Pat Taub
During Women’s History Month, the tendency is to celebrate famous women in the arts and politics, often ignoring those less famous women who have made an indelible impression on our lives. This year I’m celebrating Women’s History Month by sending love notes to family members, neighbors, teachers and others to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for modeling compassion, courage, and a zest for life.
To my mother, Jane Conrad First:
I learned compassion from you as I watched you slip dollar bills to a farmer with a sick child, or when you forced me to invite the unpopular girls to my elementary school birthday parties. I’m grateful to you for introducing me to art museums and for your guidance on how to appreciate a painting.
My mother and I six months before she died, July 2000.
To Nana, Pearl Conrad:
I adored your fun-filled spirit. I have fond memories of Saturday lunches with you, in Pomeroy’s Department Store in downtown Harrisburg, Pa. After we finished our chicken salad sandwiches, we’d make a beeline for the jewelry department, where we’d shamelessly try on necklaces, earrings, and bracelets to the annoyance of the salesgirl, whom you dismissed with a smile. When you caught my teenage self, stealing Camels from your purse, you promised not to tell the parents, while cautioning me against developing a smoking habit.
Nana at age 82 when corsages were still in fashion
To Aunt Anne:
When politics surfaced at the dinner table, as the only Democrat in our Republican family, you challenged Dad, an intimidating debater. No matter how loud he got, you went toe-to-toe with him. I’m grateful to you for modeling the importance of standing up for my beliefs.
To Esther Coryell, my second cousin:
As a teenager, I thought you were the epitome of sophistication, living in Greenwich Village and working as an actress. My boarding school visits to you were often eventful. I will never forget the time, when I was 17, and you decided it was time for a trip to the Plaza’s Oak Room for a cocktail. Since I was underage you dressed me in a sophisticated sheath, heels, and your bright red lipstick. I received a lot of male attention. Apparently, you hadn’t anticipated that your role as Pygmalion would be so successful, escorting me out of the Plaza in short order. You left me with a taste for stretching boundaries for new experiences.
Cousin Esther in a photo taken for her acting portfolio
To My Neighbor, Anne Lowengard:
While my parents’ bookshelves were largely restricted to the Encyclopedia Britannica, Reader’s Digests’ anthologies and best sellers, your living room had floor-to-ceiling bookcases stocked with classic writers like Colette, and Iris Murdoch. I’m grateful to you for introducing me to writers who left a lasting impression.
To Mrs. Lindsay, my 12th grade English teacher:
You were the Miss Jane Brody at my boarding school, making dramatic entrances with your long flowing skirts and frizzy red hair. You took me aside, encouraging me to take risks in my writing, providing affirmations when I did. One evening, as we were standing outside the dining room, waiting for the doors to open, you broke with protocol, and whispered in my ear that I would be receiving the English prize at graduation. Your belief in me was instrumental in boosting my self-confidence.
Vintage postcard of Penn Hall prep school where I was in Mrs. Lindsay’s class
Later in life: I am indebted to the following women: Margaret York, my kind therapist who saw me through a traumatic divorce; close friends who were there for me during good times, like when my radio show won an award; and during dark times, like when my ex-husband drowned. Lasting gratitude to the women at Greenfire Retreat Center, for guidance on my spiritual path, and to all the brave women I’ve met doing peace and justice work.
Now that I’m an elder, frequently supporting and advising younger women, it feels like the wisdom I impart is a mosaic of all these amazing women whose influences have been my guiding light.
