I have waited to post this, thinking that i might not post it after all. Steve did write it about me, but the hard facts are not actual, but are true to the spirit of my life, as he saw me.
It is the last almost full chapter we have of his novel. The rest of the book was just in outline form, with notes for ideas that he planned to shape and mold...in time.
Her
The love that Sam found as a man, broke into Mahlon’s life and shaped it from her earliest days. She lived a magical childhood that in many ways should not have been.
Her father had all the blessings and curses that come with Irish blood. He had a charm that could win over any person or room full of people. He could sing, and often did, in a tenor voice that would bring tears to eyes of everyone within the sound of his voice.
Along the way, this southern Irishman found his way into a Mennonite Church, his family’s Catholic ties having been forgotten generations ago. He channeled the passions of his blood into religious fervor, and though a laymen, could preach with zeal and fire. He flourished in this austere and temperate congregation, and he championed its cause. It was a world where men were men, and women were silent. And he loved it.
Only his wife and children knew his secret side. He was reckless in spending money, and the family stayed on the brink of bankruptcy. In public he decried the evils of drink, but in private he nurtured quite an affection for it. And in his sodden hours, he showed a fierce temper.
Her mother was Pennsylvania Dutch. She was a quiet, shy girl who was taken with the magnetic nature of Mahlon’s dad. This Mennonite community reminded her of her own upbringing, and she was, in the beginning, at home in their plain, strict world. Their early years were happy ones, and she gave her attention to her husband and to her children. But by the time Mahlon came along, the youngest of four, the home had become a terror.
When he first began to demonstrate a violent side, her mother gathered to courage to talk to the pastor of their church. He only encouraged her to be a supportive wife, though he promised to speak with the man. Nothing came of that. No one seemed to believe her. She found a deep strength, and knew that she would have to shield her children alone, especially her youngest daughter. And she did. During her early childhood, her brave mother created a world full of wonder. Love came to her in the shape of a mother, and wrapped her up snuggly. Mahlon was aware of her father, but was somehow untouched by his dark presence.
Late one Saturday night, he came home drunk and in a temper. Her mother met him at the door and declared that she would have no more. He slugged her in the face, knocking her to the floor.
The next morning, he rose from his stupor and went alone to church. He was to sing that day. Midway through his anthem, Mahlon’s mother threw open the sanctuary doors, and marched up to the aisle to the front pew. She set herself down and held her battered face high. A murmur arose among the people, and their eyes went back and forth between husband and wife. He began to sputter, and his voice failed him. And the church knew they had failed her.
That day, Mahlon’s father fled. He was out of their lives for years. The contrite families of the church began to gather around, and all the Mr.’s and Mrs.’s, soon became uncles and aunts. The kindness that had been suppressed by rigidity was now freed by the defiant courage of her mother, and they were changed into a community of love. There was not a home where Mahlon was not cherished and treated as a beloved daughter. If she needed a dress, one would appear on the front porch of their small house. Shoes, bikes, camps, parties, all came to her, and more.
As she grew, she was allowed to spend her summers with her Pennsylvania grandparents. They lived in a fine house on a large lake. Her grandfather called her his “little sparkplug”, and that nickname summed her up. She was precocious and alive. While she, like Sam, was aware of an unseen world, she was still constantly amazed by things she found in this one. Whether it was a pretty new leaf, an animal, a new flavor of ice cream, or an idea, it was met with her familiar exclamation, “Oh my gosh!”, or “That’s it!” Every day was a day of discovery.
She inherited the best parts of both her parents. From her father she inherited charm and passion. She never tried to draw attention, in fact, she was barely conscious of the attention she received. She was the same girl, whether alone or in a crowded room. But when she did enter a room, and when she spoke, every head turned her way.
From her mother she received strength and kindness. Mahlon could turn the same wonder she had for the world around her, toward a person. Even as a little girl, she could gaze into a person’s eyes, and begin to draw them out (I understand now what had happened on the night I was interrogated).
And Mahlon was rebellious. Not in a reckless sort of way. She just would never settle for things as they were. While she was happy in her safe, religious world, she always knew that there was more. And she wasn’t afraid to look for it.
Mahlon was famous in their church for one day, at the age of nine, raising her hand in the middle of a sermon, and starting a ten minute discussion with the pastor. He, knowing her well, not only indulged her questions, but finally conceded the point. Her mother looked over and winked at her, both now notorious for disrupting Sabbath observances. After church took her for ice cream.