Devon

I met my granddaughter, Devon, when she was ten and her little sister, Tyler, was five. Such darling girls! So sweet and precocious!

Jason was dating their mother, Kortnee. It was obvious that he was in love with Kortnee and her girls. They came as a package. I was delighted to have all three of them join our family.

I quickly noticed how smart Devon was. As a school social worker, I was around bright kids every day. But there was something extraordinary about Devon. 

She and I were talking one afternoon, soon after I met her. I said, “Devon, I can tell you are really smart. Do you know what you want to do after high school?”

“Yes, I’m going to Harvard. I’m going to be a lawyer.” She was in fifth grade! She didn’t come from a wealthy family. She didn’t have all the advantages that a lot of her classmates had. But she had a vision and determination that most kids don’t.

And then I said one of the dumbest things that ever came out of my mouth.

“That’s nice,” I said. “And what is your Plan B?”

Who says something like that?  A good grandmother would say, “What a wonderful goal, Sweetheart. I know you can do it!”

But I was a grandmother who had never, even once in my life, heard someone in my family say, “I’m going to Harvard.” 

Devon looked up at me, with her beautiful black eyes and blinked once.

“Oh, Grandma. There isn’t any Plan B.”

And there wasn’t. Devon had her eye on the prize when she was ten years old. Throughout school, she studied hard and took impossibly difficult classes. She declared her intentions and made them come true. 

Two years after I met her, when she was twelve, Devon met the principal of her future high school. She was at a party with his two daughters. When he came to pick up his girls, Devon met him in the hallway, shook his  hand and said, “Hi. I’m Devon. I’m going to be valedictorian when I come to your school.”

Can you imagine? Mr. Principal wrapped his arms around her and watched her in high school until she was, indeed, the valedictorian of her graduating class. 

But perhaps, my most memorable moments with Devon came when I chaperoned a trip to New York for Devon and thirty of her eighth-grade classmates. To be blunt, it was a nightmare. One of the worst experiences of my life. The students were spoiled and non-compliant. They spent most of their time on the telephone, calling friends and family in Denver. They were far more interested in shopping for clothes than in seeing the Statue of Liberty. 

But not Devon. She was a joy. She was excited to be in a city she had only read about. She wanted to see the Empire State Building. She asked great questions when we visited the United Nations. She stayed away from the telephone and did everything that was asked of her. I was proud to be her grandmother.

I will always be proud of Devon, my oldest grandchild. She graduated from Harvard and went on to study law at Columbia University in New York. In addition to securing great internships during the summer, working for a well-known, very prestigious law firm, Devon was chosen to be on the Wine Board. Devon knows more than me on every topic you can imagine, including wine.

After graduation, Devon moved to Los Angeles to work for the prestigious law firm. She was, as always, tremendously successful. But, after six years, she wasn’t happy. She left a high-paying job to become a federal public defender in Los Angeles. The work is hard. The clients are difficult. The successes are fewer. In true Devon fashion, she puts everything she has into every case. Her clients are lucky to have her in their lives. So am I.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

Dorothy Hein

This week, April 8th, was the birthday of my mother-in-law, Dorothy Hein. She was born in 1910 and died in 2008. Through determination and sheer grit, she lived 98 years. She wanted to live longer. She wanted to outlive her classmate and dear friend, Marian Kelly. That would have made Dorothy the oldest living member of her eighth grade class. Alas, Marian lived to be 103. Dorothy is still not pleased.

Dorothy was hard-working, steady, kind, brave, joyful and, above all, funny. She was proud of being 100% Irish. Dorothy and her sister, Margaret, had a booth at Duffy’s Shamrock Tavern reserved just for them every St. Patrick’s Day. They got there early in the morning and stayed all day, wearing green from head to toe.

Dorothy and Margaret, the Gorman sisters, were a twosome. They loved to tell stories and laugh, to put on parties for every possible occasion. Dorothy’s happy place was her home ~ filled with the people she loved.  

Thanksgiving was Dorothy’s favorite holiday. Her table, set with her best china and wine glasses, stretched across two rooms. It included her family of six children, Margaret’s family of three more, their spouses and children, and often one or two drop-ins from the neighborhood. 

Dorothy’s next favorite holiday was her birthday. It was spring. The flowers in her beautiful backyard garden were blooming again. It was close to Easter. She made it through another year. There were lots of things to celebrate. Mostly, we came to celebrate her.

During this pandemic, I think of Dorothy. Tough times only made her stronger. Her father died in the influenza epidemic of 1918. Overnight her mother became a widow with two small girls to raise and no income. Dorothy, herself, was quarantined in Denver General Hospital with diphtheria when she was ten years old.  The terror of not being able to swallow and having to stay alone in the hospital for weeks never left her. And yet, somehow, she coped and she survived.

When she died, Dorothy had already lost her husband and dance partner, Bill, her sister and best friend, Margaret, and two sons, Mike and Tom. And yet, again she survived. She coped by remembering them with an empty seat at the Thanksgiving table, set with her best china and a glass of wine.

By the time she was in her late-nineties, most of her friends had already died. But Dorothy was determined to stay in her own home and live out her life on her own terms. She filled her house with imaginary friends ~ a tiny sheik who sat on top of her counter and talked to her and a houseful of children who ran up and down the stairs, making a lot of noise. Now her happy place was filled with memories of the people she loved. I am very grateful to have been a part of that.

This poem by Kathleen O’Mara, is making its way around the internet.  It reminds me of the life of sweet Dorothy Gorman Hein, who lived through many, very difficult times and always emerged stronger, more determined, and with her sense of humor still intact. May we all follow her example.

And the people stayed home. And read books, and listened, and rested, and exercised, and made art, and played games, and learned new ways of being, and were still. And listened more deeply. Some meditated, some prayed, some danced. Some met their shadows. And the people began to think differently.

And the people healed. And, in the absence of people living in ignorant, dangerous, mindless, and heartless ways, the earth began to heal.

And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed.

~ Kathleen O’Mara