Rose Vannoy

Today is Mrs. Rose's birthday. I'm especially enjoying a memory of Mrs. Rose describing her own mother as often standing in the kitchen with one of Shakespeare's plays propped up above the sink to read from while she worked. Now that's my kind of woman! And so was my dear friend, Mrs. Rose.

I began listening to Eric Metaxas's biography Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy this morning, and from the beginning, Metaxas makes it clear that Bonhoeffer came from a long line of interesting and esteemed personas. As I think about Mrs. Rose's mother, and Mrs. Rose herself, I am convinced that chaplains to kings and apprentices to great artists have nothing on these strong, godly women who have gone before us.

At the risk of being entirely too lengthy* in this post, I'm including below a piece I wrote about Mrs. Rose, in case you didn't know her yourself. But perhaps you did know her - or someone like her? I hope and pray you were blessed by such a mentor - or perhaps have begun your journey to fill that role for someone else.



*If you're brave enough for more than the first two paragraphs, be sure to click "read more" at the end of this post, and you'll be directed to the entire piece in all its glory. (Or something like that.)


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ROSE VANNOY

February 2, 192? – November 4, 2005

I know Mom’s particular tone of voice now, as soon as I answer the phone. And it’s probably best that I can guess that it’s bad news before it comes: gives me time to brace myself. And it often gives me time to think of the worst – and then sometimes the reality isn’t as bad as the horrors I’ve imagined.

But when you lose people who are important to you, it’s never that easy, no matter how happy you are for their new place with the Hosts of High. Mrs. Rose is my fourth experience of this nature, and while I’m not such a pro at dealing with the grief, perhaps I’ve learned that I need to express it in words – before I also lose this gift of Time to think, to grieve, to love her more fully than I ever have before.

I think I was six years old when Mrs. Rose hunted me down after church. She’d already discovered my friend Cora, and I guess that Cora had recommended me. Later, I’d be the one pointing out friends of mine who needed a friend like Mrs. Rose. But at this particular moment, I didn’t really know what to think; I wasn’t used to grown-ups – old people, really – approaching me and asking me if I wanted to come over for a slumber party. The details blur, but I imagine that it was Mom who stepped in to say that it was okay and that she’d drop me off at five on Friday night (or whatever night it was – I was only six, and days really meant nothing then).

As later became habit, when we got to Mrs. Rose’s house, I’d either find that I was late and that Cora had already started a game or that I was early, and I had to face the ordeal of “visiting” on my own. To this day, I avoid being early; in spite of the fact that I’m perfectly capable of small-talk (or even large-talk), I panic over the idea of having to make conversation with almost anyone. Thankfully, I’ve learned to quell those fears enough to survive in polite society, but at six years old, I distinctly remember feeling stranded. And that’s how I got to know Mrs. Rose’s bell, box, and spoon collections. In the time before Cora arrived, I’d wander over to the old furniture-style TV, on top of which was a shiny gold tray displaying a neat formation of delicate silver, porcelain, gold, and glass hand bells. I’d gingerly pick one up and test its tinkle, and Mrs. Rose would give me the Story behind it: “Martha got that one for me in Norway – isn’t it somethin’? We bought that one on our trip Northeast. I believe. . . Rowland, where did we get this little bell? –Oh, it’s the one our grandson gave us for Christmas.”

After we’d gone through each of the two trays in the living room (and, on subsequent trips, I’d carefully checked for new additions), she’d pick up my overnight bag and shuffle me into the front bedroom, where two matching twin beds awaited the two young houseguests. On the dainty white vanity between the beds and on the matching dresser across from it were placed specimens of the second collection: tiny, ornate boxes. Useful for containing nothing more than paperclips or earrings, the boxes were of a variety of shapes and sizes, from regular squares to hearts and circles. I remember picking out (in my mind, of course) whichever one was my “favorite,” and I often returned to a particular set of two or three boxes, in different shapes, which were all made of a light grey-green stone, like marble, and inlaid in the top with a type of pearl. The one in the shape of a heart now sits on my own dresser.

Once when Cora was truly delayed, Mrs. Rose took me into the dining room, where her spoon collection hung majestically from a rack of dark wood. The spoons were not as delightful to me as the other two collections – perhaps because they made no noise and you could not open them and look inside – but they reminded me of the Distant Lands from which they came, and I remember perusing the odd shapes at the tips of the handles as we ate dinner in that room on a few rare occasions.

