Memoirs of Doris Estelle Nichols Gordon

Early Memories
Somerville, MA, where I was born, is right next to Medford. Tufts College is in between. We lived in Somersville until I was three years old. Our house was right next to the elementary school where my two older brothers, Paul and Ray, preceeded me.

One winter Saturday I went with them to the schoolyard with a sled. We were going to try to coast down a hill. There were some boys that came and asked my brothers, “Who’s the little pip-squeak with you?” My brother said, “That’s our sister.” Even though I felt insulted by the boys, I felt validated by my brothers. I was honored that they didn’t try to side with the boys who had implied that I was a pest. In fact, my brothers never called me their “little kid-sister.”

One day I wanted to play with a neighbor girl down the street. She was calling to me to come and play with her. I told my mother I wanted to go down there but she didn’t offer to go with me. I went anyway but half-way to her house I was scared by a dog. So I turned back and went home, wishing I were brave.

These incidences are among my earliest memories.

We moved to West Medford right next to the bridge going into Arlington. We lived there from age 3 to 3rd grade (six or seven years). Our house was between Kilgore Ave. and the bridge. Mom used to shop across the bridge in Arlington and take me with her. We always walked because she didn’t have a car. That’s where I learned to enjoy walking. I have no idea what we bought. We went to the 5 & 10 store for “essentials.” Once in a while, she would buy me an ice cream on the way home. I never asked for a treat and she didn’t offer often. She was very frugal.

I remember we took picnics up the Mystic Valley Parkway to a little beach on one of the Mystic Lakes where you could picnic. It had a playground with a sandbox and slide. One time we went to a place with lots of sandy ground. Dad made a whole golf course there. Dad was very inventive. We enjoyed things he dreamed up. In the second lake, there was a point of land we called Nichols Point. Dad had a canoe that he would put in. One time, he went out in it and tipped over and lost a shoe. So he decided to kick off the other shoe since there was no need for it.

Then in 3rd grade we moved to 10 Usher Road where I lived until 6th grade. We lived on the first floor and the owner lived upstairs with his mother who was the grandmother to the three Crosby kids. Their mother had a well-cared for rose garden in the front yard. But she had died before we moved in and so the garden went downhill from there. We very much enjoyed playing in the yard because the backyard was fairly empty, with gravel all around, and it was a great place to play in.

A family with two girls, Barbara and Susan Oldfield, lived down at the corner. Barbara was older and Susan was younger. They were members of our church. The gang that lived in the neighborhood played in our backyard frequently. We played red light/green light, dodgeball, hide & seek, etc. But every time we were out playing, Barbara and Susan came over to play. It was never more than about 20 minutes into the playtime when Barbara would complain of being mistreated and go home to tell her mom. Susan would follow. A few minutes later she would come back and say, “My mother wants to see you, Dottie.” So I would go home with them and their mother was there, and she asked what happened. I would tell her that Barbara said that she was mistreated but no one could point to anything. The mom would say, “Well, try to play better.” It got old. You could count on this happening. Some days Barbara would invite me over in the afternoon. We’d sit on the swinging chair and talk. I would overhear the parents arguing incessantly. I thought: this must be what Barbara and Susan think relating to others is like: to argue. It was very sad.

One time Ms. Oldfield came to our house and talked with my mother. I don’t know what they said and my mother didn’t tell me much. Another time our pastor got into the act to ‘straighten things out’ but he didn’t know what to say either.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Goldstein, walked me over to the church to show me where it was. There was a junior choir at the church. I couldn’t wait to join but you had to be in 3rd grade to join. So it wasn’t until we moved to Usher Road that I was old enough to sing in the choir. I loved it! It was my first chance to sing with other kids in a choir.

Our whole family attended but Dad didn’t attend a lot. It made him fidgety to sit that long in church. This is where my Christian education began. There were many Sunday School teachers. They had Junior, Junior High, Senior High, & Young Peoples’ Christian Endeavor. They taught us how to pray, how to find things in the Bible, and how to plan a lesson - lots of great leadership training.

Across High Street was an area we called N_______ town. We never went there. There was an elementary school there for the children of that neighborhood.


