Open Arms

The masive collie dog came bounding across the street, full speed ahead and directly at me. On his heels was a heavyset woman in a long, loose flowing dress, her black hair flying around her face, a leash in one hand. She was yelling at the dog and laughing at the same time. The dog reached me first but she was close behind, laughing even as she collared him and pulled him off me. With the dog securely leashed, she straightened up, gave me a huge smile and said in a good natured and musical voice, "Hi!" And that was how I came to meet the lady who was to bring love, sanity and balance into my life.

Her name was Lee. She lived across the street from my grandmother with her husband, daughter, mother, and a collie dog named Laddie. The house was like nothing I'd ever known - it was, by my grandmother's sterile standards,
a mess. Thick rugs, chairs and sofas you could crawl into, newspapers, books and magazines were here and there.
There were actually traces of dust on the little tables. The front hall was littered with mail, a record player, things to be put away. The telephone had an impossibly long cord and traveled from room to room, chair to chair, to wherever it was needed. At Christmas, a tree so tall it scraped the ceiling sat right in front of the windows and was almost overcome by decorations. We watched the moonlanding on a tv on a rolling cart in the living room. We drank champagne and ate red velvet cake in the dining room. Supper was thrown together in the kitchen and eaten there right next to the washing machine and dryer. The house didn't just say welcome, it shouted it. And Lee didn't just say come in, she opened her arms and enfolded you, flaws and all.

She would sit with her legs tucked underneath her, caftan spread out over her ample lap, throw her head back and laugh - real laughter, the kind that was contagious and comforting. There was always a throw close by, in case the house was chilly. Music always seemed to come from somewhere and she never minded if you put your feet on the furniture. Laddie was never too far away and Ray's pipe tobacco left a sweet scent whenever he came and went.
It was a house of warmth, of family, of shelter and acceptance.

I spent as much time there as I could. I was protected, counseled, praised. I was listened to, guided by the most gentle of touches, chided with loving smiles and hugs. She taught me to stand straight and stand my ground, to risk but only after I'd thought it through, to be optimistic, cautious, open, prepared. Her feelings were public property. She shared her advice firmly but with kindness. She was articulate, she spoke softly and she spoke out at length.
If you asked her opinion, you got all of it.

She was there when I was in trouble. She encouraged me to go to college, to explore, to see challenges instead of obstacles. She talked patiently with me about addiction, education, sex. She answered questions about boys,
religion, books, dancing. She taught me about boundries and self respect and accountability. She drilled self esteem into me like a dedicated dentist going after a deep cavity. She countered each negative my mother threw at me with a more powerful positive. And she never tired or gave up. No battle was too small or too hard, no feeling too trivial.

My mother and grandmother disliked her and disapproved of her influence. My mother actively sought to end my seeing her and campaigned hard to break up my friendship with her daughter, all to no avail. We are friends to this day and even though Lee is gone, I still hear and see her in her daughter. Her legacy is alive and well in her child who now has a child of her own.

This amazing woman opened her home and her heart to me and to many, many others. She took me in and helped me find my way, one step at a time. She allowed me mistakes even when she knew I'd be hurt, she gave me room to grow, space to be myself, and a safe place to come to when I was lost. She had the heart and hands of a healer.

For Rory.