She would have been far worse than just Adam’s wife.
First off, not a fabled blonde.
Nor Raphaelian, either.
And, always poking around. Nope; no Finishing Schools for this rib.
Her brow furrowed by perplexed curiosity, she’d be turning this way and that, searching out the limits of the verdant garden like a ferret loose in a zoo. Picking every berry to taste; running her hands through the moist earth; climbing every tree, if only to see beyond…..
As for the forbidden tree, her compelling need to know would have taken her squarely there as soon as restrictions were imposed. Enough with this nakedness, anyhoo; shame made the cooler nights more tolerable, what with as many fig leaves as could be woven before the sun went down.
Giving birth was a royal pain; remind her never to do that a third time.
And, where was God’s voice coming from, for His sake? Everything else audible had a mouth or a beak, save the wind, in this place. Why, if her nakedness was such a shame could He not show His Face?
God might have given up on her entirely to focus on Adam and the serpent.
Perhaps it was high regret at creating her, in the first place. Surely He would have known, already being All Knowing? What did He want her to do about it? The blood in her veins pulsed, its omnipresent reminder that her body was alive and she within it. The drive to move was inescapable. Where would she go, on this, the seventh day?
The word among the crawling things was that expulsion was imminent.
That thought alone was stimulating. The world outside of this garden? Would there surely be more to explore?
The two boys would already be bickering over their offerings. No meddler, she’d let them duke it out. Best for their own quest, for autonomy, after all.
Dusk would already be settling in. The serpent, slithering off, long dismissed as boring, its endless taunts a redundant yawn. Yes; the Tree of Life would remain, rooted, in the midst of the garden. She, however, would have long since tasted of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. This Eve was way ahead of that snake.
Mammy had an autographed photo of Billy Sunday’s wife.
She kept it in her Bible.
According to Wikipedia, William Ashley Sunday was an American athlete who, after being a popular outfielder in baseball’s National League during the 1880s, became the most celebrated and influential American Christian evangelist during the first two decades of the 20th century. Helen Amelia Thompson Sunday was his wife, an indefatigable organizer of his huge evangelistic campaigns during the first decades of the twentieth century, and eventually, an evangelistic speaker in her own right.
Mammy was my grandmother. Born in 1890, she and Pappy moved to Erie from Scranton/Wilkes-Barre when Pappy was hired by BuCyrus-Erie to build cranes.
She used to tell me of the tent meetings down state which she had attended, where she met Pappy. These were huge gatherings of people, who came together from all points rural to hear the Gospel preached by Billy Sunday. I believe Mammy recounted that she was led to the Lord by Helen Sunday, after one of these meetings. I also remember that, while she used to enjoy playing Solitaire alone in her bedroom, Mammy gave up the deck of cards once she got saved. I often wonder if thereafter she stopped playing the Key Game, which celebrated psychic skill and at which she excelled, as well.
Mammy’s name was Mae Elisabeth Learn. She’d been second maid to a wealthy, Jewish brewer in the Poconos before meeting Henry. He courted her, to and from Sunday’s tent meetings, until the day he declared: “ You Mae Learn to be Sweet.”
Pappy’s name was Henry Thomas Sweet, and his parents had hailed from Cornwall, England. When he and Mammy married and traveled to Erie, Pappy carried on Billy Sunday’s evangelism by preaching on the street corners. His was a hellfire and brimstone, Bible brandishing English orator’s style; with his booming, a-tonal baritone, he’d hand down God’s order to the vagrants: get up from the gutter! repent! and, get a job.
When I look at images of Billy Sunday, I can’t help but note how much he resembled my grandfather. They shared cut features and a strong jaw and the same, resolute expression. Mammy did not resemble Helen Sunday; she had a softer countenance, and always bore a sweet smile.
But, together, they had both responded to the call of evangelism proposed by Billy and Helen Sunday. They’d pulled up stakes and moved all the way across the Commonwealth to carry it forward. And, Mammy, who spent the rest of her days raising their four daughters, tending two flower and vegetable gardens and, together with Pappy baking hundreds of loaves of bread and both hooking and braiding rugs, sat in her rocking chair when day was done, Bible in hand, praying for everyone who came to mind, with Helen Sunday’s photograph just inside the cover of her Bible.
I remember the year I met my husband. We’d been introduced through a mutual friend, whom we both respected greatly. Our friend, and his private teacher, was the principal oboeist of the Erie Philharmonic during the years when Maestro Eiji Oue held the baton.
I had developed a deep respect for our maestro, which bordered on fixation. He had aroused every passion within me, from artistic to sensual to spiritual. He, however, had a strong preference for his principal oboeist, whose petite stature and feisty nature matched his own.
My husband to be was enamored of her, as well; but, she was soundly married to the love of her own life, consumed by their mutual performing careers and and the raising of their four children.
And so, each of us foundlings was brought together by stronger forces, upon the common ground of emotional commitment to another – he, to our mutual friend, and I to my Maestro. When my husband proposed marriage to me, the act was spurred by her very challenge; when I accepted, my anticipations extended to include the potential for an expanding realm of human connection which a bond with him would create. I would marry up, into a world which could include, by scant degrees, the object of my passions.
Maestro Oue did not attend our wedding, though I believe we sent him an invitation, and both of us were sure to include our beloved oboeist in the musical ceremony. Our marriage lasted just over two and a half years (not counting the year of courtship), the second of which my husband spent living and working in Indiana, and it ended seven months after my mother’s death.
I have two, framed companion photos of myself with our maestro. And, there is a Wheaties cereal box which features his image, nestled on the top shelf of my entertainment center in the music room of my home where I have practiced, rehearsed, and provided private lessons for 30 years.
At the top of the box, just above the logo, in Japanese: