The Hancock-Henderson Quill, Inc.
-by Sherryanne De La Boise
Let me grow old, as trees grow old, dear Lord.
With pliant boughs, made resolute and strong
By rendering storms, extended to afford
The welcome shade which shelters woodland song.
As trees are harps for every breeze, keep
Attuned to life. As trees are havens, give
My heart the joy of constant ministry
To human need the days that I shall live.
As branches glow with shining green each Spring,
Let me renew my hope throughout the years.
As trees become some stalwart, let age bring
Adversity unmarred by sapling fears.
Let me greet death, when it is time to die,
With valiant head uplifted to the sky.
This poem, written by Gail Brook Burket, who was born in Stronghurst, came to mind as I was sitting at a funeral of a neighbor that I barely knew. In hearing about her life, I was jealous. She was so happy, always, that she sang constantly. Her 84 years were spent surrounded by family that loved her and spoke of her as a mentor. Her cousins and friends had named children after her. You know you are treasured when someone wants to raise a child to be just like you.
She was one of the first recreational scuba divers and the second female to be a Warden of her church. Yet, no one called her a "liar," because she had adventures beyond the realm of their lives. Because Facebook now documents my activities, at my last college reunion, nine friends apologized for having called me a "liar" about "stories" I had told about my past. I dropped all nine of those women as friends.
Not by telling them off. Nor, by utilizing one of the "50 Ways to Leave your Lover" that Paul Simon sang about. But by doing as those folks do on the online dating sites. They "ghost" when they decide not to pursue a relationship. I did not respond to their calls and e-mails. Just vaporized from their lives.
Even this week, two women decided that I was a "liar," after our luncheon conversation. Have been wracking my brain trying to figure out what they thought was untrue. I gave them honey from my apiary. Did they think it was decanted grocery honey? I had a jewelry box with me that I was about to mail to my sister, full of interesting pieces from my Great Aunt's work in foreign places. Did they think I had gone to the Goodwill and filled it?
Did they not believe the few adventures of hers that I related? Did they not believe that I spent the pandemic writing articles?
After a couple nights of unrest, I have decided to write my bread-and-butter thank you notes, then ghost both of them.
I am jealous of the joy in the deceased woman's life. The burdens I face are so daunting. This past week, I was actually asked if I could take me ex-husband for a couple of days after he was dismissed from the hospital. When I heard people were missing in the Miami condo collapse, I actually said out loud, "If I was reported missing, yet alive, because I was not in that building, I would seize the moment and disappear forever."
Yes, I would walk away from everything that I have, because every week is another drama to be quelled. The phone rings day and night for me to ‘Come right way.' Even at my age, I would love to be granted an escape, more than a vacation, a do-over. I wonder if it is even possible?
It is rather akin to pondering about winning a large cash lottery. Since we all know that I am too cheap to purchase the tickets, then let me indeed be like the beautiful, giant trees that live in Stronghurst (Stronghurst has one of the nicest collection of mature trees, at least 45 varieties that I counted on my last visit), able to find joy in the constant, demanding ministry that my arms are extended to try and afford to those who need me to shelter them from their own storms.