Dear Reader,

She shuffled into the library every Saturday morning and bee-lined straight to the newspaper section. Well into her nineties, her fragile frame was draped by a green housecoat that stay-at-home moms wore zippered up over their day-clothes once upon a time. The housecoat was faded, worn and weary--on the verge of becoming grey--but in another lifetime I imagined the color was a festive Christmas green.

Mrs. Green Housecoat was followed in every Saturday by Mr. Kind-Heart, her middle-aged neighbor who lived across the street from her and told me with a shy smile as he peered over his glasses, "her husband passed away and she doesn't drive anymore." While Mrs. Green Housecoat devoured the newspaper, Mr. Kind-Heart requested DVD's for her to watch at home, "She loves the old musicals," he told me the first week I met them, "and the old black and white movies."

Over the course of a year, I looked forward to Saturday morning exchanges with this eccentric couple. We talked about her favorite musicals, Mrs. Green Housecoat loved, "My Fair Lady, Sound of Music, Guys and Dolls, and Singing in the Rain." I shared with her my favorite black and white classics, "Pride of the Yankees" with Gary Cooper and "Gas Light" starring Ingrid Bergman. Their weekly visits were sunshine on a rainy day.

Mrs. Green Housecoat's petite face was framed with a silver, wavy bob worn like the starlets of the silent-movie era. When she smiled, her whole face wrinkled up into a thousand tiny crevices, such as a vintage map etched with highways, roads, and mountains, and revealed missing teeth from her radiant smile. One day, as we scoured the stacks for movies, I pulled out Elvis Presley's "Blue Hawaii", holding it out to her like a gift. She glanced at the title and casually stated, "I knew Elvis," and I chuckled aloud as if she told a funny joke. Then she continued, "When I was a young girl, I worked for MGM Studios," her eyes twinkled with delight and her cheeks flushed a glowing pink of a first crush. She paused for a moment as if she were searching through the library in her mind that held volumes of precious memories forged over a lifetime. Suddenly, she leaned into me as if we were childhood friends exchanging conspiratorial secrets on the playground, "One day he walked in and looked straight at me and said, 'Hey, Good Looking!'"

In that moment, Mrs. Green Housecoat was transformed before my eyes. I no longer saw the shriveled woman with faded clothes and a worn-out body, instead I saw a young girl in the prime of her life with golden curls, pink cheeks and red lipstick. I saw a young, strong woman with smooth skin and a curvy frame that could fill out a pencil skirt and a snug-fitting sweater like Ann Margaret in "Bye-Bye Birdie". I also became fully aware of the fragility of life--that one person holds thousands of precious memories, countless adventures, and a million beautiful stories that weave a history of their past.

After the initial COVID quarantine passed and we could return to the library, I expectantly waited for Mrs. Green Housecoat and Mr. Kind-Heart to walk through the door on Saturday mornings. Unfortunately, I never saw either of them pass through the library doors again. I now work for another library, but I often remember the flash of her smile and the twinkle in her eyes as she recounted the fabulous stories of her youth and I wonder at the goodness of Mr. Kind-Heart who with his selfless act of generosity, provided Mrs. Green Housecoat with as great a gift as Elvis Presley did all those years ago.

-- Deanna White

Dear Reader,

I Will Survive

When my mother was 60 my father left her. She was understandably devastated, heart ripped apart, wondering how she would rebuild her life at this late stage. It's odd to me now to think about that. I, too, worried about her ?dvanced age' and her future. I happen to be that age now. Funny how perspective changes.

I remember many dark days, but I also remember that she got up every morning, went to work and just got through it, all the while rebuilding her finances since my father left her with two mortgages and bill collectors calling day and night. She was angry, scared and worried, most days all three at once, but she would often crank up her stereo and play Gloria Gaynor's anthemic disco ballad, I Will Survive.' Sometimes on endless loop until she had danced out every emotion and felt too spent to muster anything else.

This was a lesson to me at 30, how a resilient woman finds a way to weather life's storms, a memory that always brought both sadness and joy over the years, but when faced with my own life-changing circumstances this summer, I forgot all about it.

