In Memoriam: Helene Detwiler

I remember a particular sunny day.  I have a picture of me on Gram's horse, Punda.  I was about seven.  We were in the big pasture next to the farmhouse.  The wind, maybe, or a dog, or a passing cloud, set Punda running.  And little, tiny Gram, running after, was shouting "Sit up straight! Pull on the reins!"  I did, and Punda stopped.  Gram ran up panting, out of breath.  Seven looked at 52, and said "Let's do it again!"  52 looked at 7, and said "Not for any money!"  My gram taught me to control a runaway horse.  She taught me how NOT to panic.

I remember a particular sunny day.  It was my chore to hang out laundry, and fold it and bring it in.  We worked side-by-side, in the beginning, and she showed me where to place the pins, and how to shake out the jeans with a SNAP! so they would fold flat with no wrinkles.  And we talked.  I still hang out my laundry, and every single time, I stand in the Sun and think of her.  She taught me how to take care of the little things---the everyday things that matter, when you craft a home for the family you love.

I remember a particular sunny day.  Two bushels of peaches arrived unexpectedly.  I looked at her, and she looked at me, and we both looked at the peaches.  Then we blanched them and peeled them and packed them away in the freezer.  It took several days, and we talked the whole time.  This summer, I packed 17 quarts of peaches in my cupboard. My Gram taught me what to do with unexpected, glorious abundance; how to save it up for when it's needed.  I have some abundance stored up to help me through now.

I remember a particular sunny day, one of many like it.  Last summer, I got to spend ten days with her.  We worked side-by-side in the garden, pruning and clipping and raking.  Stepping back, looking, thinking "Which way does it WANT to grow?"  Then pruning and clipping some more.  And talking.  She taught me to care for both plants and the shape of a garden.  To wait and see, and then fearlessly seek perfection.  This year, trees will come to my garden, because I finally see where they want to grow.

All of these sunny days---the lessons learned, the time shared in useful, busy work---these days braided our lives together.  I like to think of the light of those sunny days, and how light travels in space forever once it leaves Earth.  The light from those days is traveling still, traveling out through space, carrying a sort of record of our sunny days together.

It is a comfort to me that she spent so much time in the Sun; that nature keeps a record of her life; that I am a part of that record; and that all of her teaching and learning is traveling now, lighting up the spaces between the stars.