A Mighty Woman

Corinne Smith (Photo: The Detroit Times)

For nearly a decade, I lived next-door to a woman in Michigan who was a pioneer of her time.  I never knew it until now.  Corinne Smith was elderly and retired, very independent, lived alone, and didn’t share anything about her life.  She was reclusive, yet friendly when we saw her.  If there was ever a need for her to ring our doorbell for something, she wouldn’t come inside, preferring to talk to us on our front porch.  Likewise, when we wanted to check on her or needed to share something with her, it was done just outside her front door.  We were never invited into her house.  Assistance and help were rarely accepted from us, yet occasionally we would find a grocery bag of fresh vegetables from her garden placed inside our screened porch.  It seemed she appreciated our efforts.

We lived in Grosse Pointe, a walkable community with sidewalks fronting neighborhood yards on both sides of every street; a grocery store and retail shops were just a few blocks away.  Every day Corinne walked somewhere, often with scarf over her head and the ends tied under her chin to keep her hair in place.  It’s a visual memory I carry about her and I always wondered where she was going.  Sometimes she pulled a folding shopping cart behind her; most of the time she was without it.  I later learned many of those walks were to places where she volunteered, something she did from the moment she reached retirement age.  I’ve no idea if she ever drove a car as we never saw her behind the wheel, but given her past it is very likely she did at one time.

When we moved to Chicago in 2004, she wished us well and told us goodbye.  That was the last contact we ever had with Corinne, and I just recently discovered that she passed away in 2015.  She was ninety-four, and her obituary stated that “even as her health declined, Miss Smith resolved to live with as little assistance as possible.”  It was her obituary that surprised me.

A journalist with a Master’s Degree, she traveled extensively in the 1940s and 1950s, served with the American Red Cross in such countries as India, China, Japan, Korea and North Africa; travel writing took her overseas, as well.  In 1952, she became “one of the few women ever to ride in a jet plane,” according to a Detroit Times article.  She worked as a writer and editor for the Wyandotte Tribune, Detroit Times and Detroit Free Press, eventually having her own column.  Retiring in 1986, she was once quoted as saying, “I’ve been very lucky to have had the opportunity to travel all around the world. Not many people can list the countries they haven’t been to easier than the ones they have been to.”

When you’re a vital and active person walking through that door of retirement, hearing it slam shut as you cross the threshold might cause the outlook for the rest of your life to be a little sobering.  This would be especially so for a woman who, as far as I know, never married and had no children.  I often wondered how lonely she might be, yet she lived a healthy and independent life for twenty-nine years after retiring. 

I wish I had known this information about her when we were neighbors, even though given her solitary lifestyle, knowing wouldn’t have changed much, if anything.  It’s doubtful that any knowledge of her past would alter how and when she wished to interact with us, and it would not have modified her guarded privacy.  As a former colleague once said of her, “She was a trailblazer…ahead of her time.  She was a wonderful role model, a wonderful mentor.”

Saying such words to Corinne Smith would not have mattered much to her, however, having the opportunity to do so held greater meaning for me.  I hope she at least knew of that trail she blazed, and the barriers that were dented due to her life.  It meant something to women in general and to me; to the little girls who looked toward the future with promise and hope, wondering what they were capable of doing, she was a role model.  How I wish I could’ve thanked her.

  

Well, It's Getting in My Eyes

Nineteen years ago, we made a move that would change my life, or at least my perspective of it.  A new job uprooted our family tree, transporting us from southeast Tennessee and planting us in the middle of Grosse Pointe, Michigan (just outside of Detroit).

It was January of 1994 and it was cold.  I remember being cold all of the time, in fact.  A foot or more of snow carpeted the ground and it didn't go anywhere.  This southern belle's experience with snow was limited.  If we got the white stuff in the south, there were never more than a few inches at a time, and it melted quickly.  Snowstorms back then, while debilitating (they shut down everything), were brief.

My less than subtle introduction to a true winter was miserable for me.  I always thought if I'd gradually been introduced to the effects of snow, then I would have felt differently at the time, perhaps learning to like it more quickly.  But I was plucked from a no-coat winter, and plopped into the "frozen tundra" within a forty-eight hour time frame.  It immediately became my life and there was no going back.

Most of the side effects were physical.  I shivered all of the time and my feet were constantly cold.  Often, after being outside, I would sit on the edge of the bathtub, soaking my feet in warm water to get relief from the numbness.  Slipping on an icy sidewalk didn't help things.  Hurting my back in the fall caused pain, limited my mobility and intensified the feelings that were festering inside me about northern winters.  I hated them.  Those emotions wrecked havoc on everything else.  Dread and gloom filled my head at the thought of ever having to step outdoors.  I wanted to hole up in my house and nest until spring.

Slowly, things began to change.  One of the best memories I have of living in that community during the winter months involved sound.  The fire department would hose down the local tennis courts, creating an ice rink for the residents to enjoy.  At night, it was easy to hear the clink of skates on ice as kids laughed and played hockey under the tennis court lights.  I thought it the neatest sound and it was completely foreign to me.  Ice skating and hockey weren't southern sports.

That sound and the sight of those kids generated something in me.  My eyes began to open.  Perhaps attending some Detroit Red Wings games helped.  It was during the Steve Yzerman era and I got caught up in the excitement and fun of just watching the games, even if I never understood the significance of the octopus toss.  And to embrace Detroit hockey meant welcoming snow and winter in its full glory.  I eventually did.

I learned what everyone else had to learn...how to dress for the weather and how to drive in it.  Life went on regardless of the temperature outside.  Now, I can say with all honesty, I love snow.  It's difficult to remember winters without it.  Seeing snow fall is one of nature's most beautiful offerings and winter holidays seem enhanced by it.

Looking back, I wasn't the only one in my family exasperated by snow.  My younger daughter, just about to turn three at the time, wasn't happy one day when walking through a parking lot to our car.  It had started to snow heavily and, out of sheer frustration, she cried, "What are these things?"  I replied to her that it was called snow.  Her response?  "Well, it's getting in my eyes!"

I found a little rhyming poem I wrote about that day.  I've never claimed to be a poet, so please don't be too harsh.  It's just a sentimental piece I'm sharing about the time and my child.  As always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson ).

Well, It’s Getting in My Eyes

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

A child of three moved far away

Where heavy coats and mittens were needed to play.

Outside it was blustery, cold and wet.

“Who played in weather like this?” her mommy would fret.

They came from a place that is warm and sunny,

Here all the children looked kind of funny.

They were bundled and covered, not a visible face

Resembling monsters, aliens and things from outer space.

They wobbled and hobbled, barely able to walk

No words were spoken, they were too cold to talk.

Shivering and covered head to toe

They played and made snow angels in the fresh snow.

So this young child while outdoors one day

Looked up at the falling snow to say,

“What are these things dropping from the skies?”

“It’s snow, honey,” her mommy said.

“Well, it’s getting in my eyes!”

©Veronica Randolph Batterson