Dear Mr. Wiltshire:
We don’t know each other, but I feel as if we do, as we shared a common thread – Mary Carpenter. I finally realized tonight why it has taken me all these many months to write to you. Your article about Mary has sat on my desk, always being tabled and put back in my inbox, pushed around on top of my desk with me saying, “today I’m definitely going to get that done”, but always, I write nothing. Finally tonight, with everything else done and not being able to make anymore excuses, your article and your smiling face stared up at me and virtually screamed, “DO IT!!!” And so here I am.
My name is Eli Hunter and I live in Colorado now, but my parents and brothers still reside a short drive north of Columbus. We moved out of the city when I was in the 5th grade, but up until that time I spent my childhood in a house eight doors down from yours. Kevin, my best friend growing up, his parents still live next door to my old house. I continued to stay in touch with Kevin and his family over the years, and whenever I was in my old neighborhood I always stopped and toured my old schoolyard and street, a few times even stopping in to see Mary. I never could believe, each time I stopped, that she was still there, but she always was. She never seemed to age. I always believed it was her impish and hobbit-like nature that kept her young, as if a spell had been cast over her long ago that held her in time, always just the way she was, in my mind’s eye.
Then in the summer of 2002, the last time I have been back to Ohio, I had my mother and two young daughters in the car. We were returning from shopping and found our route taking us north on High St. from Morse Rd. I was immediately thrown back into “old neighborhood mode”, showing the girls places of which most didn’t exist anymore, but I was reliving them as if they were still standing: Graceland Shopping Center in its much, much younger days, Franco’s Pizza where we ate every Friday night and they still to this day have the best pizza I can ever remember, the laundrymat next door to that that always had the cute sayings on the board when you would drive by, McDonald’s, Fogel’s Carryout across the street at the corner of W. & E. Kanawha & High where it was considered a big deal when mom finally let you cross the street to go there, and of course my old schoolyard, Homedale Elementary, which I believe is now some sort of Catholic school?
Finally, before we continued northward, I wanted to drive down Kanawha, take a loop around the block and stop at our old house. As I passed Mary’s house, I dared not even look because I simply KNEW in my heart that Mary could no longer be alive by now, but still I couldn’t help a glance as we passed. I saw a chair sitting in the driveway and my heart skipped a beat. That’s odd, I thought. Mary and Bud had always sat in the driveway in the summertime when we were kids; how weird that the person who lives there now would adopt the same habit? Some of the sweetest memories of my childhood suddenly filled me. Long summer nights where it seemed to take forever to get dark, and all of the kids in the neighborhood riding their bikes up and down the street between their houses and the Carpenters. Some of the parents had brought their lawn chairs up and formed a little powwow circle, talking and laughing until way after dark. When it finally got too dark to ride our bikes, we contented ourselves with catching lightning bugs or playing hide and go seek in the dark until our parents would herd us back to our respective homes for the night. It was such a comforting ritual, and I lament to this day that I live so rural in the mountains now that my children never got to enjoy living in a neighborhood such as the one I cherished so.
My mom jolted me out of my thoughts as we arrived at our old house. We looked for a few minutes, my mother marveling at all the changes the house has undergone over the years – the tree no longer in the front yard, the carport over the side door, the pear tree in the back yard that used to yield the best tasting pears you ever tasted long since chopped down. Finally, we pulled away from the curb and headed out. As we passed Mary’s house again, something suddenly made me pull into her driveway. “What are you doing honey?” my mom asked. “I have to see” is all I said. My mom replied, “Oh you know Mary can’t be here anymore”.
I stepped up onto the small porch and knocked, my heart in my throat. I heard voices inside and then the door slowly opened. I stepped back onto the top step in anticipation. What I saw next filled me with the most indescribable feeling of joy and disbelief. There, opening the door to greet me, was Mary! And not just that it was her, but again she looked the same, as if she had never aged a day since the last time I saw her. I was incredulous. I stood there with my mouth gaping open, when Mary said, “I think you have the wrong house honey”. She didn’t recognize me. Then I remembered; of course, why would she? I’m blond now! So I said, “Mary, it’s you!” She looked harder at me. Still nothing. So then I said, “It’s me Mary, your old neighbor from down the street! And I have mom with me, and my daughters!”