My Self-Rescue Story

It happened when Ray and Paul were still living at home. I was in high school. On this particular evening, I had gone to our church for choir rehearsal. I was late getting home. It was around 10:00 p.m. When I arrived at home, I realized that I didn’t have my housekey with me. We lived on the 3rd floor of a 3-story house. There was a front porch which was outside our front door so I could go on the porch but not get into the house. The porch had windows on each side – the one on the right went into my brother’s bedroom at an angle. I decided that the only way in was to climb in the window. So I pondered whether I could get in the window without waking up my brothers. I also pondered whether a policeman down below might see me and think I was someone breaking into the house. But I decided to do it anyway – I had no choice. I didn’t know why they had already gone to bed before I had gotten home.

I know we had screens on our windows and I can’t remember how I managed to open the screen because most of them are inaccessible from the outside. But I somehow managed the screen. Then I was able to lift the window very slowly and very carefully because I didn’t want to wake my brothers. I was imagining what they might say if they saw me or someone they didn’t recognize coming in the window, and how they would react. So I crawled very slowly through the window – it was low enough so I could do that. No one stirred. So I got all the way through and crept very carefully all the way around their beds to get to the door out their bedroom.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief that I had gotten through their room. Then I tried to imagine: what if I had woken them up? How would they have reacted? And if I found my mother waiting up for me in the kitchen, how would she have reacted? Would I have told her how I had gotten in? None of them knew I didn’t have my key with me. Then I thought, should I tell anyone what I did? So I went to bed, relieved. To this day, I don’t know if I told any of them.


Mrs. Goldstein

The year was probably 1932 and I was 3 years old when my family moved from Somerville to Medford, two side-by-side, city-suburbs of Boston.  Our new address: 627 High St., has remained fresh in my memory for 90 years.  There was a large maple tree at the edge of the front yard (to this day maple is my favorite tree).  In the yard next door grew a lilac bush where I got my first whiff of lilac (It has remained my favorite fragrance).  Of all the memories of the six years we lived on that street, and there are many, the dearest one is of the neighbor who lived in that house next door.  Her name was Mrs. Goldstein.   I still think of her whenever I encounter lilacs.

She had a husband with whom my Dad played many a game of horseshoes in the back yard on summer evenings. But the Goldsteins had no children.  I’ll never know if that was the reason she took such an interest in me. But she had a gift for making me feel special. 

I had two older brothers but I was their lone sister. They were already in school but I had to wait for two more years to start. There was no kindergarten then in Medford, to my great disappointment.  It must have been during those 2 years that Mrs. Goldstein introduced our family to her church, the West Medford Baptist.  It was close by and it had a kindergarten Sunday school class with a table-height sand box to boot! It was the beginning of my relationship with a church family and a faith.   I matriculated through the Sunday School classes as I entered public school.  One sweet memory pops up.  I needed some help with a lesson one day so I asked Mrs. G. to help me. When I got to her house she had homemade muffins waiting. When I naively told her my Mother frowned on between-meal snacks, she said she didn’t think one muffin would hurt me.  I ate two.  They were delicious!!  She smiled a smile I will always treasure.  It was a smile of affirmation which said loud and clear: “You are a very valuable person”.  Being shy and longing to be valued, I reveled in that affirmation.

Several years later I was ready to ask to be baptized.  There again Mrs. G. was in charge of preparing candidates which ended with a test on which I did fine except for one question. But Mrs. G. insisted I learn the answer by looking it up in the Bible and reading aloud the words of Jesus, “A new commandment I give you, that you love one another.” I shall never forget that vital verse, thanks to a very conscientious teacher.

When I reached adolescence, I had a Sunday school teacher who had the pupils keep a scrap book of all our work.  The pupil who did the best work would get to go to the Baptist Camp in Maine for two weeks in the summer at the church’s expense. By some calculation I was the lucky girl.  Since Mrs. G. was the Sunday School Superintendent at that point,  I felt pretty sure she had a hand in it.  I know I gained a great deal from that experience, enough so my parents paid for me to go for three more summers.

