[Author’s Note: I wrote this a little over two years ago.  Dec 14th, 2024 (today) will be the two-year anniversary of her passing.]

In Memory of Mary Helen Duren Hecht

In the earliest memory I have of you, I woke to the music of your voice; my eyes opened on your smiling face. A young mother, you roused me from sleep with the softest, sweetest lilt you could produce. You knew how children’s dreams, their souls still bright, are visited by cherubs—in whose presence there can be no fear or need. You eased the harsh stir from soft bliss to garish day.

And so, as a child, my heavenly dreams ended gently, and earthly days began with your smile and the music of your heart.

[ I picture you now and see your face—the smile and eyes. But your heart is far the best feature: it beams and glows in the portrait of all you were; it went to the vanguard in all you did, got bruised and hurt, fell back, then regained the front.]

Though you were many things: family, friend, spouse, neighbor, teacher, actor, you were first and best from a small town: you were a country girl. Each July, “home” summoned you. Three hours later, off the freeway, a two-lane coursed between tree-crested hills, along plots of new crops, and by pastures of grazing beasts. You voiced the names as we slowed to pass through the last small towns: Reedsburg, LaValle, Ironton. The road turned and dropped into a river valley. A sign read “Cazenovia, WI pop. 350.” One block from Main Street, an old mill dam had formed a small lake up behind it. We passed the tiny post office. Your parents were, then, still postmasters.

A Depression winter day, you entered that stage: 1932–the bleakest year. The Dow Jones hit 52, down 80% from the ’29 high. The townsfolk hailed your arrival, then waxed pragmatic: “Put another cup of water in the soup.”

You gave a history of your name, how it changed on the day you were born. Grandma began labor, the doctor miles away. Helen, his wife, saw you safely you from womb to world. You, the baby girl, became “Mary Helen.”

In ‘44, you turned twelve; the War raged on, [The sprawling Badger Ordnance Works were nearby. Your sister worked there.] you babysat the night before, earned fifty cents. That morning, no money, Grandma needed a loan: a quarter, to buy a pound of butter. You gave. The tale was a lament; the loan was not repaid. The lament was not for silver: the act might have gone unappreciated.

[If appreciation were coins, Mom, my gratitude for you is a river of quarters.]

After such a story, you grew wistful, then admonished: “Remember these things…” Beneath her words lay a tacit plea: “And please; remember me…”

[For always, Mom: forever.]

“Caz”—the place—was steadfast: the urgings of change met bulwarks of custom and tradition there. A pas de deux, the seasons led; they stepped and turned. Life there followed—as a plow follows a horse: through ground hard and soft, past rocks, up- or downhill, and a pause to check the row.

[You paused, but never long.  In the country it loomed like a ghost–the work to be done. Please, Mother; Rest! You earned it. Rest your beautiful, tired heart; your work is done. You did so much and all so wonderfully well. I am a proud, proud, son.]

You studied at Lacrosse, took summer jobs in Madison, Highland Park. The city was a turnstile: things moved fast! So many faces (and too many you did not know)! You charmed and left your mark, but feared a small-town bearing to city folk would seem a clutch of straw amid bouquets.

When you suffered, Faith made a poultice for the stings of inadequacy. Family bonds laid a salve on the cut of humiliation. Learning lifted the chin—to face the world as a peer. The Arts—you feasted on them! Music was a family staple. Theatre was pure joy: You trod the boards, took leading roles, got rave reviews. Later, your third-graders would get performances, not lessons.

Community was instinct. In Cazenovia, you watched them, your mother and townswomen, quilting at the house. They shared news, recipes, troubles. You rested under (never on) the one quilt you kept, one you watched them make. It was a precious fleece, a totem of community. These last years, I heard tales of your thoughtfulness, kindnesses. They had shown you what to do. Someone lost a loved one: console, send food, a card, attend the service. A neighbor fell ill—help with crops, childcare, chores; soothe them, make soup. There’s a wedding, a shower, a birth: attend, prepare a gift, bring and share joy.