In June our daughter and her fiance were involved in a horrible accident while vacationing in Spain, just two days after announcing their engagement. Their reckless and distracted driver flipped the car they were riding in and our beautiful girl, in the prime of her life, became a quadriplegic in a split second. The hours and weeks that followed were the most horrific we have ever known. I could write 10 essays just on those days alone.

Then only a few weeks later, my beloved Mother, the woman who'd valiantly fought leukemia for 20 months, lost her battle. My sister and I were there at her bedside for her last days. Don't let them tell you otherwise, there is no way to prepare, there are no days you wish you couldn't get back, there are no platitudes that can make the physical pain of grief subside.

But life wasn't done handing out pain yet. In early August, my mother-in-law, one of the healthiest, strongest women I have known died in her sleep. She'd come down with pneumonia in early April and had never quite recuperated, spending the last months of her life in and out of hospitals and rehab facilities, but it was a shock all the same. We had just returned from my Mother's memorial in Florida, we hadn't made it back to California yet. She died alone and there is nothing that will heal that regret and longing.

When this contest was originally announced, I wrote down some of the idea starters offered. As I look back at it now, I have to smile, one of them was what I did this summer. Does grieving count as an activity? What about screaming into a void? Or ranting at the universe?

Yet, just as my mother taught me, I get up every morning and face the day. Most days those are the hardest minutes I face, how will I get through today? How will I be there for those that need me when I can barely hold my heart together? How do I suit up for the day when the armor I usually wear no longer protects me?

And then I sat in front of a blank page today because Suzanne gave us another chance and damn it, isn't that the universe saying write something down? Anything. And the memory of my mother dancing to that song came rushing back and reminded me that this is survivable. I will not be overcome by this tsunami of sadness and our family will put the pieces back together.

One day.

I'm not ready to dance just yet, but I will survive. My mother taught me that.

-- Victoria Stuppy

Dear Reader,

Violets Be Blue

Best friends--I pride myself on being a good friend. I met my best friend Jody in primary school. We bonded by height as the tallest girls in our class. Our teachers organized a buddy system for class outings to keep track of us and my height buddy became my companion for all of my life's highs and lows.

Height was not all we shared. We loved animals and dolls and sports and our favorite color was blue. We dressed in the same styles and pretended to be twins and spent all our time together.

The best part of spending time at Jody's house was the amount of time her parents spent with us. As an only child Jody was the satellite that her parents rotated around. All the trips were planned around her interests and as I was her best friend I was treated as a treasure and was quickly absorbed into the fibers of their life, accompanying the family on all their family events.

With all these privileges one would assume we would be pampered but we remained balanced and loving companions. Jody's father was an administrator of a nursing care facility and we gladly spent a lot of our free time helping and assisting the residents with parties and song fests and reading poetry. We had alternate personalities to help the dementia patients remember us. Jody dressed in red and called herself Rose and I dressed in blue and called myself Violet.

Wonderful years passed and my best friend and I remained close during college, careers and marriages. We lived in the same town, attended the same church and volunteered at a local shelter. And then our world was shaken when Jody's mother died in a car accident. The death of our mentor and guide was devastating to us.

As a way to distract us we planned a birthday party at a park for Jody's daughter's sixth birthday. It was a marvelous day with much fun and laughter. As the children were playing Jody and I packed up all the presents and cleaned up the carnage that comes from serving a lunch for 20.

We were pleasantly surprised to hear birdsong from a cardinal. Jody's mother loved cardinals and her house was peppered with this bird on towels and cards and pictures. It was comforting to think that somehow her mother was sending us a message through nature that she was still watching over us.

What we saw next caught us by surprise. On one of the picnic tables sat a cardinal with a single red rose and a sprig of violet in its beak. Both Jody and I had tears in our eyes and held hands in shock. It had been years since we had gone by Violet and Rose in our young years of galloping through the halls of a nursing home bringing joy and laughter to the elderly.

What Jody didn't know until that day was that I had been struggling with making a career move that involved a big monetary challenge to my savings and lifestyle. With this one vision it became clear to me that I should go forward with my plans to start my own small business named Violets Be Blue, all because of a loving woman who enveloped me into her family and inspired me to give back to the world all the gifts I learned from a woman who loved me unconditionally and shared the best things this life had to offer.

-- Alice Sarnowski