Martha Thompson died on Sunday, March 18, 2001. 1 first heard of her a little over three years ago. A letter from her requesting to be married to Harlan Thompson under the care of The Mt. Toby Monthly [Friends'] Meeting was read at the January business meeting. She ended her letter with, "Any date that would be convenient for the Meeting will be fine with us. The sooner the better." As the reader finished reading, almost everyone present burst out laughing.

One of the women there stood up to express her concerns over laughter about such a serious thing as marriage. She was quickly informed, "if you knew Martha, you too would laugh." I knew at once that I needed to know Martha.

She was then nearing her ninetieth birthday. Harlan was to be her fourth husband. Their ninetieth birthdays were just five days apart.

I did not attend the wedding, but looked for the newlyweds each Sunday thereafter. I suddenly realized I was making a point of sitting across the room from their habitual seat, because I did not want to miss their arrival.

Martha was tiny in structure, a gentle little lady who always wore a granny dress that made a strong statement that this sweet little thing has her life in control. Her features were sharp beneath a halo of soft white hair. Often she wore a mohair jacket which warmed neck and shoulders as it melted into that beautiful head. All of her dresses hung gracefully from her shoulders and were just short enough to avoid tripping. Her black-stockinged legs were weak and swollen from medications, causing her to take tiny steps and to carry a cane. Martha was not used to depending on her gaily decorated cane. She held it more as if she were its keeper than that it was hers. Harlan was her protector.

Harlan, was as much a gentleman, as Martha was a lady. He always wore a suit coat and tie and carried his hat in his hand. The other hand rested gently at Martha's elbow giving her a sense of security that was not forthcoming from the cane. Caring and love radiated from both of them.

Together they paused at the door of the meeting room each First Day looking at the many silent worshipers who had settled throughout the room before their arrival. Many heads were bowed and eyes closed. Forgotten feet stretched far out in front of their meditating owners. When Martha had regained her balance, she checked to make sure their seats on the second row in the left-hand corner of the room were unoccupied. Then off she would go, sometimes tapping her cane but neglecting to check on the feet she may step upon. Harlan always followed slightly behind her with his helpful hand at her elbow. Halfway to their seats, Martha always turned to Harlan and whispered in his ear, "I believe we are a little late this morning." His reply, "We will do better next week." Once they were both settled in their chosen place, I closed my eyes and thanked the Lord for bringing them safely through another week.

In the following two years Martha and Harlan came to my home in the hills twice. Once I had invited them to share a meal with me. The second time they had been out checking on the fall foliage and simply thought they would drop in for a visit. I was overjoyed with that spontaneous adventure. I had grown up in a household where people frequently just dropped in. After I left home and moved about the country I discovered that that custom was not universal, but to me it has always been the way life should be.

For two Christmases in a row I was invited to the Thompson's home for dinner, Christmas music and the pleasure of watching the candles on their beautiful tree burn from new to non-existent. On the first of those visits Harlan showed me his woodworking shop. On a table in that shop were many hand-turned and highly polished wooden bowls that Harlan had made for family gifts. Each was filled with goodies made by Martha. Both the shop and Martha's book-binding room were thrilling to me, for those mediums were both very close to my heart.

I was saddened to hear of Harlan's death just a little more than two years after their wedding. Somehow I had expected he and Martha would always be a quiet, restful part of my life. He died very quickly giving no one much notice of his intent.

About that time I was suddenly struck with very severe headaches which were eventually diagnosed as temporal giant cell arteritis. When I felt well enough to return to Meeting, I told the Friends of my queer disease. Since I expected my recovery to take from one to three years, I asked those present to please refrain from asking me how I felt. I said if there were any great changes I would let them know and in the meantime I would like, as much as possible, to focus on things other than my health. At the end of that meeting Martha came all the way across the hall to tell me she also suffered from giant cell arteritis and was trying to get off the powerful medications that successfully mask the symptoms while they heal, but leave us with many serious complications to worry about. By then I was in a state of constant worry that my problems were mostly imagined, and that perhaps I was not physically sick at all. What a great relief it was to actually know that someone I trusted really knew about the many queer things that were happening to me. Martha and I became sister-like friends in a matter of minutes.

