The Berry Spoon

    This essay is about a special neighbor, one of the people I refer to in my previous essay, The People in My Recipe Box. Grace is not her actual name, she was the embodiment of it.

     The Berry Spoon, as my neighbor, “Grace,” called it, is one of those items in my kitchen, left with me by a friend, thus imbued with special memories. It was her favorite spoon. Now it's my favorite. I understand why she liked it so much. It has a slightly larger “bowl” than average and has a solid, friendly feel without being imposing.

The Berry Spoon

Come to think of it, that describes Grace too.

      Grace left me many indelible lessons, as well. Often her spirit comes out of the drawer with the spoon, broadening my perspective on that day's worries. We often say someone is our inspiration; Grace truly was, and still is, just for being herself.

      In her final years, Grace was so crippled with arthritis that her physical world shrank to the confines of her small house. For a woman who loved the outdoors and could name any wildflower, plant, tree or animal, this was especially difficult. You wouldn't know it to be around her, though. She offered those who stopped by a cheerful welcome and such interesting conversation you stayed longer than you intended. A computer entered her life at just the right time and became another lifeline to the world and her many friends. She was an avid reader, plus a nephew gave her a top-of-the-line radio for listening to her favorite news programs and music. Her mind was in the broader world even when her body couldn't be, and since her house was in a woods every window offered a comforting view of nature.

      It's somewhat miraculous Grace could be so cheerful and welcoming, but she refused to let adversity bring her down. At least not for long. It was her nature, and tested throughout her life. Occasionally when I'd stop by her door was locked, indicating the pain was winning that day and she wanted to handle it alone. Invariably, she'd be back to her gracious self the next day. I never heard her complain.

      As someone who is also independent and doesn't like to ask favors of others, I understood not to push when I offered to do something and she declined. I did learn to off-handedly ask if there was anything I might do as I was leaving. She would sometimes ask me to open a can of soup and just leave it on the counter, thank you. She'd take care of the rest. It would have been slow and painful, but she was determined to manage what she could on her own, as long as she could. I'll be exactly the same someday. Meals on Wheels and prepared foods brought by friends were welcomed nourishment beyond what was on the plate – for both parties.

      Listening to her stories about her friends you'd wonder how Grace managed to know all the most interesting people in the world. Everyone has a story and she loved hearing them. She was a thoughtful listener who sifted details as one would pan for gold, mining gems in everyday lives.

      I never heard her speak ill of anyone. You knew when she disagreed with someone's views, including your own, but she was kind in disagreeing with you, prompting deeper consideration rather than resistance.

     Grace would sometimes reveal interesting aspects of her own life but it wasn't until after her death when a group of us gathered to honor her memory that I learned some of the saddest chapters of her own story.

      She never spoke much about her husband, but did say he taught at the college where they both worked and had met. Among the two pick-up loads of items I took to the landfill for her when she was preparing for her final move were framed certificates from his professional life. She had told me once that she learned she was pregnant just before they were to visit his homeland where she would meet his family, shortly after they were married. It was her first foreign trip and she wasn't going to miss it. She knew if she told him he wouldn't allow her to travel, so she didn't tell him until they returned. Apparently it was a wonderful trip and she got through morning sickness, no doubt like she did arthritis in her final years.

      But, her husband later proved abusive and would sometimes lock her and their child out of the house while they were outside. Rather than frighten her child she would turn the predicament into an opportunity and they'd go into the nearby woods "for an adventure and camp” until she knew he had left the house.

     Among her happier stories was that she had been the first woman allowed to take forestry classes at another university and, after much petitioning, was allowed to wear pants in the field. It made for mad dashes between classes to her residence since she could wear the pants only for that class, but she was very willing to do it and was a good runner.

      Grace was a Christian Scientist, which meant she shunned medications, often to the frustration of those who loved her. As she neared 90 years of age, she was convinced to sell her beloved rural property and move to France to live with her child, a renowned artist there. It meant Grace would also finally spend more time with her beloved grandchildren too. She was, of course, happy, yet sad to leave her friends and home of so many years.

      I'd been at a meeting the night before she left so it was around 9 p.m. when I got to her house to say good-bye. We both pretended it wasn't for the final time, but knew it likely was. It was also election night, 2004. She had been determined to vote before leaving and the results of that election made the sadness even greater. Yes, she leaned towards Democrats, but listened to all candidates and recognized virtues no matter the candidate's party. She chuckled at the irony of her, a widow on a small pension, supporting a wealthy Kennedy candidate during a previous campaign.

      Grace's physical world continued to shrink as her condition worsened with age. Some of her friends visited her in France which delighted her no end. The rest of us kept in touch through e-mails and letters, both of which must have caused her physical pain to read or write at times. Even when bed-ridden she would describe the birdsong and budding bushes at her window and imagine the scene beyond just from the little patch of visible sky. She kept friends back home in touch by sharing news and was the first to tell me of illnesses and unexpected deaths in our neighborhood. Her connections never ceased to amaze and inspire me.

      Every spring when the first wildflowers appear, if I know their names its likely she taught me. As my own aging brain can't recall a name, my soul aches to go to her house to ask her.

In her element as a young woman. I still "see" her in my walks in our neighborhood woods.

     Grace has been gone for over a decade, yet I can recall her soft, gentle voice as if I last heard it this morning, or the twinkle in her eye when she told a fun story or about a friend's good news. The Berry Spoon feels warm sometimes, like she's held it until I picked it up.

      Grace and the extra big bowl of her Berry Spoon taught me that if you open your heart wide enough, it will fill with kindred spirits who will nourish your life, even when they are long gone and you are “alone” in your kitchen.