I was almost named for a woman called Marcella.
The answer could have been a joyful “yes” and yet my parents dodged the question when I ask straight out. I’m forever puzzled.
So I’ve taken it upon myself to claim the tie, the title, the inspiration; to christen myself firmly in her memory.
Unflagging worker; wholehearted teacher; wise mom; tender, honest wife.
The woman in my youth who met life with a wry chuckle—who saw the cracks in our characters, the unkindnesses and unfairnesses that life served up
And did not counter with anger or bitterness or righteousness or false cheer,
But chose instead to see us whole.
To smile at ironies and get on with the next task;
To see that great paradox of this world and every human:
That all things are made of possibilities and promises, however unrealized some days, however absent on others.
That we redeem ourselves each time we stand quiet witness to beauty, to each other’s struggles, to everyday love. ©
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* Don and Marcella Dresher were my parents’ much loved and enjoyed friends. Their 1936 wedding, in the heart of the Dust Bowl years, was legend in our family. My dad, in attendance, watched the wax candles melt and fold over in the 106 degree heat. As a kid, going out to the Dresher’s was the best of all possible after-supper or weekend activities. A very real farm–half storybook, half struggle–waiting with a dog and a horse, chickens, cows, and cats. Two sons, Larry and Merlin and Don and Big Marcella. During wheat harvest week, my dad took vacation to run the combine or drive loads of wheat to the elevator for Don. Mother helped Marcella organize luscious tailgate picnics or noontime fried chicken dinners. Summer days later, Mother and Sonja and I would spend 24 hours with Big Marcella in her assembly-line chicken killing and freezing operation. For me, that meant an overnight in blankets on the upstairs porch falling asleep to the rhythm of oil-well pumps, exploring old sheds, gathering eggs, whirling around on the tractor seat merry-go-round, being a nuisance. Sonja helped in the kitchen.
I loved the whole family. Never more so than the evening I dropped a kitten into a foamy pail of fresh milk. I thought it might like a drink. Rather than rescuing the baby myself, I called for Don or Big Marcella. Don retrieved the kitty, clucked his tongue a bit, chuckled. And donated the milk to the calves. I came away chagrined, but, solace to my frightened heart, still in the Dresher’s good graces.
