Becky carefully rolled the red satin nightgown in tissue paper. It wouldn’t ever be worn. She tucked it in the back of a dresser drawer. It wouldn’t hang in the closet with the rest of her pretty nightgowns. This was now nothing more than a memory. She’d bought it in anticipation of Valentine’s Day. They’d made plans. Monumental, life-changing plans. Plans that, now, would never happen. A tear rolled down her cheek. Followed by another and another until the storm broke. The tough woman who rarely cried crumpled onto her bed and wept in sorrow. She was 57 years old and, for Becky, nothing was ever the same again.

When she was only 18, she’d married her marine, Jim, who was only 19. It was just after the end of WWII and the world was a happy place. Jim was a handsome boy from the Deep South with a sexy accent and certain devil-may-care air about him. He had style, dash, and charisma. He was a clotheshorse, had a Clark Gable smile, with aims of going to law school. Sure enough, Becky was at his side when he graduated and became a respected Attorney. They grew in stature and hobnobbed with politicians and lunched with local celebrities.

Becky at age 18 with her first born son.

As their prosperity flourished, Jim took Becky on trips and she wanted for nothing. They drove Cadillacs and Lincolns. Their children were well-fed and nicely clothed. On the outside, everything was perfect. On the inside, however, the talented and handsome man had turned out to be a cheater who had a violent temper. He regularly slapped her around. Occasionally, he used his fists.

Becky stood it for 25 years, always hoping that her love and admiration would be enough to calm Jim’s wild temperament but it never was. Eventually, when most of the children had left home, Becky filed for divorce. She knew she’d put up with Jim’s ugliness for far too long. In her journal, she’d written, “The Last Time” meaning it was the last time he’d ever mistreat her. Yet, in the secret places of her soul, she always longed for what could have been. The alluring man that he could have been would always be her Prince Charming.

As a newly minted, mid-life divorcee, however, Becky did quite well. It was the early 1970’s and she embraced the new feminism. She was always full of hope and believed there could be a brighter tomorrow no matter what. She went to work in a first-rung office job but soon, a career blossomed as an Insurance Underwriter in commercial lines. She traveled a bit for her job and she always dressed beautifully. She and her best friend hit the clubs on the weekends and the family occasionally hit the slopes for a long ski weekend.

Eventually, she was introduced to a tall, handsome man with beautiful, blue eyes. He was another Southerner but there was a difference. He was a true gentleman - a son of the North Georgia Mountains. John had a colorful history that involved moonshine, fast cars, and country music. He had the drawl of a country boy. Becky liked him but had no illusions about him. He was a nice man but rather uneducated. He was an Arborist who owned a tree company. John worked with his hands and, often, those hands held a chain saw. He was a rugged, outdoorsy guy who was uncomfortable in a suit and tie.

Becky and John

John was as different from Jim as magnolias and mackerels but at least he posed no threat to Becky. John was a gentle giant who laughed at lot and understood that Becky had been abused. He never pushed. He never asked for more than she wanted to give.

Eventually, John moved in with Becky. It was same house she’d once shared with Jim. John, however, found ways to make it his own. He planted a big vegetable garden and taught Becky how to preserve and can their harvest. They cooked together, traveled to his lake front cabin, and became an easy-going couple.

John had fallen in love but Becky, deep inside, still compared John to the boy with the Rhett Butler smile. John always came up short. He just didn’t have the polish that Jim had taught Becky to admire. She truly liked her country boy but that was as much as she could give.

For over a decade, the two lived together in her home and were content. Then, in the fall of 1984, Becky went to a festival with several family members. While there, she happened to see Jim. It had been years since she’d seen or spoken to him so she was a little nervous at first. After only 10 minutes, however, she was finished. In fact, Becky came away from their polite conversation a new woman. It had been an illuminating experience.

The rose-colored glasses had fallen from her eyes with a bang. Jim wasn’t a Prince Charming. He just was a bad-tempered, seedy old man. He’d lost his law practice after some sexual accusations had been made. Now, he drove a rusty old pick-up truck. He was soft and paunchy. His shirt had dribbles staining the front. His teeth were yellow. The man was simply squalid. Without further fanfare, the torch she’d carried in her secret girl-heart fizzled out.

It was a day that changed everything. Becky realized that she was comparing a real and loving man with a made-up fantasy. She’d been being unfair to John and he didn’t deserve it. And that’s when she made a plan.