In the ensuing years I met and married Gary. We were married in the chapel of the Old South Church in Boston. Alfaretta Goldstein was there with her beaming smile.  Gary and I moved to New Jersey but visited her at least twice when we were in Medford visiting my parents.  She got introduced to three of our children.  Always we were greeted with that affirming smile along with her keen interest in our lives.  It was no surprise to me to learn that she had also showered other children in the church with her caring love and made them feel special.   For me it came full circle: from 627 High St. to still feeling her love until she died several years after I was married.  Her smile, her listening ear, her long-term caring enriched my life immeasurably. I had done nothing to deserve her love, she simply gave it unconditionally like the commandment, “Love one another”.   I suddenly realized how unconditional that commandment is.     

My Dad the Gardener
My Dad was a man of many talents: painting, music, poetry, storytelling, cooking, interior decorating, and gardening. As life would have it, he never had any formal training in any of these fields, except one: gardening. After serving in two or three branches of the military in World War II, he returned home and chose to enroll in the Bristol County Agricultural School for, I think, two years, at least long enough to learn the basics of gardening. He would apparently have stayed longer but for feeling somewhat out of place since most of the students were younger than he. They had not served in the military in World War II. Anyway, wherever and whenever Dad had the opportunity it seems he planted a garden.

The one I remember the best was when we moved to Medford Hillside and were renting the 3rd floor of a three-story house next to an apartment building. The backyard was fairly small and used mostly, if at all, by the family who occupied the first floor. Behind that was a long strip of empty land and beyond that ran the B & O railroad track which was built below ground level so the trains didn’t disrupt the neighborhood very much. But we could still watch them go by and count the cars for fun. Dad found out the owner of the empty land and got permission to use the part behind our yard to make a garden.

And what a garden it turned out to be! First was the plowing up of the soil, then came getting rid of the hundred of small stones in it in which the whole family was recruited to help. After that was the furrowing and seed planting done by Dad himself, as I remember. There was a great many rows and a large variety of seeds. This was to be a purely vegetable garden. By early summer, things began popping and stakes got put in for climbing plants to climb on: green beans, tomatoes, and whatever.

Aside from the delight of watching the vegetables grow, and seeing Dad share them with neighbors, the part I think I liked the best was simply being surrounded by nature outdoors with our family all enjoying that together in a space we could call our own.

Eventually my brothers left home to seek their fortunes and I moved with my parents to Brookings Street where we occupied the ground floor of a two-story house. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Pond, a sweet elderly couple, lived on the second floor. The back yard there was ours to enjoy but it needed much tending. So again, Dad got permission, readily given, to perform his magic, only this time it was with flowers, a bountiful border of them around three sides, two or three young trees in the open space, and a bench or two to sit on and admire the variety of color and blooms beautifully chosen. It was from that house that I was married. I would love to have spent time drinking in the beauty my Dad had created, but was very glad for my Mother to have that gift to enjoy in her final years. She deserved every bit of it! God had other plans for me every bit as wonderful and I cherished the memories of the happiness Dad found in using his hands to work with nature, making good use of the formal training he had acquired years earlier. (Would that he could have had the same kind of formal training in music and fine arts and writing to have found more self-fulfillment in those God-given talents as well).
 
The Agony of Racial Discrimination Close to Home
When I was in 3rd grade we moved to a different neighborhood in West Medford: 10 Usher Road. Regarding the three years we lived there I could write several stories. The one I am most anxious to write I shall call “the agony of racial discrimination close to home.”

One summer afternoon two little girls, Janice and Charline Roberts, whose family and just moved into the recently vacated house two homes away from ours, saw me outdoors and across the yard and sweetly pleaded with me to come play with them. So I did. I knew what the ramifications were going to be. It meant a negro family moved into our all-white neighborhood. I knew their names because their father had been the janitor of my elementary school as long as I had gone there. He was well respected by the whole school, being kind, ______, responsible, honest, and caring. But he was not white.

