It was in the 1960s I came to know my distant cousins, Fern and Evelyn. Fern, my Grandmother’s age, was struck by a horrid accident in her young life and came out of it with little hearing and no sight. Her hearing was augmented to the point, she could hear sounds, but not differentiate words—only tones and her sight, of course, not even there. Luckily, she had the memories of colors, objects, and had already learned how to speak well.
Her sister, Evelyn, was born with a birth defect that left her with the intelligence of a twelve-year-old. She was persnickety, flirtatious, a tease on countless plains. She was the appointed care-giver of Fern, once they lost their parents, and it was charming and dear to see how they would communicate. Evelyn bought Fern her clothes and many times, if they were arguing, would suit her up for the day by dressing her with her clothes inside-out or mismatched, so she would appear as a circus clown. Evelyn was quite pleased with herself on those days—you could see it in her eyes, as if she had just taken blue ribbon at the Washington State Fair Cook Off. I look back on them now and smile, because they had a melodic rhythm in the love they shared for one another. Upset, or laughing, they were always there for each other and in some ways, shared their own language.
I was fascinated by both of them. They always shared a child-like glee and traveled from their small town in Walla Walla Washington, often, to visit us in Talent. Evelyn, a good-sized woman, had a mad crush on my dear Father and he loved her as his own. Fern, of a German stock, was solid and a bit more serious than Evelyn, yet, she had in her a whimsy and wonder like no other woman I have ever come to know since.
Fern wore a brail watch and I was curious with that small article, for it brought her to speak words like: “I need to feel the time” and she would pop up its crystal and feel the time ever so lightly with her weathered fingers. As a child, I likened it to wearing a sundial on your arm—and though I asked for a watch like that, every Christmas, I never got one. When she would greet us, she would beam brightly and her shining silver hair was somewhat like a halo in the summer sun, then ask us to come nearer so she could feel how we’ve grown. Evelyn had a driver’s license, and comically today, I laugh—because in her madness was a sanity and in her small piece of sanity, the DMV deemed her fit to drive Fern about the land. And when That Summer Solstice arrived—they were gone to live adventures beyond that small Walla Walla World.
They were a walking lesson in humanity. They were strong personalities which lit up the room in their craziness and their undying quiet and darkness. Fern, would call Evelyn her mourning dove. Reason being, Evelyn was the one which made the missing pieces, caused by Fern’s blindness and deafness fit. She would hover over Fern to make sure she was never left out; to make sure she was part of the party and understood the fun and the world around her. In all the zaniness, she was the one that gave Fern the gift of peace and Fern gave her the gift of constant love, no matter what.
Though Evelyn was thwarted in her intelligence; she was rich in her knowingness. She understood she came up short, next to the rest of her family—maybe even Fern—but she understood at the end of the day, that she was loved and she knew when she loved others.
Once, when visiting them in Walla Walla, I engaged in an argument with my older sister. I was about 6 and so that would have made her about 12. I was so upset, I was crying out on the front porch of Fern and Evelyn’s deck… swinging in their swing and blubbering from the frustration of feeling powerless up against my older sister: Nothing that spectacular as I recall—a childhood spat to be seen through a little girl’s lens. Fern came out to see how I was doing and she put her arm about me tenderly and we sat in the quiet as she quelled my tears, and she hummed hymnals to the rhythm of the porch swing. It was quiet, what I remember for about an hour and I felt safe and understood in her care. Suddenly, she broke the silence and told me a little story about choices. Choices of upset; choices of boredom; choices of hatefulness and reminded me, that in all of those choices that are put before all of us in each one of our lives, the best choice was always love. And that was how she believed she and Evelyn found their peace. She knew about clothes being inside-out and mismatching. She could tell if her blouse was buttoned on her backwards, but she loved Evelyn; she knew Evelyn loved her, and so she let it be. She gave of herself to allow Evelyn to feel as if she had some kind of life that was beyond compare to others.
I will NEVER forget that hour of time, she shared with me. I bet I think of it a few times a month. It’s what brought me to write this poem, a few years back.
Born without the ears to hear;
Or eyes, to even see.
Catherine, with heart of gold,
Dared, so righteously–
To understand the reasoning
Of why we choose to hate;
In hopes she may unveil love’s truth
Before it gets too late.
She calls upon the Mourning Doves
To flock about her soul;
Desires deep within her heart
Drowning in its shoal;
Her aura emanating
A message to be heard:
“We all share in the darkness
And live in the absurd.
Imagine if you were like me:
No ears to hear one sound;
No voice, to speak of what you think;
Or speak of what’s profound.
Only in the Mourning Dove
Can I share my feelings, bare.
For they ride atop their wings of white
With a tenderness of prayer.
Eyes lost, I know no color;
Eyes lost, I know no sky;
But the doves, they will remind me,
That I still have wings to fly.
I still have love to lift me;
And it’s love which tells me when
To exemplify love’s pricelessness:
To the likes of evil men.
My world spins in its silence;
And my darkness never leaves;
But I’m living ‘mongst life’s angels–
And there’s nothing I should grieve–
For pain is lost on moments;
And worry bleeds away;
And the doves write life’s real beauty;
And this is why I say….
I’m thankful for a soundless world;
I’ve my own love song to sing;
I don’t have to hear the misery
Of what a war will bring.
I don’t have to yell my words of will,
Just to retaliate:
But instead, I sit in solitude,
Discarding what’s called hate.
My doves, they are the heart and soul,
Of every kind of peace.
They live in hearts of every man;
A poet’s golden fleece;
Listen to their wings at night:
And catch them ‘neath the moon;
For they light up every star which shines;
Forecasting futures, like the rune.
Their wings remind me of the wind
Which blow the sailing ships;
Their coo, meant for the hearing
Sounding off a lover’s kiss;
Or feathers, falling from the sky,
Like tatted snowflakes ‘round your feet;
Or hearing teardrops from one’s happiness,
Fall upon your pillow, sweet.”
Catherine, sits in her chair,
As still as waters deep.
Her life appearing idle,
As she rests in twilight sleep;
Doves knelling out her inner thoughts,
With a wisdom of Voltaire:
Reminding us that hate’s a choice;
But love… is always there.
The Mourning Doves
Words by Robin Clark
Image: Unknown