The Women on the Hill

“A circle of women may just be the most powerful force known to humanity. If you have one, embrace it. If you need one, seek it. If you find one, for the love of all that is good and holy, dive in. Hold on. Love it up. Get Naked. Let them see you. Let them hold you. Let your reluctant tears fall. Let yourself rise fierce and love gentle. You will be changed. The very fabric of your being will be altered by this, if you allow it. Please, please allow it.”~ Jeanette Leblanc

I remember the images of my youth. Playing hide and seek on the hill until that one streetlamp came on alerting us children that playtime was over and it was time to go home. I remember the tiny multicolored houses arranged in a circle at the top of the hill.

We were the people of the hill. Separate from the town below, living life on the edge in more ways than one. Looking back, I now see the lessons, the learning, and the richness of a life that at the time seemed simple and unassuming. It was a time filled with so much, and at the center of it all was my grandmother, Zofia.

Granny Zofia, was a strict but gentle soul. She was the matriarch of the hill. Zofia lived at the head of the steep hill, which always seemed fitting because granny always seemed to be at the center of life.

Zofia stood at 5’11” and towered over most of the other women on the hill. Most days you could find her working out in the community garden. Sure, she had her own garden to tend–which was always filled with fresh vegetables and herbs, but she said that there was something special about planting and providing for her neighbors.

Besides, the community garden gave Granny Z the opportunity to keep an eye on her neighbors. One could argue that she was the original neighborhood watch. Granny Zofia had a way of connecting to us children–us, her grandchildren, and the other children on the hill. She kept us mostly out of trouble and more importantly, she kept the hill connected.

I once asked Granny Zofia why she felt the need to watch out for everyone and she said that the world seemed to be gasping for air.

There was no sense of community anymore. No sense of “do for others as you want to have done to you.” Granny would stare off into the distance as she remembered how back in the old country– while people didn’t have much–there was a sense of fellowship.

People watched out for one another. If the children next door got locked out of their house you took them in until their parents came home. You made meals for the family down the street when the husband lost his job. You helped birth the babies, you made tinctures for the sick. You cared for everyone. Everyone was family.

Zofia’s community garden gave the people on her tiny hill the opportunity to connect. There was weeding, planting, mowing, and pruning. Even in the winter, Zofia could be seen bundled up in a snowsuit sitting on the bench in the garden feeding the birds. Us children would skate on the makeshift frozen slab of ice that Zofia and my father made.

One of the most striking things about granny Zofia was her ability to rally the women on the hill. No matter where you were, every day at 4:30 pm, you could hear granny Zofia yell “It’s time”, then the ringing of a bell, or the chiming of chimes. Sometimes even the clanging of pots and pans. This would notify the women that it was time for the procession from the top of the hill to the tiny church at the bottom.

Every day from Monday to Saturday at 4:30 pm the women took off their aprons, dusted off– and smoothed out–their house dresses, grabbed their sweaters, or coats depending on the time of the year, and trudged down the hill.

Once at the bottom of the hill, the women would visit. There would be laughing, hugging, and crying. There was singing and joy. It was as though these women had not seen each other in years.

Then without warning, they would all go into the church, and light a candle each. There was silence as each woman took her position in a pew and bowed her head to pray.

Some of us children would sneak in the back door to watch the show only to be met with someone’s auntie, mother, or grandmother yelling, “OUT”.

Most of the other children ran away to play, but I sat quietly, listening.

These women prayed.

They prayed for the woman whose husband was beating her. They prayed for the woman who had just had her third miscarriage. They prayed for the woman who just couldn’t seem to find a job. They prayed for each other and their families .

Every day from Monday to Saturday at 4:30 pm, for no more than thirty minutes these women prayed.

When they were finished praying, they looked around at one another, nodded their head, and stood. They grabbed hands, they hugged once more, and one woman would yell to the children that dinner needed to be prepared before it got too late.

There was such strength in this daily ritual. There was such strength in the community of these women.