.

“I’m Mike Fitzpatrick. This is my brother, Johnny,” he said. Mike and Johnny lived across the street. Johnny was in fourth grade like me. Mike quickly rattled off the names of the four other boys in the group: Quintin and Clifton, twins, and Billy and Rick, best friends from the next block.

Jeff puffed out his chest when he introduced us. “I’m Jeff. This is Scott. That’s Liz.”

“Liz?” Mike teased. “You’re a girl? What’s with the short hair?” I didn’t answer him.

Jeff stepped towards Mike and grabbed the football from his hands, “Hey Mike, go out for a pass.” Mike launched into a full sprint and Jeff nailed him with a perfect spiral. “Good catch,” Jeff yelled while Mike ran back to us straight-arming imaginary defenders along the way.

Mike caught his breath and pointed towards the old trees. “Mrs. McLane lives there,” he said. “She’s a witch. A real one.” The rest of the kids let out nervous laughter. He looked me straight in the eye. “She eats little girls for dinner.” He let out a loud roar of laughter. He then divided everyone into two teams for a quick game of football.

My Mom and Dad were immediately invited into the monthly Bridge games. The neighbors rotated hosting the game each month. Mom volunteered to host the next game, eager to have guests in our new home. That night, I hovered in the living room hoping to sneak a few peanuts and M&Ms that Mom served in her finest glass bowls. I also wanted to peak over Dad’s shoulder to check out the cards he was dealt.

They laughed and gossiped into the night. Mr. Rossi grumbled about the resignation of President Nixon and prayed for the Fitzpatrick boy who was MIA in Vietnam. The Rossi family lived down the road. They raised eight children in the neighborhood’s only other older home. Like Mrs. McLane, they refused to sell their property to the developers. Mr. Rossi enjoyed an early retirement after selling off his self-made, 30-year import business. He winked and told me he started his business when he was my age.

Through the banter of gossip, I learned a little about Mrs. McLane. Mrs. Rossi shared that Mrs. McLane lost her husband just two years after their marriage in the late-1940s. “Struck by lightning,” she whispered across the card table. “Can you imagine?” She sipped her Scotch and continued, “The dead tree is still back there. Barn owls nest in the hollows.”

Mrs. McLane had no children of her own, and, as far as Mrs. Rossi knew, no family, and no interest in marriage ever again.

“Ah, but what about the ‘roomer’?” Mr. Rossi shook his index finger in the air and laughed.

“Rumor?” Mom asked.

“Roomer. R-o-o-m-e-r,” Mrs. Rossi continued, “From time to time, a man - Timothy - showed up in early Spring and stayed for several months. He was a ‘roomer.’” She fluttered her eyelashes, “You know, he helped around the house in exchange for the spare room."

Dad raised his eyebrows and laughed, “A roomer, huh?” Mom blushed. She then told me it was past time for bed and shooed me out of the room.

I soon met Mrs. McLane one chilly afternoon. My brothers and the neighbor boys were playing football in our yard when I arrived home from soccer practice. I joined them only to discover that they were playing with the football my Dad had recently given me. It was my own prized football autographed by everyone from my favorite team, the Minnesota Vikings. I protected it from wear and tear by keeping it on a shelf in my bedroom, and I never let anyone play with it. My brother stole it when Mike dared him, and I was furious.

Scott tossed the ball to Johnny who, in turn, tossed it to Mike. Mike tossed it to the other boys. Back and forth they continued to play keep away from me. They laughed and teased. As the toss went back to Mike, I leaped and intercepted the ball. Immediately, from my blindside, Mike tackled me. I hit the ground hard and howled in pain.

“Play with the boys, you gotta take it like a boy,” Mike laughed.

Pain seared through my thigh. I closed my eyes to hold back tears. The boys huddled around me. “Come on, Liz, shake it off,” Scott encouraged.

“Get!” A raspy voice approached. I opened my eyes and saw Mrs. McLane walking quickly towards us. “Go on,” she snapped her fingers. Mike's eyes almost popped out of his head. Everyone scattered.

Mrs. McLane kneeled down next to me. Her eyes were deep brown. More than the color, though, it was the expression her eyes that captivated me. Wise. Gentle. Humorous. Wild strands of curls, the color of copper and silver, sparkled in the sun from beneath her fedora.

