Sensible Shoes

Dr. Mary Jane McIvor

As I'm readying my Christmas cards for mailing, I'm thinking about all the relatives I discovered this year, some living and some historical. Here's a story I wrote this past spring about finally discovering who one of Grandma Gertie's stories actually was about.

Sensible Shoes

“A raindrop landing on your cheek is a kiss from someone that lives in Heaven and is watching over you.” --Unknown

Not long after my husband died, I agreed to chat with a psychic. Ordinarily I nurture a healthy skepticism about messages from the great beyond. Nonetheless, for years I’d known this psychic as a fellow writer, an editor of anthologies I’d written for, so trusted him. He’d wanted to experiment with telephone readings and asked if I’d volunteer so he could hone his skills.

Toward the conclusion of our brief session, he astonished me.

“Ken wants you to know he’s content on the other side,” he’d reassured me, “but there’s somebody else approaching. An older woman wearing dark clothes and sensible shoes. Maybe your mother?”

I chuckled. “Nope. Mama wore high heels even to vacuum the living room and clean the bathroom. She looked exactly like the homemakers in the 1950s TV appliance commercials.”

“Grandmother, then? She says she’s been watching over you, that you’re following in the tracks of a long line of strong women who’ve shared your determination to succeed.”

“Grandma Gertie won a county fair prize once for her lemon meringue pie,” I replied, puzzled. “She was an excellent cook. But I don’t know if I’d call the sandals she favored sensible.”

“No, I’m getting an image of sturdy low-heeled high-top lace-ups, no frills,” he said. “Really sensible. Good for lots of walking over rough terrain.”

“I’m sorry. I’m bewildered. I can’t imagine who it could be. Neither of my grandmothers were outdoors people, nor any of the aunts.”

“Well,” the psychic added, “She says the women who came before you are proud of you and who you’ve become.”

“Who I’ve become?”

“Yes,” the psychic paused. “She’s aware you write stories about your life. And that you’ve traveled all over the world.”

I smiled. I couldn’t imagine why my anthology tales or my globetrotting would have captured the attention of anybody in the hereafter. My psychic friend had known these facts about me though. I couldn’t help but wonder if his imagination had carried him away.

Nonetheless, skeptic or not, I’m always delighted at the thought of pleasing somebody, even an ethereal soul I’d never known. The notion of a guardian angel ancestor buoyed my spirits for days. But after relating the comforting allusions to my late spouse, plus the amusing details of the rest of the reading, to a few close pals, I tucked away the memory of this conversation.

Over the next decade I continued to travel, and I continued to write. From time to time I’d wonder about the woman the psychic had referenced. Was she still tracking my life here on Earth?

This past spring, my current beau and I returned from an arduous trip to Hong Kong and Sri Lanka.

“This might be our last trip, honey,” I’d warned. “My lower back and feet are starting to give out.”

“Maybe one or two more,” he’d suggested, “if we don’t have to take any long flights.”

“We’ll see.” I remained hesitant. I’ve been struggling with spinal stenosis and disc deterioration. Sometimes I’ve thought I’ve outlived my skeleton.

Not long after, I received an email from a gentleman claiming to be a distant cousin.

“I came across your blog post that mentioned your Grandma Gertie. I'm certain that my grandfather and Grandma Gertie were first cousins. I'm curious about what you know about the family. I've done a fair amount of research over the years but still have some questions. Gertie's name shows up in my records, but I’d never seen a picture of her prior to stumbling onto your blog.”

I responded, recounting my memories of Grandma Gertie and her three sisters, all of whom I’d known as a child. I attached several ancient photos that I’ve treasured since childhood, most taken by Grandma Gertie herself with her little box Brownie.

Then came the surprise. Skilled in genealogical research, this cousin had traced our family back to the 1830s, to the birth of a woman I remembered Grandma mentioning, Mary McIvor. In my early teens, Grandma told me when she was born in Santa Ana, CA, in 1890, she’d been delivered by Mary McIvor. I vaguely recalled her bragging that this woman, a relative, was the first female to practice medicine west of the Mississippi river. I couldn’t remember exactly her relationship to Grandma.

My cousin though sent a chart with a carefully assembled and documented family tree. He’d attached a portrait photo he’d located, with a couple of clippings. Dr. Mary Jane McIvor had been a physician in Boulder, CO, in the 1870s. Indeed, she’d been Grandma Gertie’s maternal grandmother.

Guess what? In the photo Mary’s seated in a Victorian parlor, gazing into the middle distance, cradling a book in her lap. And from beneath the hem of her dark ankle-length skirt pokes the shiny toe of what looks like a suitably sensible shoe. The kind likely fashioned for a woman who trudges house to house, medicine bag in hand, across rugged rural roads. This was her practice, according to the accompanying newspaper clipping. I stared at the photograph. I could feel the rough serge fabric of her pleated skirt slapping against my ankles.

Soon my newly-discovered cousin emailed another photo, an additional newspaper clipping. This one, dated November 17, 1915, was from The Patriot, published in Harrisburg, PA. The article reported that my great-great-grandmother, once again living in Pennsylvania, planned to leave the following week for a trip across the continent to Nevada. It mentioned her prior medical practice in the west where she’d been a great believer in the curing power of herbs.

The reason for her new westward trek? She intended to organize a gold mining expedition in Luning, Nevada, 2500 miles away. Dr. Mary then was 85!

I tried to picture how she’d planned to travel. Trains? Early motor cars? Stagecoaches still progressed across the country in 1915. I consulted the detailed timeline my cousin had sent, complete with census records. Mary had crisscrossed the country, from Colorado to Oregon to California and again to Pennsylvania and back to California. I remember Grandma once saying her grandmother had driven her pregnant daughter to California in a horse and buggy.

I gazed again at the photo from the 1870s. This time I fancied I could sniff the scents of the mint, ginger and chamomile that emanated from her medical bag.

Suddenly my looming 81^st birthday seemed less ominous. My back didn’t ache quite so much.

I phoned my boyfriend that evening.

“Don’t worry about this next trip,” I said. “I’m up to it. All I need is a pair of sturdy sensible shoes and a guardian angel. I think I’ve got both.”

I’d told him about Dr. Mary and her photographs, and her planned gold mining expedition at age 85.

“So,” he asked, “do you think she’s the woman who tried to reach you through the medium?”

I paused. Then I swatted away my Doubting Thomasina thoughts.

 “Yes, sweetheart. I certainly do.”

If Dr. Mary’s still watching…just so she’ll know…I’ll head east next month. And north. And again west. I might not cover quite 2500 miles. But it will be close. I’ve already bought sensible shoes. And some chamomile tea. Just in case.