Beyond the Sunset:

I couldn't believe it. I had no memory of writing those words. Yet I must have.

There, in the little black book that emerged during a clean-up of my late grandmother's house, were the words written in my own unmistakable handwriting. The words were frightening, urgent, spare and pleading - and I was riveted by them.

"They took me once before. Don't let them find me again."

That's all it said. No other words in the whole book. As I turned the soft, leather-covered volume in my hands, I wracked my brain searching for a moment in my life that could match what I was reading.

Nothing came.

And yet, there was something. Like the tendrils of a memory that sits at the edge of your brain in the moments after waking from a vivid dream. It was just beyond my reach.

I had no idea what it was, but I knew this much. This wasn't some bit of idle scribbling made when I was bored during a long-ago summer visit to Granny’s house. It was darker, deeper - and I wasn't yet sure whether I wanted to discover its secret.

And yet, I felt that I owed it to my grandmother to figure it out - for so many reasons, not the least of which was that I had just found out she had left me $20,000 in her will. The bequest - and the size of it - came as a shock to me. Most of my grandmother's estate had been left to my mother, but this was something that Granny had set aside just for me. I was grateful.

And I was curious.

* * *

My grandmother, Eliza Goodridge, was born on July 10, 1911 in North Bridgton, Maine. It was a sweltering summer’s day, with temperatures soaring to 105 degrees and making life exceedingly difficult for both Eliza – who was busy being born – and for her mother Constance.

Granny used to say that her life was forged in fire, after having been born on such a hot day. Later in life, she would talk about her survival of two world wars, a global pandemic and the Great Depression as evidence of the steely determination gifted to her in the hot summer of 1911.

Having grown up under the watchful eye of Constance - and the relative inattention of her seldom-seen father John - Eliza had chafed at the strictures of small-town life, living in a small house down the road from prestigious Bridgton Academy.

Despite all the change that swirled around her, Eliza ended up living in that small house until the end of her long, eventful life. John and Constance perished in a boating accident on nearby Long Lake in 1932, leaving Eliza the house and a need to draw upon her keen instincts for survival.

And that she did, marrying her childhood sweetheart Eddie Drummond in 1940 - after a long (and very patient) courtship by Eddie. Their first year together was sweet and full of joy - punctuated by the news in 1941 that they were going to become parents.

When Eliza was six months into her pregnancy , she and Eddie gathered around the radio, listening to FDR assuring everyone that the only thing they had to fear was fear itself. But that wasn't true. There were other things to fear - being separated.

Eddie shipped out the following month to join the Navy. Eliza was worried. Although she had friends in town to encourage and support her - and many other women who were in the same situation - Eddie wasn't there. And they were about to become parents.

And it wasn't fair. But Eliza did find something that helped her through. In the weeks following Eddie's departure, Eliza would sit out on the front porch of their home on a porch swing, sipping hot, sweet tea and imagining that Eddie was beside her. That he would be home soon. And she watched the sun set, imagining that Eddie was beside her.

And when my mother came into the world - named Edwina (after Eddie) - Eliza would sit on the porch swing at sunset, nursing their daughter, sipping her tea and reading letters from Eddie aloud to the little girl.

Then came the letter that Eddie didn't write. The one that said he would never come home again.

Eliza was indeed devastated - but she resolute in her determination that she would give her daughter the life that she and Eddie had always planned for her - with ballet lessons, riding camps and even trips out on the lake (with lifejackets a prominent feature of the experience).

And every night, she and Edwina would sit out on the porch swing, sipping their tea and imagining that Eddie was with them. Sometimes, they would write letters to him.

* * *

I got to know that porch swing well as a child. Every summer, I would spend four glorious weeks at Granny's house - swimming, biking, playing with the many friends I made in Bridgton.

And every July 10, the whole family would celebrate Granny's birthday with a greasy (and delicious) fried chicken dinner, biscuits, gravy, coleslaw and chocolate cake (with far too few birthday candles on it) and a big, rousing family rendition of "Happy Birthday".

Then we would all go outside and watch the sunset together, as Granny sat on her old porch swing and told us about Eddie.

Then one day, when I was about 15, all of that changed. It was summer - and I was old enough to go and stay with Granny by myself - and I was looking forward to a month of friends, fun and Granny's great meals. My parents were looking forward to a little time without me.

Being independent-minded, I convinced my parents to let me take the bus on my own to Granny's. I was feeling so independent that when I got to Bridgton station, I decided that I would surprise Granny and take a taxi directly to her house.

The plan was that I would call her when I got to the station - and she would come and pick me up. But I thought it would be cooler to just take a taxi. And it felt very grown-up.

Granny's house was a five minute ride from the station, so I was there before I knew it. To heighten the surprise, I had the cab driver drop me off on the roadside one house away - so that Granny wouldn't see the cab roll up before I got to the door.

I stealthily crept up her driveway, trying not to let the gravel crunch too loudly under my feet. After a few minutes of carefully making my way to the front door, I crept around the side of the front porch to the screen door off the kitchen (which I knew that sometimes Granny left unlocked). I sauntered through into the kitchen and called out: "Granny, I'm here! Surprise!"

There was a loud and worrying silence. I called again and heard nothing. I started into the hallway and then almost tripped. Granny was collapsed on the floor.

I could see that she was still breathing - but it was very shallow. And her eyelids were fluttering as she struggled to consciousness. "Granny... wake up ... what happened?," I said, the words tumbling out of my mouth and falling flat and helplessly into the still air.

Even at 15, I knew that this was way more than I could handle. I quickly grabbed the phone in the hallway and dialed 911 and, in a panicked voice, I told the dispatcher what had happened. They said an ambulance would be there very soon - and that I should stay with Granny, keeping a close eye on her breathing. raising her head and reassuring her.

As I waited for the ambulance, Granny started to regain consciousness and began to speak softly and haltingly. Thinking that it could be important, I scanned the room for anything I could use to write down what she was saying. In her hand, I saw a little black, leather-bound notebook and a pen.

* * *

Flash forward to today. I have that same notebook in my hand and I re-read the words I had written when I was 15:

"They took me once before. Don't let them find me again."

And I now knew what they meant. It was a final plea from my feisty, independent grandmother for another day of freedom. I had written the words, but they were hers - not mine.

On that fateful summer day, it turned out that I had arrived just after Granny had suffered a stroke - a bad one that took away her ability to speak. But it wasn't Granny's first stroke.

She had suffered another stroke the previous year, but it had appeared mild - and no-one in the family knew just how bad it had been. We didn't find out until later that Granny had actually been taken to the hospital for that stroke, admitted and told that she might not be able to return to her home.

But Granny was having none of it. She had rallied right after that stroke and told the family not to come - she would be fine and just needed a little time on her own to recuperate. And she told her doctors that they did NOT have her permission to tell the family what had happened.

* * *

And the $20,000 my Granny left me? Why she left it to me is still a mystery.

But I knew what to do with it. I donated it to the long term care home that my Granny lived in after her second stroke. I specified that it should be used to build a memory garden overlooking the lake - and with a great view of the sunset.

I also restored Granny's old porch swing and donated it to the home as well. And so every July 10, the residents gather, raise a glass of hot, sweet tea - and toast the memory of Eliza and Eddie.

I do too. And it makes me feel a little better every time.

- The End -