She placed her hands on my leg and closed her eyes. The warmth from her hands radiated into my leg muscle and the pain intensified. “Shhh,” she whispered and patiently waited. “It’s not broken,” she whispered again. Her hands became warmer and warmer. The pain slowly dissipated. “You’ll have a bit of a bruise,” she said and she took me by the hand to help me up. I walked around in a small circle amazed: the pain was barely noticeable.

“For you,” Mrs. McLane’s voice was raspy. She pulled a feather from the band around her fedora and placed it in my hands. The feather was mostly white with light brown and a pattern of dark brown spots along the curved edge.

I pulled the feather close to me and thanked her. She walked away, and I ran into my house to place the feather in the jewelry box I received from my Grandmother. The jewelry box had a lock, and I kept special things like shiny stones and old coins in it. The feather would be safe in there too.

I soon began spending time with Mrs. McLane in her garden and among her trees. Late in the afternoon the first day with her, just before sunset, a rasping screech called from one of the old trees. My breath quickened. A white-chested owl with a sweet, heart-shaped face stared at me. It screeched again. She told me the owls showed up the night her husband passed many years ago. “They welcome you,” she said.

Almost daily, I followed her footsteps through her quiet and cohesive garden. She taught me about the plants and the trees and the cycles of life. One of her first lessons, which I’ll never forget, was when she smiled and said, “Live with nature. You will thrive in life. And, you’ll never fear death.”

Each plant had healing properties, she explained, and she showed me her process of making medicinal teas and tinctures. She also prepared the most delicious, nutritious lunches for me with vegetables fresh from her garden. I had only known (and didn’t like) slimy vegetables from a can that my Mom heated up for supper.

We would stand with each tree while she described how the trees were a community, deeply connected to each other. “The trees are like us,” she revealed. “They communicate and feel. They recognize us and remember.”

Often times, we simply sat silently beneath the oldest tree on her property. Grandmama Tree, she called it. She told me to breathe and listen. Deep listening brings you answers, she whispered.

It was because of Mrs. McLane and my time in her garden that I studied Forestry Ecology in college. I became a professor of Ecology and Evolutionary Biology and started teaching at a university in my late 20s. In my late-30s, divorced and burnt out from academia, I left and spent several years traveling throughout Asia where I studied the healing herbs and energy systems of the far east.

Mrs. McLane and I started writing letters when I left for college. Over the years, the letters were an inspired life-line between us. A letter arrived just last week, and, although I recognized her handwriting, the clear precision of her familiar penmanship eroded into shaky lines. The letter was short. She asked if I would please visit.

I drove through the day and arrived in my childhood neighborhood just as the sun began to set. I parked in front of my old house. Memories of my childhood chattered in my mind. I then walked down the sidewalk to the gate in front of Mrs. McLane’s property. As I clicked open the gate, a rasping screech called from one of the old trees. “Hello,” I whispered to the owl. Leaves from the trees rustled. “And, hello to you,” I whispered to the trees.

Brambles and bindweed covered the gardens. I smelled the fragrance of decay rising from the earth. And, I felt enchanted: the wild garden’s life-force filled my heart. With each step toward the front door, I connected to the earth through the touch of my foot.

An older man greeted me. “It’s been awhile since the owls have called,” and he welcomed me with a hug.

He introduced himself as Timothy, an old friend. “She won’t be with us much longer,” his voice was deep and resonant. My throat tightened.

Timothy guided me to Mrs. McLane’s bedroom. He pulled up a chair for me next to the bed, and he sat in a chair on the other side. The light from the sunset cast fading rays into the room. I noticed the shadow of her weather-beaten fedora on the bed post, and, in the bed beneath a thick, hand-made quilt, Mrs. McLane’s tiny frame. Her wild, pure silver curls outlined her wise face.

I sat next to her and placed my hands in hers. Warmth radiated between our hands. “I feel you,” her voice cracked.

“And, I feel you,” I whispered. She smiled ever so slightly. I continued to hold her hand while the three of us breathed together into the silent night. No one spoke again, and, as the full moon reflected its glow into the room, a sudden, rasping screech and a wild gust of wind startled me. Mrs. McLane’s final exhalation faded and the room returned to silence.