We usually went out to eat somewhere for dinner – once Cora arrived – and this was, of course, a special treat for me. I felt like a true adult as we waltzed in to the Red Barn, a restaurant which had captured my intense curiosity, as it was shaped to fit its name, but whose doors my family had never darkened. I remember eating a salad there. (I don’t know why that sticks out; perhaps it was the first time I’d been served salad. . . and eaten without complaining?) Years later, after Cora moved, I was sometimes disappointed to discover that instead of going Out somewhere to eat, we were just going to have sandwiches, or something from the Schwann man. The truth was that eating with Mrs. Rose was such a different experience altogether that the disappointment of “staying home” never lasted. She always fixed our plates and set them on wicker trays with blue placemats, and she could make even a turkey sandwich something delectable. Somehow, when you’ve lived all of life with one cook, the novelty of a different “mother” making your meals is something to be had.

We girls usually ate our meals on the card table or in the built-in porch, and Mrs. Rose brought her husband Rowland his tray in his sitting chair so that he could continue watching the news or Wheel of Fortune. (He’d still lead the mealtime prayer from his seat, which was only a few feet away from the small back room where our table stood.) Later on, for our summertime visits, we (or our moms) learned that it was more convenient for us to start our evenings with Mrs. Rose by riding home with her after Wednesday night church, so the “evening meal” segment of our little visits was eventually lost.

After dinner was done and we’d put away the dishes, the evening truly began. In the early visits with Cora, Mrs. Rose would let us look at her game closet and, if we wanted, pick a board game to play. I only remember doing that once or twice. All the other times, she’d lead us to the drawer in the entry hall where she kept the decks of cards, and she’d tell us to each pick out the deck we liked. She always had an interesting supply of cards – all well worn, of course. Later on, she discovered a magazine that sold cards made completely of plastic, and from that point on, I think all of her “old” decks were abandoned for the sturdiness of the plastic decks (in spite of the fact that the ink often bled onto our hands). It seemed like she never had the same decks in that drawer, so I never got “attached” to one in particular, but I always enjoyed the fun of choosing.

With our weapons in hand, we’d proceed back to the “card table,” which was actually part of a nice white wicker set, with a glass top, and we’d decide on a game. Mrs. Rose humored us in the beginning with simple games like “Go Fish” and “War.” I think we even tried “Memory” once, and perhaps a few others. But I highly doubt that she waited very long before teaching us the Highest Art: “Nertz.” Only this last year did I discover that she had made up the name to the game (I think in order to avoid using its original, more profane title), but by that point, I’d spent countless years searching in vain for others who had shared in the delight of this simple game of cards.

Nertz was basically double-solitaire (or “double-sol,” as Rose would say), but the setup was slightly different: four cards to “play” on and thirteen in the stack – to get rid of. You had to watch your own hand and your opponent’s or else you’d miss plays and end up with a high number in the stack when your opponent finished hers and called “Nertz.” The game was ideal for visiting over – and if conversation demanded it, we sometimes took an unannounced “time out,” all resting our handfuls of cards in order to focus on what we were saying. But the rest of the time, our fingers moved swiftly as our eyes darted around the table, looking for the plays we needed and anxious to get rid of our cards quickly. It seemed to me that Mrs. Rose and I were always at the same skill level. I know for a fact that we weren’t – we only played at the same level. When I was learning (or rusty), she went more slowly. When our skills equalled out, we both worked as feverishly as possible (“Oh, no!,” she’d exclaim in mock horror and frustration, “you’re going to beat me! Stop going so fast!!”). Later on, when her hands weren’t as quick, I adjusted my speed and enjoyed the extra time to pay more attention to the conversation than the cards. Some evenings, we were both so “good” that we spent the evening in ties, both unable to play any cards – something that frustrated Rose to no end. “Hrmph,” she’d huff as she slapped down her deck and looked up to see me inactive. “Don’t tell me you can’t play, either!” Then she’d make me run through my cards once more, just to check, before we called it Stuck.

Over those cards, and between the time the last dinner plate was in the dishwasher and the last light was turned out, which was often around midnight and sometimes later – Mrs. Rose taught me about life. She taught me about God, and she taught me about righteousness. She told me stories about her mother reading Shakespeare in the kitchen, about her daughter’s trips and education, and about the ladies she visited in the nursing homes on a regular basis. We sometimes discussed current events, and I distinctly remember overhearing the O.J. Simpson trial, which Rowland watched while we played cards, during one of those treasured evenings. More often than not, though, I seemed to dominate conversation (especially as that initial shyness wore off and after Cora had moved away) —responding as best I could to Rose’s many questions. She’d listen to me tell about some recent event in my life, hands still moving busily as they shuffled the cards, and I remember the faint gleam in her eyes and the trace of a grin as she studied my face, as if she was using everything in her power to really hear what I was saying. Once she stopped me to tell me how nice my smile was, but I can’t remember ever having any other hint that she might have been thinking of anything other than of exactly what I was saying. A few times I remember being hesitant about sharing with her, afraid of her disapproval and eager for her love. (Of course, that love was offered unconditionally, but I was always a doubtful soul when it came to the mercy of others.) Ironically, I found it a blessing to be able to discern those things that might not please her about my choices and my friends; that helped me to also recognize—without anyone ever having to say it—that a change in those areas might be good.

