.jpg) |
| Lincoln High School, 1967, Speech 2 class |
In April 1947, my parents named their first child Linda Lois. For two decades, the name Linda, meaning “pretty”, and Mary, meaning “beloved”, dominated the two most popular girl’s names in the United States.
So, why in February 1949 did my parents break
from fashion and sign “Iris Lee” on my birth certificate instead of “Mary Lee”?
Well, my mother,
Sadie Lee McCoy O’Brien, resolved to fulfill a promise and chose Iris, meaning
“promise”, although a name not famous.
According to my
mother’s account, she made a vow during World War II. “When I left the McCoy homeplace
to work in a factory in Kansas City, I boarded a room in Mrs. Iris Ellis’ home.
In that lonely time, Mrs. Ellis was like a mother to me. That’s why I named you
Iris.”
Had
I known this significant history while a teenager, I may have better brushed
off the boys when they hollered in the halls, “Hey, poison iris!” or, “How’s it
goin’, eyeball?”
“Boys will be boys,”
my mother, the elder of four brothers, would say.
Meanwhile, I met
Mary Schwartz as students in Warren Lincoln High School. One of two Marys to
twelve Lindas in our class of 1967, we befriended one another in our Speech 2
class and Synchronized Swim Club.
The summer before
our senior year, Mary and I boarded a bus to visit my cousins along Peter
Creek, Kentucky. My cousin Kathy picked us up at the Williamson, West Virginia
bus station and drove us to her home in her shiny 1966 Mustang.
I’ve since
wondered what possessed my parents to allow their seventeen-year-old daughter to
travel south of the Michigan border with an overnight stay in a dingy Ohio motel.
My goodness, the freedom of adventure my generation enjoyed before cell phones
and social media.
Since that landmark
summer, several Marys continue to weave their gifts, talents, and lovingkindness
throughout my life. For the past twenty-some years, I’ve sat beside Mary Merlo
on Mondays in a writing group. We critique and encourage each other’s work,
talk about family.
The spring of
2011, Mary Ellen Hammarland brought her daughter, Heather, to a Mother’s Day
Tea I hosted in my dining room.
Within a week,
Mary Ellen joined my farm staff. That’s what happens with mutual affection for tea
and weeding a lavender field.
Thirteen years
later, Mary Ellen remains our house and chicken-sitter, and the leader of my
neighborhood Bible study.
Last but not
least, two years ago in church, another Mary entered my life. During one of our
conversations after service she said, “Oh, what I’d give for a good haircut.”
A daughter of a
barber, I replied, “I’d be happy to cut your hair.”
Dear Reader, Mary
called yesterday. “Iris, please remember to bring your scissors Monday
afternoon.”
“Will do!”
After my critique
group, Mary and I will sit at her kitchen table and admire the pink Easter lily the Rochester
OPC delivered to her door—enjoy Panera takeout, and count our blessings.
Before I trim
Mary’s hair.
