Letters From Oralee

The letters and cards go back for at least twenty years, written in an elegant, old-fashioned penmanship that only recently began to look shaky. There were Valentines of hand-drawn flowers, and embossed folded stationery with words in blue ink, and note cards from which gentle affirmations tumbled. Oralee was ninety-nine years old when the last of her letters arrived, and I knew our correspondence was drawing near to its conclusion, but I sure will miss her lovely little messages. It was always special to find an envelope from Oralee in the mailbox.

On the surface, Oralee led a privileged life, but she also knew great sorrow. Her daughter-in-law Linda died in 1999, and her son John one year later, and after the death of her husband Ralph in 2013, she had no family left. There were trusted friends and caregivers she could count on, but she was surprisingly alone, with lots of time to look back and contemplate her life, and as the physical afflictions of old age accumulated, her mobility and independence diminished. Fortunately, she was able to remain in her beautiful seaside home, and her mind was sharp. Books were a refuge for her. She never lost the gift of reading.

In fact, she was one of the most appreciative fans of my own paltry literary efforts, and she always encouraged me to keep writing. Sometimes when I wrote, it was she I kept in mind as my reader. She believed I had a gift, and she made me feel valued. I acknowledged her gratefully in my last book of essays—so there it is, in print, a nod to my nonagenarian friend. I am glad she got to see that. She said that she felt honored.

But it was entirely my honor to have known her. She was brave and spirited, and she kept on going with dignity and resilience despite terrible tragedies and the long shadows they cast. And she helped me so much more than she probably realized. When I was discouraged about the geographical distance between myself and my daughter, she reminded me gently how lucky I was to have a beautiful, happy child, wherever she chose to live. Her input certainly put things into perspective for me. It was humbling–-but kind, and appropriate. “Remember,” she added, “Miranda is with you every day because of the love you share.”

She suggested that this season of my life could be a very productive one, and she urged me to get going. I keep this note at my desk to this day, written in blue pen, in her familiar hand: “This is the time for you to write! Your talent is enjoyed by all of us who read your stories.”

Oralee had plenty of talent of her own. She was a fine artist, in the plein air tradition. I have one of her paintings on my wall. It’s a springtime view of this ranch, blue sky and wildflowers, colors slightly amplified, clouds and trees in motion, a filled-with-life picture, and it makes me happy. In other work, she captured the stunning clarity of desert light, the contours of the California coast, the varying hues of grassy hills. She painted the places she loved.

Because of Oralee and her family’s generosity, more such places will endure. The principal purpose of the John S. Kiewit Memorial Foundation is “to protect the land and other natural resources of the California Central Coast and or neighboring regions of California from the effect of development, by means such as purchase, conservation easements, education or other methods, in order to preserve the open and agriculture character of the priceless assets.”

I have seen school children exploring tide pools at the Hollister Ranch, and learning about nature by hiking in the hills of Arroyo Hondo, formative adventures facilitated by gifts from the Kiewits. Such outdoor experiences change sensibilities, reach into the future, and have a ripple effect in the world.

And yet, in one desolate moment late in life, while sitting in her sunlit solitude, Oralee came to the conclusion that she had accomplished nothing in her life other than to get old. “I wasn’t even a good mother,” she wrote. Oh, how cruel we can be to ourselves when we review our own lives! Such merciless self-judgement.

A reply felt urgent, and I composed a letter quickly, reminding her the many ways in which these harsh verdicts were untrue. I bore witness to some of it and could dispute her statements with tangible facts. She needed to be told. (We are all vulnerable to remorse and self-torment. I’m an expert at that.)

Oralee read my letter, and by now her hands were trembly and her spelling was faltering and written notes were a challenge, so she telephoned, because the letter meant so much. And if I was an instrument of absolution for her, this too was an honor.

About five or six years earlier, not long after Ralph’s passing, my friend Beverly and I drove down to visit her with flowers and lunch, and that was the last time I saw Oralee, but our letters continued. And I am thinking now about the significance of a written correspondence. It’s a different form of friendship—it allows for a special kind of intimacy, and its voices endure.

And I’m listening. One day in August 2017, Oralee felt inspired to write down the following lines and send them to me. I only recently re-read them and learned they are from a song by Tom Waits, which is a curiosity in itself, but she chose to speak them to me:

“Don’t say good-bye to me.
Describe the sky to me.
And if the sky falls,
Mark my words:
We’ll catch mocking birds.”

I’ll try my best.

Godspeed, dear Oralee.