There was never any doubt where Mrs. Rose stood when morals were concerned; her faith was steadfast, and her works were visible—without pretention. However, I learned so much from her by watching how she handled things that did disappoint her—even as I fought to keep myself from being one of them. After only a few years in Nacogdoches, Cora and her family moved to College Station. I have only seen her once since then, but I’ve seen many pictures of her because of the correspondence she kept with Mrs. Rose. It wasn’t too many years after she moved that we found out that she was pregnant out of wedlock. I’m sure we were in high school by then, but it seems like it was longer ago than that. Teen pregnancy wasn’t new to me; public school had taught me many things. However, Mrs. Rose’s ability to be disappointed for Cora without ever flinching in her love and support of her—and of her new child, and many years later of her new husband—was something that I had not seen before. To the very end, Rose was a friend and mentor for Cora, and that meant a lot to me as well.

Back to the card games. So when the last “Nertz!” was called, and the winner had reached (all too soon) the high score we’d determined on earlier in the evening, and when the grandfather clock in the hall had rung one too many times, we stacked our decks neatly on the table and switched off the lights as we walked to our rooms. Mrs. Rose would follow us into the front bedroom, and she’d make sure the extra pillows on each bed were neatly stowed and the covers turned back before we all sat down on one of the beds for Prayers. Mrs. Rose would politely offer one of us the first prayer, and then we’d each offer up our gratitude for the evening of fun and friendship as well as our requests for safety and rest. Rose used a special voice for prayers: one timid and soft, yet firm and faithful. She talked to God as a “thee” and “thou,” but we always knew what she meant – and so did He.

Often on those nights, I’d lay awake, even after Cora and I had giggled a spell, and I’d trace the patterns of the wallpaper with my eyes, thinking of the evening and of my desire to sleep, which was conflicted with my excitement of being where I was. It wasn’t long, though, before Mrs. Rose was in to wake us up, and we’d hurry into our clothes and come into the living room, be fed our cereal and toast on wicker trays, and then waste no time starting the next game of cards. When Mom drove up, it was entirely too soon – especially later on, when that time was literally sooner, and I had other Commitments, basketball games and piano lessons, to demand my time. Rose and I learned to mourn this going away and to soften our goodbyes with talk of the next visit. At this point, Rose would sometimes delay our leaving for a moment, disappearing into her bedroom or the front room’s closet, and then return bearing a precious little gift – a box, or a bell, or another such item with which I might begin my own collections.

Incidentally, I tried to invite other friends over to Mrs. Rose’s after Cora left, but none of them ever stuck with it like I did. I guess she didn’t catch them young enough. After all, there were definitely periods of time when I didn’t want to go, when life seemed too busy and other friends seemed more fun. During those times, Mom helped me (forced me?) to maintain my commitment to my friendship with Mrs. Rose, and, years later and 400 miles out-of-town, I’d learn to regret that I hadn’t taken better advantage of those times. During my few summers home from college, I did my best to take those opportunities, and I found the rewards of that time to be far greater than imagined, as my maturity allowed our conversations to be deeper and more interesting than ever before; we pondered God, and faith, and the major struggles of life. After I moved to Austin, my visits were never long enough for the traditional sleepover, so we’d meet for lunch at Stacy’s Deli. There we forged a new tradition of sandwiches, spicy pickles, and all-too-short a visit.

The last few visits, all limited to less than half an hour at her tiny assisted-living apartment, were hard, as I saw Mrs. Rose’s body deteriorating – although her mind did not. I was uncomfortable for the first few minutes of these visits, but then was soon put at ease by the same woman who had put me at ease during my first visit with her so many years before. It was important to me that she meet Philip, and that she be at the wedding – as my “honorary” bridesmaid – and I am grateful beyond words that she was able to do both of those things.

Her passing today brings grief I did not quite expect. It also brings painful memories of the three others, friends and mentors critical to my development, who have also passed on, all far sooner than we would have wished. And I wonder why Heaven gets to have them all? I wonder if they’re having a big party of The Most Wonderful People Ever, and I wonder if they’re waiting on us to join them. . . and Philip reminds me that it is now our job to be this sort of witness for others, that we must take that torch, but that we won’t take it on our own. After all, we do have a cloud of witnesses. And I am so pleased to think of Mrs. Rose, with a brand new body to replace the one she’d worn out with Service, reunited with her beloved husband, with her own cloud of witnesses, and with her Holy Father. And grand will be the day when I see her again.

Bekah Vickers

November 4, 2005