When the radio announcer relayed the news of Shirley Temple Black’s death on Monday morning, I knew what the topic of conversation would be during my weekly visit with Mom.
Sure enough, Curly Top was on Mom’s mind on Tuesday. “Shirley Temple died,” she announced when I stepped through the door. “She was 85.”
“Same age as you,” I replied. “You kind of grew up together.”
Mom nodded. “My mother made Shirley Temple dresses for me and Ruth.”
The story is one Mom likes to tell, so I didn’t well bother to ask if the dresses were made out of feed sacks. I knew they were. “Did she fix your hair like hers, too?” I asked instead.
Ruth, about age 6, and Mom about age 4, a few years before Shirley Temple hit the silver screen.
Another nod. “Uh-huh. And sometimes, we went to Pipestone to see her movies.” Mom smiled at the thought of those long ago days.
Mom’s face brightened as she recounted old memories about the people who populated her early childhood–her parents, six brothers and sisters, and Shirley Temple.
All gone. They’re all gone, and my heart ached for her loneliness. But getting weepy wasn’t the way to honor Little Miss Broadway. “Where do you want to go for lunch?” I asked in my perkiest voice.
We finally settled on Chili’s, and halfway through the chips and salsa Mom said, “Shirley Temple died.”
“You kind of grew up together,” I said, and we were off and running again.
The Little Colonel’s passing came up several more times that afternoon, but Mom never displayed a hint of sadness. Only happy memories brought to life by the death of Bright Eyes: the dresses made from feed sacks, hours spent playing with her sister Ruth, eating meals with her parents and siblings at the crowded kitchen table, the excitement of going to the movies on a Saturday afternoon.
Not a mention of the imminence of death. Not a hint of fear. Just delight in the past, and I think, a readiness for one day in the future when she will follow The Littlest Rebel out of this world and into the next. A readiness to join her parents, her 6 siblings, their spouses and her husband in death.
Until that day comes, my brother will tease her. My sister will phone often. Her grandchildren, nieces, and nephews will send cards and pictures. Her baby sister, born when Mom and Susannah of the Mounties were 6, will call. And I will visit on Tuesdays, grateful for Mom’s delight in the long ago days when she is young, and Shirley Temple lives.