As soon as I got home after a fun time with the children, who were all well-mannered, fun, and neatly dressed and hospitable as any 3- or 6-year-old could be, my Mother asked me where I had been. I knew she knew exactly where I had been. She could see me out the window, and she wasn’t happy. I also knew why she wasn’t happy. I had heard her tell the story, many times, of when she and Dad had been in Key West early in their marriage. Dad was in the army. Key West was an army base then. Close to the house they were assigned to was a bungalow habited by a large number of ‘disreputable’ negroes of assorted ages whose life style was far different from my Mother’s. I believe they were probably the 1st negros she had ever come into contact with. And I was keenly aware that they represented to her the entire negro race. So she told me, “I don’t want you to play with those children.” That was the first and only time she ever objected to who I played with. I sensed that anything I would say in defense of my choice would fall on deaf ears. I also wonder now how I had stayed clear of prejudice myself.


A Not Too Typical Day at Asbury

November 9, 2021

It was a beautiful dawn with the cradle half-moon beaming brightly through my bedroom window. I got my coffee and read a short portion of my latest read, “The Lincoln Highway,” knowing I needed to be ready for my cleaning lady at 9:15.

Later, while she was cleaning, I got a call from a friend, Sally O’Neal, with the sad news that a resident on my floor, Ellen Klotz, had passed away that morning after several months of failing memory and health. We will surely miss her gentle quiet, optimistic spirit; I’m very glad to have known her.

After the noon meal I headed out walking to the Rosborough Theater to audition with the Diamonds-in-the-Rough for the upcoming Asbury’s Got Talent show. I got there early enough to hear Patty Hussen audition with her funny skit (Patty is the wife of George Hussen who had worked with Gary at Comsat). I am the pianist for the DIRs. When they all arrived for our audition, it took time to get us arranged on stage with the piano and mics and chairs, etc. When we played one of our three pieces the theater person said the piano wasn’t loud enough. So a mic was placed near, on, and at the piano but with the same results. Finally, it was placed on the floor under the strings of that lovely grand piano and that did the trick! It was the first time we had had someone outside of our group give us such a helpful critique of our combined sound.

I rode home with the other four DIRs, collected what I needed to go to the pool for some more exercise, and drove back to Rosborough in my car. Passing in sight of the main gate of Asbury I was surprised to see at the gate a crowd of people and police cars in flashing lights and security guards. Hmmmm! I took a short cut to the pool to keep out of the way. At the pool I struggled to don the shoes that the life guard had suggested for me to cushion my sore foot. It took him and me and a six-foot shoehorn to get them on. But when I tried to swim I couldn’t keep my balance. Scary! Til he told me the shoes are for walking in the water, not swimming. Whew! That was better. I think I may adopt this very method of exercise.

On the way home the commotion was still at the main gate. Around 4:30 I went to ask our concierge about it. He was reluctant to give out any specifics. My friend Ruth Marquis was at the concierge also, trying to find out where Muddy Branch Road is. She had an appointment with a new dentist for the next day and wanted to learn the location ahead of time. After some discussion between her and me and the substitute concierge, I remembered where Muddy Branch Road is and offered to go with Ruth to help her find the dentist’s office. So off we went. I directed her on a shorter route than the concierge had suggested i.e. Chestnut Road via West Deer Park Drive to get to Muddy Branch. After driving a distance thereon looking for an 800 number it was clear we would need to go quite a way beyond the NIST property to find it. So we turned back. Ruth decided to try again on her own the next day. However, she wanted now to try the Deer Park Drive route to get back to 355 and discovered that I was right about it being the long way! When we got back to Asbury she wanted to see the situation at the main gate that I had told her about. Se we entered at the Russell Avenue gate and took a right on Asbury drive, around Park View and then circled through the Courtyard homes to arrive at a tape blocking off the main gate area which was still filled with evidence of a bad accident. A security guard was willing to answer Ruth’s questions: a truck had hit an elderly man trying to cross that busy intersection outside the Asbury gate, and unfortunately the man didn’t survive. To bring matters even closer to home, the man was an Asbury resident. We will eventually be told his name.
This event-filled day did end on a happier note for me at least. I was eating my last two bites of supper alone in my apartment when the phone rang: it was son Dubside calling to chat, so chat we did, quite happily! Thank you, Dubside.

