Lucy’s Bounty

By Lena Marie Hodson Clark

For something to do on a boring summer day in 1937, I decided to cruise town on my bike.  Vacations had thinned my choice of friends for other activities. I knew this summer would be no different for me, and as I rode, I grumbled to myself about how my family never went away on vacation.

“Vacations,” what an exciting word!  To me it meant going places. Places that I wanted to see.  I didn’t care where. Any place, different and bigger than where I lived, would do.

Standing up, pushing hard on my bike pedals, I puffed my way up the small incline of the street.  As I neared the top, I noticed her on the porch of a little old house that had been empty. Trying to keep cool on this hot day in July, she sat in an old wooden rocker in the shade of the porch roof.

At eleven, I knew what old meant, and even what it looked like.  IT seemed to me everybody was older than I. Of course old described Mom and Daddy, and Grandma was older yet, but this person was old, old.

I thought I knew everybody in town, but I’d never seen this lady before.  It occurred to me to stop and say “Hello”. So I did.

The old rocker came to a stop when I got off my bike, and the worn porch boards murmured, shivered and settled into place again.  Smiling, she said, “Hello, and whose little girl are you?”

Bristling at “little girl”, I said, “My name’s Lena Marie Hodson and I’ll be twelve in September,”  figuring that being close to twelve might help the “little girl” bit.

“I’m Lucy Jamison.  Come and sit in the shade for awhile,” she said.

I settled myself on the porch, swinging my legs over the edge.  The old chair began to move and the porch boards began to squeak again.  As she rocked, one thin hand reached up and patted white marceled hair. The other deftly fluttered a delicate, ecru-colored, lace trimmed fan near her face.

I knew that marcel had come from Mary Kelley’s.  Mary was the town beauty operator. I wondered how it must feel to have such white hair.

“Is your father Ern Hodson?”

“Uh, hu, and my mom is Lylah Hodson.  My dad works on the railroad.”

“I know.  He helped me when I first came.  You can thank him again for me. What day is your birthday in September?”

September twenty_third,” I said.

“Well, now isn’t that something,”  she said. “September twenty-third is my birthday, too.”

“Oh,” I said, in surprise.  

She didn’t give her age and I knew enough not to ask.  Except for the sound of the old boards squeaking from her rocking, a pleasant, quiet stillness took over for a few moments, then suddenly she said,  “Because we have the same birth date, I think we should celebrate, don’t you? If I give you some money, would you ride down to the store and get us some ice cream?”

“Sure,” I said.

We had our ice cream at a drop-leaf table in her tiny kitchen.  A living room, bedroom and bath, all small, made up the rest of the house.  The word “little” fit the house and her too. Clean and tidy, I knew without question that she loved the small home and the things that were in it.  I felt peaceful and at ease, as we sat together enjoying our ice cream. The didn’t seem as hot as it had earlier.

She told me about losing her husband, and how she missed him.  She said they were married young, and had lived together a long time.  They had one daughter. She pointed to a large old fashioned picture, in an oval frame, hanging on a wall nearby.  

“That’s our wedding picture.” she said, “I treasure it.”

She looked beautiful in that picture, like a storybook bride, with her handsome groom.  She’s still pretty, I thought with wonder, as I looked into large brown eyes, in a softly wrinkled face.

“My husband’s business required world travel.  Many times our daughter and I would accompany him.  O, how I enjoyed that,” she said, her eyes lighting up. 

Visiting with her turn out to be fun.  We talked about many things and she seemed truly interested in my young world.  I told her how much I wanted to travel some day – to see some of the world. When the time came for me to go, she said, “Come back again, sometime.  We’ve had a nice visit and you’ve made an old lady extremely happy this afternoon.”

“Okay, I will,” I said.

That night at the dinner table, I told my family about my afternoon.  My Dad told me she’d recently come to town to be near her daughter and family.  He’d helped them move some of the heavier things for her.

My parents limited my visits to once a week because they wanted me to respect her privacy.  I went every week for the rest of the summer. I could hardly wait for each visiting day. We didn’t always have ice cream, but that didn’t matter.

She was so interesting.  The places she’d been and lived became real to me.  Often, she’d produce a souvenir, photo, or small article that bought each place to life.  That little house became my haven for the summer. I no longer cared about going away for a vacation, I was on one.

The last day we had together before I started school that year, she said,  “One day your life will be different, too. Don’t be impatient, you’ll see more of the world in time.  Right now enjoy your days, in this peaceful community, with your family and friends.”

She knew so much.  By this time, thoughts of her age had left my mind.  Somehow, old old, didn’t fit anymore.

After school started that Fall, I didn’t see her again until our birthday.  THey, I made a special visit. Mom gave me a lacey handkerchief to give to her.  She had a small gift for me, too.

The next summer I did go on a short vacation, and though I stopped to see her, now and then, my visits were her became less frequent.  Going through adolescence, music lessons, high school and other things filled my time. However, we always spent time together on our birthday and exchanged small gifts.

Every year I could see her becoming more fragile, but still an observable beauty remained.  The word grace took on new meaning for me as I watched her change.

On my sixteenth birthday, I invited her to my special birthday party.  I told her it would be her celebration, too. She was delighted and said she would be happy to come.  When we went to pick her up she was sewing quilt pieces together by hand. As she laid her sewing aside, I noticed how small the quilt squares were.  

 She had moved by this time, too.  Unable to live alone, she now lived with her daughter and family.  Though I never heard he complain, it made me sad, because I knew she disliked being dependent and missed living in her own small home.

She came to the party and stayed about an hour.  Later, she mentions that evening, saying, “I loved being around all you young people.  It gave me a lift for days.”

In August the following year, Lucy died.  She was ninety-two years old, the obituary said.  That September on my seventeenth birthday, her daughter brought me a package.  She said it was her mother’s wish that it be delivered on my birthday.

When I opened the package, my eyes filled with tears.  There, with all of her tiny hand stitches, laid a bright patchwork quilt top.  A gift of love, from an old old lady to a very young one.