Women’s Independent Press

Julie Ann Monzi lives in Gettysburg, PA, with her husband, 3 almost-grown children, and 5 cats. She enjoys reading, hiking the Gettysburg Battlefield, and watching British mysteries. Julie’s work has appeared in magazines that include “Harpstring Magazine”, “Liguorian”, and “Evangel”. Need a place to de-stress? Check out her blog at www.5minutereflections.blogspot.com

From an early age, I learned the value of women, specifically older women. Mom took me along on her weekly visits to Ruth’s, the hair dresser in our neighborhood. I practically grew up there—as a baby the grandmothers passed me around as my mom got a wash and set.
When I grew older, I loved to sit on the little foot stools and listen to the women talk. I couldn’t wait for the day when it would be my turn to stick my head under the dryer like they did. As I rode my bicycle around the neighborhood, it seemed strange to see these women sitting on their porches or working in their gardens. They looked so different without their curlers and plastic robes.
In elementary school, my relationship with these ladies changed. Not seeing them weekly with my mother, I got to spend time with them on my own.
Mrs. Snyder lived next door. I loved going to her house with the lace doilies on the armrests and the ticking grandfather clock. It smelled of Mrs. Snyder’s own sweet scent and fresh baked bread. We’d sit at her dining room table and look at old pictures while she’d tell me stories of her childhood. It fascinated me to see pictures of my hometown looking so old and different in black and white. I wish I could remember her stories now.
In the spring, a row of lovely hyacinths, purple and pink, grew in Mrs. Snyder’s back yard. One morning she pulled a pair of scissors from her apron pocket and carefully cut a bouquet for me to take home. I gripped the flowers tightly and presented them to my mom. Afterward while I was playing, I took a sniff of my hand. It smelled overwhelmingly of Mrs. Snyder’s personal fragrance from where she handled the flowers. I refused to wash my hand all day.
Another woman from our neighborhood was Mrs. Vrotney. She’d known me, like the others, since I was a baby, but I related to her better when I became an adult. Mrs. Vrotney attended a make-up demonstration I conducted at my mother’s house. As a wanna-be saleswoman of cleansers and eye shadow, I asked the group, “You wouldn’t wash your hair with soap, would you?”
Mrs. Vrotney laughed and said, “Yes, I do it all the time.”
Trying not to get flustered, I tried again. “Well, you wouldn’t brush your teeth with soap, would you?”
Everyone chuckled.
Later in private, as Mrs. Vrotney bought the cleanser and foundation, she said, “You know, when I was little, I did brush my teeth with soap, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to mess you up.”
I was grateful.
Several years later I married and eventually had children of my own. When I was pregnant a third time, tests showed my baby might have Downs Syndrome. Mrs. Vrotney became my prayer champion. She sent me prayer cards and even a hand written prayer that she prayed daily. Thank God, my son was born healthy.
Mrs. Vrotney told me in her later years that she didn’t know why God kept her around, but she figured it was because even though she couldn’t do much, she could still pray.
When my children grew older, I volunteered at the local nursing home. I met several lovely women, two who hold a special place in my heart.
I met Aunt Ethel, as she asked to be called, as I was leaving the building one afternoon. She was sitting in her wheelchair out in the sunshine. I sat down beside her, and we talked. She told me about her son with Downs Syndrome who passed away when he was almost 20 years old. She talked about grief and dealing with what life brings.
“You can’t fight life,” she told me. Those words rang true for me as I had been struggling against my own life and the changes time had wrought.
The second woman from the nursing home that I carry in my heart is Sylvia. She would scoot down the hall in her wheelchair, using her feet to propel herself. Whenever she’d see me, she’d smile and throw her arms open for a hug.
When I visited her room, she’d show me her angel collection—pillows, statues, and pictures—and give me Tootsie Rolls to take home to my children. Her positive outlook amazed me.
Once she handed me a piece of paper that she’d torn it out of the nursing home newsletter. “This made me think of you,” she said.
It contained a quote by an anonymous writer: “Some people come into our lives and go quickly. Some stay for awhile and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never ever the same.”
I was touched beyond words. Sylvia warmed my heart at every visit. I never imagined she felt the same.
These lovely ladies are gone now, but they have truly left their footprints on my heart. And the profound lessons they taught me have become a part of me: take time to really be with someone, pray through all life’s situations, know when to keep your opinions to yourself, flow with life instead of against it, and let others know how you feel about them.
These important messages we could all hear if we would just take time to listen to the wisdom of the women in our lives.