Someone asked me recently how I was able to think up topics for my columns for over 32 years. Each week is influenced by so many things. This week’s topic came from a simple movie question. A friend of mine and I were talking about Sean Connery, one of the sexiest actors to appear on screen.
We talked about his vast catalog of films. I asked her which movie she thought the actor would be most remembered for. Her quick response was for his James Bond films, of course.
I told her that long ago, I read an article about the actor. When he was asked the same question, he mentioned two of my favorites, “The Hunt for Red October” and “Robin and Marian.”
This question stuck in my head, not because I have made movies, but because, like all of us, someday I will die. This thought of what I would like to be remembered for really stuck in my crazy head, along with the obvious question of what I have remembered about people I have lost or admired. In asking myself that question, I understood what I would like to be remembered for as well.
Our personal values come to view when dealing with such a provocative question. I remember reading two books in elementary school that still dwell snug in my brain. They were “Diary of a Young Girl” by Anne Frank and “The Miracle Worker” by William Gibson, which tell the stories of two remarkable young women.
What impressed me was not how they died or what physical challenges they faced, although both were powerful and filled with great lessons for anyone. It was not their circumstances that made them unforgettable. It was their zest for life.
It was that they were able to find purpose, meaning and joy in incredibly difficult circumstances. They took the life that they were handed and made the most of it by appreciating the gift of just being alive. I would love to think that some people will feel that I tried to make the best out of my life. I would hope that I did not waste the gift.
My Grandfather Day, many of you have read of him in my columns over the years, was not a wealthy man. He never wrote a book, created anything and was not a scholar by any means. But, at least in my life, and to a lesser degree in my children’s, he made all the difference in the world.
In just the eight years I had him, he taught me about wonder, imagination, joy, respect for nature and the importance of being kind. When I was with him, he gave me the exquisite gift of feeling safe and loved just for who I was.
Never underestimate the value and gift of that sensation because not everyone gets to feel it. If there is even a millionth of that sensation remembered in connection with my name, then I would rest content.
I was married for almost thirty years to a man who is so fondly remembered by so many that I could almost write a book just about his Ron-isms. No one could tell a story better than my Ron. Of course his southern accent didn’t hurt.
Ron is kept immortal by the retelling of his stories, with his insanely witty and often wicked one-liners. When you hear the saying that a person was a giant, or memorable or was as slick as molasses, you could be talking about Ron, too. Ron was so special that even almost fifteen years after his death, he is talked about in the present tense.
He has left such a mark on this life that even his great-grandsons, when they drive by the cemetery, shout out, “There is RaRa’s Poppa!”
RaRa is my daughter, Lara, and these are her grandsons. Okay, Jackson is too young to say it yet, but I know he is thinking it.
Ron used to do a magic trick where he would tell his grandchildren that he was invisible. But I think that the greatest trick he’s done is to have lived so fully that he almost seems alive right now. Now that is a great way of being remembered.
One person that I have remembered for over fifty years now is a woman I met while I was an Avon Lady, though I cannot remember her name. At the time, I was experiencing a period of overwhelmness. I do not think that is even a word, but it certainly is a real thing. I was a young, tired and scared mother going through money troubles.
I was working as an Avon Lady to help with the family finances. I was trying so hard to be successful and to project confidence I certainly did not feel at the time. I knocked on the door of a lovely colonial home with beautiful flowers in front and a doorbell with a welcoming chime.
When the door opened, I was met by what I would now think was a middle-aged woman. She had soft brown hair gently pinned above her head and was wearing the kind of apron you see in magazines. I remember thinking at the time that everything about her and her home seemed so perfect. She kindly invited me into her kitchen.
I stumbled over how great Avon products were and that we had many wonderful items on sale. She placed a tall, cool glass of lemonade in front of me as well as a freshly iced cupcake.
Then she sat down at the table next to me. “Dear,” she said, “I am sure the products are fine, and just this once I will order some to place in my gift closet.” I still can recall thinking she was perfect. Who else has a gift closet? “What I want to know is what has you so, well, troubled?”
I wondered to myself, how does she know? This stranger, whose name I cannot remember, listened to me for almost two hours. She even ended up making me a sandwich while she spoke of her years as a young wife, mother and of her faith. She was literally overflowing with kindness.
I left her home, somehow feeling a bit empowered. Certainly feeling more worthy after such a woman had spent so much time with me. And as strange as I know this is going to sound, I also felt a little more loved and safe.
I also left with an Avon order worth almost $300. That day I told myself I wanted to be like her. If I have ever done a kindness to a stranger who can remember it, then that would be something to be remembered for.
The fact is that we’ll probably never know what we’ve done or said that made a difference in someone’s life, but oh, I pray I have.
I can try to say more lofty things, like I want to be remembered for world peace, or writing the best column ever. However, most of all, I would like to be remembered for the greatest thing I have ever done. I am a mother to my three children, who are my success in life; anything else is pure gravy.
Okay, if I write a bestselling book that is made into a great movie, which earns an Oscar that makes me lots of money, that’ll make my entire family financially set and save all homeless pets and people, then I would like to be remembered for that, too.
