Continued from Learning the Lay of the Land
Yry spent hours on the bench below the fan-shaped window, reading, daydreaming, and writing volumes of poetry. Her neat and well-spaced fountain pen script is entirely unlike the erratic scrawl that I came to know. She experimented with numerous nom de plumes. Throughout her life, she played liberally with these identities, making it a challenge to piece together the threads of her life. A saying she coined at 13, reveals a kernel of her character, along with her verbosity:
We all grow up to be what we make of ourselves when we are young, not what other people may try to make us. That is why we should start to make ourselves early in life. If we start too late we won’t get finished.
Under one of her favorite pen names, a poem book from 1926 records carefully printed couplets about animals, the holidays, the seasons, and finally, a BOY! Enter Phil Cochrane.
My Sweetheart, by Ruth Paul, 13 years
Blue his eyes, like summer skies,
Lips like cherries red;
Cheeks of rose, tip-tilted nose,
Pretty dark-blond head.
Do I love this boy, so sweet and fair?
Yes, truly, dearly I declare.
He’s my sweetheart, don’t you see?
What’s his age? Just ten is he.
What a surprise to realize that at this tender age, my mother’s gaze went toward a younger man. Is this what comes of being held back in school? She would reverse that trend later. From this point forward, her poetry is consumed with Phil for several years. She collected photos of Phil as if they were precious marbles. My mother’s passion for Philip was a recurring theme that traced her throughout life. I would find a lock of Philip’s hair stashed in a secret hiding place, I would find allusions to her first love in future writings. These relics followed her for all those years, all those moves, all those miles of her life! She was really caught.
Her love was not in vain. Tucked into a Nestor Gianaclis cigarette tin, folded and age-browned scraps of paper document a torrid, youthful affair. Heavy pencil scrawl screams worship and a proposal of marriage. Mixed into the beloved scraps of paper are photos of a handsome, dark haired boy in short pants.
My Darling Iramiris,
Have you ever stopped to think how important love is. Iramiris, my Darling, I worship you. I adore you, I love you Iramiris. My Sweetheart, I can’t explain how much I adore you . . . my Dearest, will you marry me Please. I love you.
Your loving Shatz, Phil Cochrane
At first, I assumed that Phil had misspelled my mother’s unusual name. But as I uncovered more and more correspondence, I discovered that “Iramiris” was just another of many different spellings that she either initiated or put up with during her lifetime.
In 1927 she had actually promised, in writing, on a plain, cream colored sheet of paper, to marry Philip in 15 years, to love him and be with him forever, signing it with her pet name, Nawitta. Even as I sat beside her in the hospital 64 years later, Philip crept into her world with a tender smile. Whatever has become of dear Shatzy with his thick dark hair and serious hazel eyes? I didn’t lie to him. I do still love Philip, and he is still with me in my heart.
And what, I wonder, does it say of me, that as I read these scraps of her life, coveted, hidden away, and carted across the country through multiple moves, that I snicker at the tawdriness of her emotion? Why can’t I take her feelings seriously? Who among us can forget our first love? World-weary adults patronize the perceived innocence and shallowness of young love. Yet each of us carries a sharp memory of that very first love. It is the awakening of our utmost possibilities. In love, we see ourselves from a refreshingly new perspective. We leave behind, at least for a while, parental authority and sibling disapproval. No matter how long or how short the first love is, or how passionately acknowledged or secretly hidden away, we remember it forever like the first taste of an exquisite candy.
I smile when I think of my first love: the dark, cramped hideaway where we both screwed up the nerve to share our first I love yous, the thumping of my heart at that moment, the exhilaration of discovering that some other human being found value in my existence. It was cute, it was fun, we went steady, his chewing gum prize, the key to my fidelity. But even in the 6th grade, a warning bell went off in my head, reminding me that this was only practice. Unlike my mother, I was not one to be hijacked by drama.
Keith said:
Linda, I love her quotes and letters. They are priceless, especially the one about getting started with the rest of your life early. Love this, Keith
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
That’s good to hear, Keith. I wondered if I was putting in too much of that.
LikeLike
Lynz Real Cooking said:
This is wonderful and the letters really make it so much more special! So interesting that you heard of him in those years! Love this one.
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
Thanks, Lyn!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lynz Real Cooking said:
Love these stories
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
I’m glad. They feel so stale to me. Everytime I post one, I think…booorring!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lynz Real Cooking said:
No very interesting and would make a great short book I think! Complete with pictures and letters! An insight into her life and life at that time! I always love reading.
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
Thanks again, Lyn. There’s much more to her life, and it gets even more interesting. 😉
LikeLiked by 1 person
Lynz Real Cooking said:
Cant wait x
LikeLike
John said:
Yry was a true romantic. And her poem at 13 is pretty darn good.
LikeLiked by 1 person
rangewriter said:
Yes, she was. Her poem was surely better than anything I’ve ever come up with! Thanks for sticking with me, John. I always enjoy hearing from you.
LikeLike
greenlibertarian said:
Most enjoyable. Who could fathom anyone (I) could still be contemplating my first love, as well as reuniting with her for a time, 35 years later. Love generally endures.
LikeLiked by 1 person
rangewriter said:
Really? That is charming. I confess that my first love was so long ago I can remember little else beside his sandy colored hair, blue eyes, and a little mole on his left smile crease. Oh, and his name, Bobby. Don’t ask me his last name!
LikeLiked by 1 person
greenlibertarian said:
Yes really. She looked me up through Classmates.com after she got divorced, I’d already been divorced for 10 years. In high school, her parents made her buy a phone 2nd phone line because we’d talk for hours and hours on the phone. And within a matter of weeks of first emailing, we were back to talking on the phone at least an hour every night. She’s still in Cali, and I’m in WA state.We did the long distance thing for a couple of years, got together in the real world every 2-3 months, but, well, things fell apart for a variety of reasons. We’re still good friends, email frequently, a have a phone conversation every couple of weeks. After working as a high level IT project manager for the same company for 30 years, this spring she up and moved to Indianapolis be be closer to her daughter, SIL, and grand-daughter, even managed to find a high level IT PM job at a great company, and bought a house 3 houses down and across the street from them.
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
Remarkable story. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Long distance love can be exciting and fun, but hard to sustain.
LikeLike
Doreen Pendgracs said:
Beautiful writing, Linda. And I loved the quote: “We all grow up to be what we make of ourselves when we are young, not what other people may try to make us. That is why we should start to make ourselves early in life. If we start too late we won’t get finished.” That is so profound coming from such a young person!
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
Glad you enjoyed in Doreen. Thanks for taking the time to drop by.
LikeLike
denisebushphoto said:
You are such a wonderful writer! Will you put this all in one book when finished?
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
Ahh, thanks for your enthusiasm, Denise. I have been working on this project for a very long time. This is the 3rd or 4th approach to it. I completed one manuscript, but tossed it because…long story. I hope to do exactly what you request. I’m counting on my blogging community to keep my nose to the grindstone. Thank you, my dear.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Glenda said:
I too loved her saying, “We all grow up to be what we make of ourselves when we are young, not what other people may try to make us. That is why we should start to make ourselves early in life. If we start too late we won’t get finished.” How insightful she was! Yes, yes, yes, please keep working on the book!
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
Your cheerleading is invaluable, Glenda. Thank you.
LikeLike
Pingback: Learning the lay of the land and developing friends | Rangewriter
Dia said:
I imagine her attachment to Phillip was fueled by a degree of loneliness?
LikeLike
rangewriter said:
I’m sure that played into her fascination with him. But it also seems to be to be a harbinger of what was to come in her life. A pattern of idealistic love…..
LikeLike