Then it was Mary’s turn to be incredulous. Her eyes opened wide and she grabbed me and hugged me and started that delightful cackle that will be in my head for the rest of my life. She said, “Come in, come in!” and motioned with her hand towards the car as she still could not see my mom or the girls inside. Her guest, a neighbor woman who had been visiting, made a quick exit although we told her to stay. I didn’t even catch her name, or if I did I was too excited to remember it.
The next hour of my life is one I will never forget. The inside of Mary’s house had not changed one iota; I don’t think she had ever even rearranged the furniture. She immediately pushed ice cream on the girls over my protests that we were on our way home to have dinner, saying one should always eat dessert first. I came in the kitchen to help her and to just basically be near her. I was still in shock and experiencing one of those surreal, buzzy moments. As she turned from the refrigerator to look at me, I couldn’t help myself any longer. I told her how I had seen the lawn chair in the driveway when we drove by the first time and remembered how she had always sat out there with Bud. Then I said, “no offense Mary, but I didn’t think there was any way you could still be here, but when I saw the chair I had to know”. And then when you opened the door………” , I trailed off. Tears filled my eyes then and spilled over. The look that was exchanged between Mary and I made words unnecessary. She knew everything I was thinking, could see right into me and know all the feelings and love in my heart, how I had missed her all those years. She slid a ring off of her finger then, nothing fancy or even expensive, just a small silver band with a cross on it, and pushed it into my hand. “What are you doing?”, I asked. “Take this”, she replied, “ St. Michael will protect you. He will always watch over you and I will too.” She gave me a serious but loving look. I wanted to say more then, to explain to her how important she had always been to me when I was a kid and how I had never forgotten her ever over the years and plead for forgiveness for not being more in touch. But her look shut me up. Her look said “I love you and I understand and it’s all right and if you keep crying you’re going to make me cry too so stop honey”. Then the moment was over and we moved into the living room to talk and laugh and catch up on everything, as much as was possible in that short hour.
When mom finally suggested we get going, my heart jumped back into my throat. I knew, deep down, given the infrequency with which I got back to Ohio these days, that these were the last moments I would ever have with Mary. She seemed to know it too. I wanted to jump up and cling to her and stay there forever, move back to my old street, be childish and unreasonable, but instead, with my own children looking on, I mustered my dignity, stuffed my feelings, and said, “I’ll see you next time”. She said, “Yes, next time honey”. Then we hugged and she kept things jolly with her cackle and told the girls to come back too, and we drove on home to my mother’s house.
When I returned to Colorado, I wrote to Mary and sent her some pictures from my life and begged her to come out, knowing she never would. Every couple of months I would write, letting her know what was going on with me and asking what was happening in her life. A Christmas card in 2007 was all I ever received in return from her. It now has a permanent place on my desk, and the ring she gave me is always near as well.
When I got the email from my parents that Mary had passed, I really didn’t grieve all that much. I couldn’t. I was numb, in disbelief. The spell had finally been broken, Mary truly WAS mortal, after all. I called my friend Kevin and told him that since I couldn’t fly back, would he please go to the funeral for me and pay my respects to Karen. He HATES, absolutely, HATES funerals (even though I don’t know anyone who likes them), but he went, for me. He even took his parents, which surprised me, as he is estranged from his father.
It wasn’t until I got a letter in the mail from my mom with your article in it that reality really sunk in. It was some time after the funeral, maybe a month later, when mom sent your article. On it, on a Post-It note, she had written, “Do you think this is about Mary Carpenter?” After reading it, there was, of course, no doubt for me. I immediately Googled your address and then there was the irrefutable truth: you lived on Kanawha as well.
Your article was a labor of love about someone we both knew, albeit in different ways and times. I applaud you, and I love that you did it and published it for people to see. I’m glad my mom just happened to see it, as she says she never reads or even gets that paper; it was a total fluke. So why has this letter been so hard for me to write, as I alluded to in my first paragraph? Because I realized tonight that writing to you would be having to admit to myself that Mary was finally gone, once and for all. And for such a wonderful person as Mary was, I wanted to keep her alive as long as I could. Forever. Thank you for what you did. The next time I come to Ohio, I will have someone else now to drop in and see on West Kanawha Avenue.
Regards.
