“Noelle, have you ever read a book called, Jacob Have I Loved?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, perhaps you should.”
Three or four years later, I did. Children’s literature was housed in the basement of Bowling Library. I had ventured there to search out Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, and was trying to be quick about it. Whenever I was in the basement, in the farthest and darkest corner, the air conditioner seemed always to rouse to life, and I hoped to be back up the stairs before it caught me unawares.
I found The Little Prince right off, but as I was expeditiously making my escape, I suddenly remembered the suggestion my former English teacher had made, and lost myself looking for Katherine Patterson’s book to take along, as well. Finding it quickly, I dawdled, thumbing through pages, curious as to what I would find within them that had led my teacher to recommend it so specifically.
Of course, my growing excitement was menacingly interrupted by the air conditioner, that old portent of doom, and I bolted from the basement, up the stairs, and out the front doors. Not until I’d reached my room and my heart returned to a steadier rhythm did I realize that I hadn’t stopped by the front desk to check the books out. Admittedly, I should have been ashamed for “stealing” them and marched straightaway back to the library and had them signed out. Instead, I felt a mischievous delight in knowing I could keep them as long as I pleased.
As it happened, I would need the extra time on Rass Island with Louise Bradshaw.
Early on, somewhere around page thirty, I discovered why, I think, he had suggested I read the book. Louise had dramatically suggested abandoning Christmas that year in favor of local, national, and global mourning for the war-torn plight of the world, including, potentially, her own Mr. Rice. Our dear, wild girl found herself painfully aware of the snickering of her classmates and discomfort of her teacher, but was “in too deeply to retreat.” I wanted so badly to wrap my arms this girl, for her fervent heart so very much mirrored my own. And it is here that my memory was woken up to a scene so like Louise’s, in my own classroom, with my own classmates and teacher.
Many years have passed, and I cannot remember that day’s topic of discussion, but what I do recall was how animatedly I defended my perspective. Even now, it is strange to me that I allowed myself to be so open in front of my peers. Surely, I had to have had a very strong opinion, else I’d have remained quiet in my desk, likely itching to speak but too afraid to do so.
My instructor suffered through my diatribe, then asked his question.
The connection between Louise’s outburst and my own seemed quite obvious, and I recall my face flushing with embarrassment as I concluded that my teacher had gently pointed out a flaw, perhaps some immaturity in my character.
More woman than girl now, and having reread Jacob Have I Loved so often through the years, I think differently about what he may have been suggesting.
I think it would be accurate to say that I came of age a little late, but that period of becoming reached its zenith at Judson College. I also believe that process is ongoing (after all, Anne Morrow Lindbergh said woman must come of age alone), thus it is entirely reasonable to me that I am in my second phase now, taking up writing again after so long away from it and with a determination I’m not certain I knew before.
If, then, Mother Judson is my Rass Island, there must also have been a Hiram Wallace, a mentor to provide both the structure and the freedom to test the waters and discover what I was after, what I was about.
I only came to know her that last year, as I was delving into my studies and making plans to remain in Marion after graduation. She’d previously taught courses on Modern and Recent America, which I took and excelled, in Louise Bradshaw fashion, at making her believe I didn’t like her. I know this, because she told me so when I lucked into working in the history department. Gracious though she was, I was ashamed that my unbridled and awkward mannerisms had made her feel such, and also a little relieved, as I’d thought she felt the same toward me, though I couldn’t say why. She put me to work stuffing and addressing envelopes as we began to prepare for the induction of Rosa Parks into the Alabama Women’s Hall of Fame. I began to shed my self-consciousness—it was easily done—and relished the afternoons of work much as I did my Thursday morning cake and coffee appointments at Anderson-Barnes Antiques.
My favored memories of the Judson years center around that final one, and many of those feature the woman who mentored me throughout it. I still have the little beaded handbag I fell in love with in one of Marion’s little shops, which she gave me for Christmas, and the black suede pumps she discovered at an estate sale and sold to me for a measly ten dollars, because my feet were the only tiny ones she could think of to fit them. Still, I wear my Kudzu String Band t-shirt, (her husband played bass, I believe, and the spoons) with much pride, though the print has cracked and faded some.
In the office of Dr. Valerie Burnes, there was grace and strength and life lessons that she likely wasn’t aware were being imparted. By her example, I learned that a woman is enough on her own, strong and capable, though it would be several years before I learned to appropriate this truth in my own life. I can clearly remember the day on her porch, when I told her the news of my impending marriage, and the concern she expressed at my rushing into it after having known the boy for a mere three months. In the ten years since I have been divorced, I’ve wondered often if she would be disappointed in me, for not heeding her advice, for casting aside my dreams and leaving them in the wake of destruction that came of that marriage, and for wasting so much time before coming back to them.
Shame on me, for I know her better than that. In the same forthright and gentle manner that she had once used to console me after yet another boy had broken my heart, Valerie assuaged my fear, graciously reminding me that motherhood was the most important task I could undertake.
I hadn’t failed her.
I have chosen instead to believe that the time I thought to have been wasted was what God would use to bring those attributes I desire in myself—perhaps the ones He also desires— to fruition, though the process is far from complete. With a much wiser heart I believe that, long ago, this is what my old English teacher saw—Louise Bradshaw emerging.