The flame at my bedside bent when the heater turned on, warm recycled air swirling the small strand of smoke away from the candlewick. I shifted my book, adjusting my back as it leaned against the feather pillows stacked against my headboard. The movement of air brought the scent of beeswax over to me, making more sweet the image of Jo writing away up there in her attic.
When I was 16 I read Little Women every night in my bed, by candlelight. I had purchased an old musty hardback with cottony-soft pages that held the print so sweetly I felt myself being drawn straight into the paper. I can't believe I didn't burn down our whole apartment complex because I was prone to fall asleep reading. I still am.
Besides the beautiful selection of words Louisa May Alcott chose to string together in her writing, the story line and characters in Little Women struck a strong harmonious chord with me. I was one of a clan of sisters, being loved and encouraged and disciplined by a strong woman, just like in the book. One of those March sisters was a would-be writer named Jo, who was a passionate soul with a bit of a rebellious streak. She was a master at pretending and directing the fanciful notions of everyone around her.
I fell in love with Jo. I became Jo, truth be known. I was that would-be writer who saw the world through the eye of the poet; dark's were terribly dark - but light was divine.
When I was still quite young, before we moved down to the apartments and well before I had heard of Little Women, I had created my own "Jo space" up in the attic of the English Tudor house that was the home of my childhood. A set of pull-down stairs, more like a ladder, rested in the ceiling of our upstairs hallway. On solitary summer afternoons I pulled a stool out of the bedroom, stood on top of it, and reached up to the pull rope dangling from the panel.I would jump from the stool, gripping the knob on the end of the rope, and the weight of my body would release the ladder, lowering me to the floor in the process. The aroma or dust and heat came hurling down as the dark chamber of our attic space opened above me. Up there, in the stale heat, I placed a little desk in front of one tiny window. Since there was only one window there never was much cross breeze ventilation, but I cranked it open anyway, allowing the sounds of nature to create their soundtrack to my writings and the light of day to illuminate each page. I sat at my desk, a stack of notepaper in front of me, and pretended to dip my pencil in an ink well, like old fashioned honest-to-goodness authors did. I worked until the heat was too much to bear then I slipped down the wooden rungs backwards into the coolness of ninety degree temperatures and 85% humidity known as Pittsburgh, PA before air conditioning.
When I found my copy of Little Women at a garage sale years later, it was almost spiritual to me that Jo also wrote in her attic.
I should have named one of my girls Jo. I don't know why I didn't even think of it.
I couldn't have known then that just five years later I would be a young mother of two, living in New York, and my life would intersect with another Jo; a woman just as powerful and magical and masterful as Jo March.
Her name is Sally Jo. Sally Jo Winebrenner, who naturally carried the charm of the American north-east like Jo March did. Born and raised in the charming town of Pittsford New York, along the canal, in a place where old, old trees hung their branches over white picket fences, and the late autumn days were scented with mulching leaves and fermenting apples. I first heard her name in church, right after we moved there.
We had moved to New York right out of law school, knowing we would live there for one full year. David had accepted a federal circuit court clerkship where the judge heard arguments in Manhattan, but his chambers were in Rochester, upstate from New York City. We rented a home in Pittsford, a little town that was one corkscrew strand in the crazy spaghetti bowl of roadways away from the city of Rochester. Dave spent three weeks of every month working in Rochester. Then one week of every month he and his fellow law clerk, Jay Powell, travelled with Judge Van Graafeiland to hear cases in Manhattan.
That day in church, when I first heard Sally Jo's name, I had been sitting in Relief Society, our women's meeting, and they announced that our weeknight activity would be at her house. I knew absolutely no one, but mustered my courage and found the address that Wednesday night. Driving up to her place was an awakening. It was massive. It has been nearly forty years since that time, so I may not remember all the details correctly, but I believe the place had once been a nunnery or a monastery. Sally Jo and her uber-talented husband, Bob, had purchased the place and were in the process of magnifying it. They were, and still are, masterful in their gifts for transforming places. Mind you, this was well before the insurgence of shows like House Flippers and Fixer Upper and everything HGTV. Our social activity was a tour of their estate. I was instantly charmed. Beyond charmed! I could see into the soul of that woman before I ever even met her. Maybe it was the closeness of that Little Women spirit that still resided in me. The home was exquisitely crafted, remodeled without breaking an ounce of the spirit that dwelt there, and decorated like the March family would have felt at home even if they could never have afforded some of the lovely decor. If I could choose to manifest my inner decorator in the blink of an eye, I would be Sally Jo. What a place! And what a feeling in that place! Warm and welcoming and not one ounce of "stuffy". But the most lovely part of Sally Jo came when I actually met her face to face. She carries that natural aura that speaks without words; "Well, hello again, ancient friend of my soul! Nice to see you after all this time." Like, we had never met before but surely we knew untellable stories about each other. She had a way of making everyone feel like her best friend, including a 21 year-old girl with one baby on her hip and one in her belly. She held, and still holds, that timelessness spirit that makes her feel like best friend and mother and sister all at once.
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| Sally Jo and Bob and their own brood of four little women and a little man (grown up and multiplied now) |
Not long after I met Sally Jo she was called as Young Women's President in our ward in Pittsford, leading a group of teenage girls in Sunday meetings and regular weekday activities. She asked for me to be her first counselor. I accepted, humbly, and my life was forever changed, not only by those beautiful girls whom I came to love, but by the confidence and training and nurturing friendship of Sally Jo. Our presidency would meet at my house, after my second baby was born, so I didn't have to go out. I can still picture Sal sitting at the head of our kitchen table, one of my babies in her lap as she conducted our planning meetings. She has this way of moving through the days like they are sweet gifts, and if you are part of her day then you are part of her sweet gift.
Sally Jo and Bob were consummate hosts on a Sunday evening in upstate New York. They would open up the doors to their beautiful estate and we would sift in and out of their home, lemonades in hand, finding soft easy chairs or comfy lounge chairs out in the setting sunlight. Inevitably Sally Jo or Bob would put a guitar in my hands and ask me to sing. It was the first time such a thing had ever happened to me, besides my own mother requesting a song. Sal would always graciously ask if I had written anything new. I wonder if... oh, never mind... I KNOW there was divine direction given for my own sake, because their encouragement and confidence in my music changed my life. The realization of their impact becomes more clear every time I think of it.
At the end of our clerkship year the Winebrenner's had a going-away gathering for us out there on the lawn of that place we loved. They presented us with a beautiful hand bound journal, which had been exquisitely wrapped by Dick Ahern, another master of magical creativity. (The place was crawling with them, I tell you!) I treasure that book, which is now filled, every single page, with the memories of the coming years, which are now my past. That baby, born in Rochester General Hospital on March 5th, 1980, is now a mother of four, and a doctor, and an artist and an athlete and a beautiful singer. Back then, she was a bundle of potential in a soft pink baby blanket.
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| Bob and Sally Jo do sparkle! |
In many ways, I too felt like I went to New York as a newborn. New to marriage, and motherhood, and new to maturity and adult Christian discipleship. I felt like God bundled me up and sent me to Pittsford New York to be placed gently in the arms of Sally Jo Winebrenner, who lovingly nurtured me, and tutored me, and encouraged and understood me like I wanted to be understood. I spent barely a year in that blessed spot with her, and I will love her forever.
I am who I am partly because of Jo March, and partly because of Sally Jo Winebrenner.
Yup. Shoulda named a baby Jo, don't you think?
Oh, and as the maker of all things magical would have it, I just now remembered that today is Sally Jo's birthday, at least I think so. Serious Karma!
Happy Day of Birth, old friend!
