Dorothy Goes Home
by Terry Berkson |
| | Terry Berkson (left) with Dorothy Gravelding and Terry’s friend, Joe. (Photo submitted) | |
In this story there’s no Toto, no Tin Man and definitely no Munchkins. The woman I’m writing about produced giants. When someone is a “looker” like Dorothy, we tend to think that they were dealt a blessed life. But, as a little girl, she had a hard beginning. Her mother died when she was only 3 years old and just 14 years later, her policeman father was killed by a hit and run trucker driving a milk tanker. Dorothy Hannahs’ life seemed to change when, at age 18, following their high school prom, she united in marriage with Earl Gravelding. On their wedding day, he had only $9 in his pocket but they both worked hard and thrived and they made four babies, big babies! One of the babies grew up to be my friend, Joe, who I first met while camping out in the pines on the east side of town with several other boys from Richfield. We were all around 13 years old. I had brought along a couple of blankets that my aunt Ruta had given me, but the night was so cold that Joe let me share his sleeping bag. He hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet. From that time on, we were fast friends but for some reason, whenever we hung around together, we’d get into trouble. Dorothy was only about 34 years old back then. I thought Joe was lucky to have a mother like her because she exuded so much warmth and was so understanding. When we got kicked out of school for writing a poem on one of the desks – I was the poet, Joe was the wood carver – Dorothy dismissed the caper by saying, “Boys will be boys.” When we wrecked my uncle’s car, again Dorothy said, “Boys will be boys.” There were fights we got into and parties on the lake that went afoul but Dorothy always summed up our bedlam with, “Boys will be boys.” Somehow she knew we’d turn out OK. Through all the trouble and aggravation, Joe’s mother never pointed the finger of blame at me. She never once said, “Joe, I don’t want you hanging around with him any more.” And when I’d see her, she’d always greet me with the same motherly warmth. I am certain that warmth radiated to everyone, her family, all of her boys, their wives, her grandchildren and her great grandchildren. Having been dealt such a cold hand as a child and then suffering the early loss of her husband, Earl, and later her son, Donald, it’s a wonder that she didn’t harden to life’s tragedies. Incredibly, she didn’t. I guess it was a gift. Her positive outlook was Dorothy’s way of closing her eyes and clicking her shoes together, of taking all of us to a better place. So, now, at age 86, the storm of life has ended and she’s gone back to the farm where the ravages of old age will no longer prey on her. Without a doubt, her motherly warmth remains. Terry Berkson is an author living in Richfield Springs.
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