From then on, when my health permitted, we tried to have lunch together on Thursdays. Sometimes we met at a restaurant. Often throughout the fall we met at the bottom of Sugarloaf Mountain, each with part of our picnic lunch. I left my car at the meeting place and rode with Martha to the top of the mountain. She insisted on driving because she had handicap plates on her car and thus could park nearer to the picnic tables. At the top we ate each week at the same table under the trees. We talked of the books we were writing and the covers she was making. We read each other's work and commented on how full our lives had been.

After lunch, we took a walk to the tower to visit the ladies' room and then to the fence that was put there to keep us from failing over the cliff. We looked at the river and twisting roads far below. Each time we followed a different set of roads as if they were a picture map, and picked out a set to follow once we were back down in the valley. After driving to the bottom in Martha's car, we transferred to mine and drove the route we had planned from above.

We made several trips south through Whately starting along the river road and returning to the foot of the mountain by a new route each time. Once we crossed the river and drove south toward Hadley. Our trip north along the west side of the river brought us to the railroad roundhouse before we came out on Route 5 at the edge of Greenfield.

I always suggested Martha would be better able to enjoy the view from the passenger's seat. That was convincing enough for her to switch cars. Actually, I thought she was too old to spend much time behind the wheel, especially following a large meal and, for her, a long walk. She, however, had told me more than once that she was never going to go to England again. "Do you know," she would say, "in England they will not rent cars to visitors over eighty!" That of course was enough for Martha to do her future foreign traveling elsewhere.

When the leaves were all on the ground and the days were gray, we began eating in restaurants again. Sometimes I would invite Sue Fletcher to join us so I could feel more comfortable about Martha's safety on the way. In the early spring we three had a great time at the Franklin County Trade School dining room. Martha ate the entire man-sized meal on her plate that noon. She certainly enjoyed the young people who served us and was delighted that we took so long in eating that the kitchen crew, in their tall white cotton chef's hats, came out of the kitchen and sat down near us for their own dinner.

Most of our mid-winter lunches were at Martha's house. We both worked toward the preparation of each of these events, and were always unwilling to part when our time was up.

In February, Sue held a brunch in her home. She invited her bird-watching friends, young neighbors and Quaker Friends. Martha, Ilse, Mary Ellen and I went together in my car. As we walked into Sue's home we bumped into a large group of bird-watchers none of whom we knew. Mary Ellen took all of our coats into a nearby bedroom while I helped our older companions to serve themselves many goodies from Sue's festive table, then ushered them into the kitchen where there was a table with sturdy dining chairs and a few very small children in playpens with watchful mothers standing by. From the beginning both Ilse and Martha were fascinated by the babies. Their being settled and happy, I helped myself to food and got caught up in the midst of the bird-watchers. They turned out to be such an interesting group, time flew by and I forgot about my passengers.

When I suddenly woke up, I realized we had been there nearly two hours. I hurried into the kitchen hoping we all were still on speaking terms. Both ladies were enjoying the others in that room. I suggested that perhaps it was getting near time for us to think about going home. They agreed and almost at once began to get up. Once in the car and heading home, Martha, who was sitting next to me on the front seat, said, "That was the nicest party I have been to in a very long time. I wish we could have stayed longer."

She certainly was enjoying life up there in her mid-nineties. Still, almost every time I was with her she remarked about not wanting to begin life all over again. "I have buried three husbands. That is enough. I really do not want to start all over again." I knew what she meant, but she certainly was not ready to give up and die. She had so many projects going that all needed to be finished before she could really be ready to leave.

One Thursday in early March was so warm I phoned Martha to ask if she would like to have a picnic on Sugarloaf. She wasn't quite game for such an adventure that day. She said she had been feeling a little tired lately and thought she would pass it by.

The next week on Saturday, I phoned to see if I could use her printer to put my grandson's name on the cloth book cover I had just made for his birthday book. No one was home. The next day was March 18.

Martha Thompson had finished all of her projects. She quietly left all of us who knew her with the smiles that go with many, many happy memories, and the black hole that accompanies the loss of a great big part of your life.

Oh, how I miss her.