Goldie Magnola Dye

Let me start by saying I am not a proficient liar.  I tend to stammer and look guiltier than a 4 year old caught with their hand in the cookie jar.  But maybe, just maybe, I am getting better at it.  Not that I think that a good thing.  

Today I spent the day tooling thru windy roads looking for tiny little churches and of course Tupperware.  Most of these were easy enough to acquire, but a few required uber-stealth mode.  Unlike suburbanites or hardened urban folks who have taught themselves to see nothing, people in the country are innately suspicious of people lurking and diving into the shrubs which any good letterboxer worth their weight is prone to do.  I missed at least 2 boxes for this reason - people watching me a little too closely.  And had one near miss.  A beautiful little white clapboard church in the valley outside Abingdon, VA.  

I sat in my car reading the clue so I could at least leave that behind.  The box in question was located right next to the front door.  The problem here was that the front door was only about 10 feet from a fairly busy intersection.  So I was having problems timing the retrieval so that there were no cars to see me.  I did eventually nab it.  Stamped in in my car and was just stuffing all the guts back in it, when I saw a frail little woman headed purposefully in my direction.  Great.  How was I to get the box back where it goes without her seeing me?

She was very polite and asked if she could help me.  I told her that I was touring the area looking at little old churches  and I just wanted to photograph the church because it was so beautiful.  I talked about the steeple, the rolled tin green roof and the way it sat against the blue sky.  All the while I am wishing she would go away so I could re-plant the dang box and get on with it.  She seemed satisfied with my overt lies.  Maybe I overdid it a bit because then she asked if I wanted to see the inside.  Uh-oh!  Here was the price I was gonna pay for the lies.  I said 'Of course'.  And off she went into her house NEXT DOOR to get the keys.  While she was gone I stashed the box where it belongs while sitting on the step in front.  Then I used the age-old letterboxer's ploy of pretending to tie my already tied shoe.  That is how she found me when she returned.  Sitting and seemingly tying my shoe.  

She gave me the grand tour of this tiny little church that was quite unremarkable on the inside, despite its lovely exterior.  I feel like a complete poser in most places of Christian worship given that I no longer believe in that.  And now - a lying poser on top of it.  The kind of person who would lie to an old lady no less.  Oh it got worse.  I wish I could say that I didn't think 'Shut up already, so I can go', but I absolutely thought that.  Then something weird happened.  I stopped shifting from foot to foot.  Stopped thinking about my own agenda and the daylight that was rapidly waning and the boxes I would have to tick off my list because of this delay and I started really listening to her - being present to this woman as she told me, a complete stranger, her story.  

So that is how I came to meet one Goldie Magnola Dye of Greendale, VA.  I learned that she took care of the church and did indeed live next door.  Had lived next door for over 50 years.  That her name came from her grandmother who died shortly after she was born.  That she had seven children - one of whom died at 13.  That she had been a widow for over 30 years.  And that her husband had worked in Winchester, KY.  (This after astutely guessing I was from Kentucky - even though I am sans twang).  At 91, she still cleaned out the church.  Her son helped her out with the raking and mowing.  And that the rusted car in her yard with the tarp over it belonged to him.  

When I took the time to truly listen to her, I found I liked her.  This courageous lady who fiercely confronted strangers lurking near her church.  The last room on our tour was far and away the best.  This room was full of potted plants of all sorts - shamrocks, begonias, a few tired looking geraniums, Christmas cacti, even a few leggy poinsettas blooming in mid-November.  We talked about shamrocks and people we knew from Ireland.   This was her room.  Goldie fingering each plant, turning some, pinching off some dead leaves from others.  Soft, filtered light caught her at this task and I wanted so to take her picture because she was so beautiful standing there among her flowers in that moment.  Like a Vermeer.  But it seemed too rude to do to someone I knew.  I could lie to the stranger, but Goldie deserved to be asked.  

I did ask if I could take her picture (I will post that on here when I get home) and she seemed shocked that I would want to, but agreed.  It is not the candid picture I wanted, but I am glad to have it because it reminds me that everyone's story needs to be heard.