Not every day at Asbury is as dramatic as this one was for some of us.

Doris Nichols Gordon, beloved wife, mother, aunt, and grandmother, passed peacefully from this earthly life into the arms of her Lord and Savior on October 14, 2024 at the age of 95. She had filled her years with grace and gratitude, considering the needs of her family and of those around her even to her last days, blessing them with gentle kindness and creativity.
Born in Somerville, a suburb of Boston, Massachusetts, Doris was the youngest child and only daughter of Morrill A. Nichols, and his wife, Isabel Dearborn Nichols. (Her father, a World War I refugee), made a modest living as an interior decorator, hanging wallpaper, while growing vegetables in the family Victory garden. During the Great Depression, her mother found work outside the home to make ends meet, and with the onset of WWII, she led the neighborhood in shading the windows during mandatory blackouts. Growing up in the Great Depression, Doris and her two older brothers learned early on the realities of economic hardship, health epidemics, and military drafts on the family. With the loss of a younger sibling to smallpox, and nearly losing her oldest brother in the war efforts, these difficulties only drew the family closer together.
Music from the family piano and other instruments in the home all contributed to Doris developing a strong interest in music from her early childhood. Much to her parents’ surprise, she pursued the academic route, and earned a degree in music education from Boston University. To help pay for college, she borrowed money from her brother, while also working summers as a waitress, camp counselor, and seamstress in a hat shop. With her degree, she taught music. She recalled most fondly her years teaching children at a school for the handicapped.
Mom had never traveled outside of the Boston area until she married her beloved husband, Gary Gordon, a burgeoning physicist and the eldest son of medical missionaries to Brazil. The two met at Old South Church in Boston in a young adult fellowship group that met weekly for Biblical teachings, choir practice, and many group outings, one of which sparked a romance that led to their marriage in 1956. Shortly thereafter, the newlyweds visited Brazil where Gary had lived as a child. They traveled on remote roadways and makeshift bridges – an adventure of a lifetime she’d never forget, and only one of many more to come.
Doris and Gary raised a family of four sons and a daughter, beginning in New Jersey, and continuing in Maryland, in the quaint little town of Washington Grove, where they made their home for forty-six wonderful years. Their home became a haven not only for the immediate family, but for numerous others including nieces, nephews, and extended friends of family. Together, Doris and Gary filled the home with joy, orderliness, and beauty. Mealtimes included not only setting the table but lighting candles and singing the blessing. Countless guests enjoyed this welcoming table as well.
Doris was also an accomplished pianist and an excellent accompanist. Naturally, the piano was an important centerpiece of their home, and Doris taught all her children how to read music and encouraged each one in their own musical endeavors, accompanying on the piano for their various music recitals and competitions. She also played and taught guitar and recorder. She brought melodious harmony, rhythm, and tempo into the home and into the lives of many. Her children remember well their mother accompanying at the piano for family devotions beginning and ending with hymn singing.
Doris brought her musical talent and interests to Gaithersburg Presbyterian Church where the family began attending in 1969. She is probably most remembered for her many dedicated years of directing the youth handbell choir. Her hard work paid off as these young ringers learned to make beautiful music while learning the responsibility and commitment it takes to do so. Doris also enjoyed years of singing in the Chancel Choir at GPC, and was glad to be a substitute director or accompanist whenever the need arose.
Alongside her music career, Doris developed her lifelong artistic talents as well. She produced a gallery full of watercolor and oil paintings, pen and ink drawings, and pastel sketches from her home art studio. Her subjects consisted mostly of natural landscape, familiar landmarks, still life compositions, flowers, animals, and people, especially her children and grandchildren. She saw beauty in all that God created and found joy in glorifying her Creator by reflecting that beauty in her art.
Doris took art classes at Montgomery College to further her skills and broaden her horizons. One such class was ceramics which she enjoyed so much that she decided, in her mid-60’s, to embark on a new venture in pottery. The result of this decision still remains a great inspiration to her children and many others. Her husband, Gary, supported her every step of the way, including buying her a kiln and serving as cashier for her pottery shows. Her pottery was also inspired by nature. She enjoyed creating pottery that was beautiful but also useful. When her grandchildren were old enough, she took great pleasure in allowing them to sit at her wheel as she guided them in creating a simple pot.
She carried her art talents into the community, organizing the first annual art show of local artists’ work at McCathran Hall in the Grove. She was instrumental in getting an art ministry started at GPC which included helping the congregation to create a giant mobile of paper cut-out symbols of worship that hung for years in the main entrance.
Doris and Gary kept up with their children and grandchildren by traveling all over the country and as far as Ecuador and Thailand. In later years, they enjoyed trips to Scotland, Wales, and Germany. Doris also joined a tour to explore Greece, and even ventured out on her own to meet up with her daughter and son-in-law in London for a memorable time in Oxford and the Cotswolds. As grandchildren were added, Doris and Gary kept the family bonds alive with yearly reunions at Westmoreland’s retreat house in VA. They had the joy of celebrating their 50th and 60th wedding anniversaries with family and friends.
In 2015, Doris and Gary made the transition to Asbury Methodist Home where they were welcomed by a community of new friends as well as those they had known from GPC. She and Gary enjoyed many walks together and times with nearby family, still joining in on annual events in Washington Grove. After the passing of her beloved husband in 2017, Doris continued to bless others with her piano playing and artwork, and even volunteering her time to work with children in a special art project. Not only did she keep up with family members near and far, but made regular visits to Asbury residents who had failing health or had moved to assisted living. Even when at last she herself had to make such transitions, she remained concerned for the needs of others around her. In her final days, Doris asked repeatedly about her late husband, Gary. We trust that they are finally reunited in the embrace of their precious Lord and Savior. One of Doris’ favorite verses was from Psalm 90, “Teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom.”
Doris was dearly loved and admired by her family, all to whom she was fully devoted. She will be deeply missed. Doris is joined by her late brothers, Ray and Paul, and is survived by her five children, their spouses, seven grandchildren, along with ten nieces and three nephews.
The memorial service will be held at 3:00 pm on Saturday, November 16, 2024 at Gaithersburg Presbyterian Church (610 S. Frederick Ave., Gaithersburg, Maryland). Reception to follow.