[When I am thoughtful—when my heart guides my action, you are there. When I can rank the needs of others over mine, your spirit shines through. I lived with you, tried (feebly) to match the example set as you cared for Dad, family, friends, neighbors—and so many more. Oh, Heart, make room!]

Faith? –I know nothing of Faith before your example. Two miles outside Caz, were the church, school, and cemetery of St. Anthony of Padua. There, atop a long sloping hill and already closer to heaven, your Faith coalesced. The tree that made the cherrywood altar in the church was felled on Duren land, a stained glass window there bore your grandfather’s name. In warmer months, you sidled along the neat rows of graves, generations of family. The breeze, the vista, the corporeal remains of kindred souls—the continuity touched and shaped you: life and death were less distinct; the deep questions and great mysteries receded…for a while.

Saint Anthony became your patron. When items—or people—were lost, Anthony was invoked serenely and thanked sincerely; he never seemed to fail. Prayer for you (and for the objects of your prayer) was neither magical nor mystical. Prayer had force, was an element of nature. Like water. Like wind or fire.

 

[In the last years in the house, I called out for you. No answer, I looked around. You were comfortable, in a chair, your rosary across one hand, the other fingered a bead. Many years ago, you made frequent, fervent, and potent prayers for me. I suffered an affliction; it killed some friends and plagued your own family. Your invocations to Anthony and Mary (your namesake) to intercede had reached me. I recovered. I pray these days. I pray for you (and Dad) each time. I try not to merely “say” the prayers, but feel them.]

The long weekday march to St. Anthony’s school was ordeal or delight—as the season and weather shaped it. You were drawn forward less by duty than by learning. Learning, your parents declared, was power and freedom. Learning was deliverance: knowledge opened doors and changed what you were (wherever you might be from).

[Books, museums, libraries, and your enthusiasm seeded my curious nature and roused my sense of wonder. You knew, wise teacher, how curiosity and wonder fuel and spark learning. Naturally, you served on the Racine Library Board]

After the war, your Cazenovia summer weekends would climax Sunday afternoons. The town park was up behind the dam. The ball diamond outfield was bordered by water; a home run was worth mention if it splashed in the lake. Visiting teams felt the fix was in: Durens were in the outfield and the infield. Your brother Ryne—who later played for the Yankees—pitched; brother Vince, the oldest, caught. Grandpa was the umpire. Scorekeeper?….Mary Helen! After the game, you sped to the home of the switchboard operator. She plugged you through to Madison, to the big paper. The Wisconsin State Journal sports section needed county league box scores for Monday’s run.

You often listened to Chicago baseball on the radio and grew fluent in the lingo of the game.

[I was five or six years old, snow still on the ground. The sun had made it “packy” —good for snowballs. From by the apple tree, I threw one your way. It must have hit you; you set your jaw, scooped up snow, formed it, launched it, and missed me. I barely saw it.  It met the trunk of the tree at my side with a THWACK that shook the tree and the roots beneath my feet. Two revelations: First, you has a really good arm. Second, and more imposing was that because you wouldn’t hurt me: you had aimed at the tree.

At St. Anthony’s you played ball with the boys. The years at home, we watched the Brewers. Your memory was slipping. You still knew the game, the rules. Your love of the game makes sense: baseball moves at the proper pace. You know all the players. Play begins in spring (with planting), and ends in fall (with harvest). The seasons lead.

“Keep your eye on the ball,” you would call from the stands. You watched all my games. It’s still the best advice for any hitter.]

You were a country girl with a special heart. You met the trials of life with Faith, Family, Community, Learning, and, in season, a little baseball.

You were my loved and loving mother. This paean, this song, is one of praise most richly deserved. It also strives—in the sweetest lilt my words can produce—to grace your way from earthly days to heaven’s bliss, where you rest among angels, near God, with no fears and no needs, your soul a whiteness sublime.

[A pound of butter today is about five dollars. If you miss Mary Helen, you can wake the spirit she left with you. Buy a coffee or piece of pie for a stranger. If someone in a grocery is short and has to put things back, help them. Tell them it’s from Mary Helen. If they ask, say she was a country girl and ……Oh, you’ll know what to say.]

 

 

WRH