Valentine’s Day was coming soon. She confessed the whole story to her youngest daughter and they went shopping, giggling like little girls.

They found a beautiful card and a porcelain whistle, like a coach’s whistle. It was white with red hearts. Becky said she and John had a private joke from the 1944 movie, “To Have and Have Not.” It was Lauren Bacall’s début and the memorable scene with Humphrey Bogart. Pure seduction. “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.” The porcelain whistle was perfect.

On another shopping trip, Becky bought a long, red satin nightgown. It had tiny spaghetti straps, with lace along the décolleté and the bodice had an exquisite ruffle of delicate chiffon. There were French seams and a chiffon-edged slit up one side. It was romantic, sexy, and alluring. Becky had realized she was truly in love with a real man and she was planning a very special evening.

The dinner reservations for February 14th were made for the Ritz Carlton restaurant. It had opened only 2 years before and was the only 5-star-restaurant in town. She wanted the best for this momentous occasion. The Ritz was known for its superb dining with the staff dressed formally in Black Tie. It was expensive but money was no object. Becky wanted her words to John to fall in the finest of settings, framed by all the beauty she could gather. This was big. She was finally free to love with her whole heart and it was to be the beginning of a whole new life for them. Her excitement was palpable as the count down to the big day drew closer.

Two days before the big event, Becky was working on her club newsletter. John had come in from work and built a big fire in the fireplace. He tucked up in his big comfy chair to watch the evening news. When Becky came in to see what they wanted to do for dinner, John had fallen asleep. She talked to him for a few minutes but he didn’t answer, so she nudged him. He didn’t wake up. She leaned down to look him in the face and it was grey. He wasn’t breathing. Becky screamed and raced to the phone.

Hysterically, she called her oldest son. He was a police officer and knew what to do. The paramedics were called. And while she waited she talked to John. She shouted at him. She wept and begged him to please come back. Surely, she thought frantically, there would be something the paramedics could do. She hoped - because Becky always had hope - that somehow, some way… this would be undone.

But nothing could be done. John had died from a massive heart attack. They said that even if the doctor had been standing next to the chair, nothing could have been done to save him. The only silver lining is they thought he’d fallen asleep before it hit him. He didn’t suffer. He was only 61 years old. That was the day Becky’s soul began to splinter. She’d withstood abuse and loss before but this took her to a very dark place.

Of course, Becky tried to be stoic. That’s who she was - a scrappy street kid. After the shock of the first few days, she pretended she was perfectly fine. She played a role in which the main character dusted off her hands as if it were a sad loss, of course, but life goes on.

Only her youngest daughter (me) knew the full scope of her loss. Because, like so many people, she felt guilty for surviving. She was afraid John had called out to her. She was sure she’d let hime down when he needed her most. She wept while she confided these fears and then she swore her daughter to silence. Becky didn’t tell anyone else. Neither her family nor her acquaintances knew just how deep John’s loss went. No one knew about the Valentine's date that never was.

Becky got so mad at God. She started going to church but it didn’t answer her questions. She joined a single’s group and started dating but the men her age were lounge lizards. She began working two jobs to stay busy but the sadness wouldn’t leave her. She wished she could have gone back to say the words, just once. I love you, John.

Murmuring it while standing at his graveside, saying it silently in the kitchen over the big chopping block he’d had made for her, or whispering it alone in their bedroom didn’t make up for any of it. She’d never said it to him. Not once.

She sold her house the following year. She loved that house but claimed she couldn’t afford it without John’s income. The real story was she just missed him. He was in every corner of that house. She’d never be happy there without him.

Becky tried to get on with life but, as time went on, it became obvious that she had changed. She’d lost so much of her sense of wonder and hope. She’d lost her faith in God. These things had been replaced with resentment, cynicism, and disillusionment. Over time she got more harsh and abrasive. She was critical. She said she was tired of stupid people but everyone was stupid. She insulted people saying it was just the blunt truth and they needed to hear it. She was accusatory. She began to talk about her old age and death as if it were an appointment she planed to keep next week. She fought with her children or their spouses. Yet, she still sent birthday cards and Christmas cards. People began to think she was insincere. She lost friends. Some of her children refused to speak with her. Grandchildren and great grand children had nothing to do with her. She often wasn’t invited to family events, like weddings.

