Miss Elvira Scorgie
My mother visited us occasionally, all Christmases, some Octobers, Thanksgivings, and whenever she had a friend driving this way. On one occasion I took her to visit Miss Scorgie. After all, I guessed that they were the same age—both loved books, had been gardeners, even singers and hikers. I imagined that each could read and speak Latin, but still, it seemed a risky thing, bringing two individuals together, just on a guess that they would enjoy each other.
We had tea together at Seven Wells in Elvira’s sunny living room. It was wonderful, as both these women in their 80s, both former school teachers, launched into talk that wandered quickly from today back to the years before World War I, then forward to their familiarities with Boston, and with Massachusetts in general.
Years before this, my mother said she dreaded nursing homes, and asked if she could live with us instead if that point came. We said, “Of course!”
She designed herself an apartment in the sheltered south end of our barn, and we, for a second option, chose our former bright playroom, now a library, for her own room. Each fall I called her and asked if she wanted to come yet. The answer was always, “Not yet, but thanks.” And I would always reply, “It will only take 20 minutes to transform the library into your very own room.”
That never happened, but I always knew that Mother had at least one contemporary friend here in dear Miss Scorgie. The teapot and tea cups were always at the ready at both homes.