Few people realized that underneath her cranky, coarse exterior, there was the spirit of a desolate, bewildered girl holding the splintered pieces of a broken heart. A girl who wouldn’t – she couldn’t - look away from the shattered hopes that she’d held so dear.

Becky did have moments of happiness, though. She loved to cook and she loved to have hordes of people over for dinner. New acquaintances were invited and the family members that still came around. She had a grandchild, mine, upon whom she doted, and she enjoyed her garden. Eventually, she even found a companionable man, a widower, and they shored up one another’s sense of forlorn loss for a few years. They took trips together and shared a daily walk.

Yet, despite these happy times, Becky sustained her public face of unrelenting cynicism. She piled on insults and snide remarks. She also lived as if she expected to die at any moment. Some days she wanted to grasp every second a life and then next day, she stayed in bed refusing to go out. There were phases when she attacked her youngest daughter, the one who knew the full story and other times when that daughter could do no wrong. There were times when she hit out at her oldest son as if he were the entire problem. Then, there were times when he was the answer to her sense of loss.

And she had lost so much in her lifetime.

Underneath the turmoil and arguments that pushed people away, the lonely, broken-hearted girl loved her family and friends with a fierce, albeit silent, passion. It’s as if having been silent when it truly mattered, Becky could only rarely say she loved anyone. When she did, it was tacked awkwardly on the end of a phone conversation or penned at the bottom of a card. Yet, she kept every card she’d ever gotten. Mother’s day and birthday cards were important. She cherished the cards, letters, clippings, and drawings she’d been given over the years. A granddaughter’s graduation announcement, a letter from a childhood friend - some all the way back to the 1940s.

And through the years, she kept John’s wallet in her bedside table. She kept the big Valentine card he’d had purchased to give her on their big night in her dresser drawer. The red satin nightgown was folded carefully in tissue and laid away in her scarf drawer. His military records, high school diploma, and important records were in the fire safe with her important papers.

The red satin nightgown found tucked carefully in tissue.

She lived for another 34 years without John. She passed away when she was 91. Toward the end of her life, however, she began to realize what she had done. Her sorrow had cost her in ways she hadn’t realized. Maybe, she thought, she hadn’t lived the fullness of her potential. There had been the fear of getting hurt and the resentment of loss. Yet, even as her body slowed down, her spirit remained and hope seemed to resurrect in her soul. The words “I love you” came easier. Compliments were offered a little more often and gratitude entered her aggrieved heart to sooth the unrest.

When she passed, Becky had designated that youngest daughter as the Executor of her minuscule estate. She’d downsized 6 times since John had passed. She had given away everything of any value. She kept only cards and letters ... and, in the back of one drawer, there was a red silk nightgown, tenderly wrapped and glowing like a lantern.

Now, 34 years later, her daughter lifted it carefully from its wrapping and shook it out. There were no creases, the lace hadn’t disintegrated, and the material was still lustrous. She knew immediately what it meant and why it was kept so carefully.

It was time, once again, for Love.

Becky was laid to rest in the beautiful red satin nightgown. She was finally on her way to see her country boy, John, and tell him how much she loved him.

In Becky’s journals, she left these ideas to share with you.

Sometimes the worst behaved people have been unspeakably hurt. It goes so deep they can’t talk about it. They’re afraid of ever being that hurt again. They lose faith in God and in themselves. They don’t know how to survive that kind of wound without a hard shell and a fence of thorns. So, be kind to them. Such people need kindness the most. They won’t thank you but do it anyway. They will appreciate it even if they can’t tell you.
Live. No matter what - live your life. Taste the flavors, see the sights, and feel everything you can. Don’t wait until duty is done. Don’t wait until your family approves. Don’t wait until the children are grown. It’s your life and you are the first thing that matters the most in your life. YOU Matter. Each life matters or you don’t get one. Live as if you were the most important person in your entire life because you are. Above all, laugh. Only laughter can mend life’s deepest pain and light the way out of the most confusing paths.
And finally, never wait to tell someone you love them. If you don’t, while they may never know what they missed, but you will. It will cost you in dark ways you can never imagine. Always say I love you.

Tell them now. Put the phone down and go tell them.

For Becky’s sake.

Love Nancy

Becky and John

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ART IS WHAT SEPARATES THE MUNDANE FROM THE EXTRAORDINARY.

Always say I love you

Becky and John

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