The Art of Serenity

A Memoir of Doris Nichols Gordon by her son, Norman G. Gordon

November 16, 2024

God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.” – Reinhold Niebuhr

I never heard Mom quote this saying. While she may have had it printed on a wall hanging somewhere or on some ornament, I never even heard her articulate the idea. But no other mantra better captures her life and testament. Over the course of her life, she had a knack for discerning what was possible and what was not, what was a vain hope and what was an opportunity. More importantly, she could respond accordingly to get the most out of life. In each stage of her long 95 years on this earth, through the diverse seasons she passed, she respected her limitations and took advantage of her options. Some people live beyond their means. Others never reach their potential. She lived within her means and reached her potential, and she did it all with the grace and poise of a master craftsman. She may never have become famous in any of her many disciplines or renowned for any particular pursuit. But her life was a masterpiece of design and composition – no rough edges, no loose ends, no glaring errors. No one could have taken what she was given and made it one iota better. It was a command performance.

What do I mean by limitations? Well, Doris Nichols was born in 1929. Her childhood embodied everything you and I associate with that year. Asked what it was like growing up in the Great Depression, she said: “well, if you didn’t have any money to start with, there was nothing to lose.” Her father painted houses and her mother was a secretary. Money was something that could easily slip away if not carefully counted, stored up, and saved for rainy days. They took few trips, never spent for entertainment, shopped for only the basics, and lived frugal lives. She recounted being taken by an aunt to a nice restaurant one day and asked what she would like to order. She hadn’t a clue: having never been to such a place, how would she possibly know what she might like? Her family’ poverty was compounded by tragic loss: at age two, her baby brother died. Her parents deemed it unsuitable for her to attend a funeral as a young child. She would have to grieve alone.

A poor, neglected childhood? Not as told by her! As she tells it, it was a childhood filled with curiosity and intentionality. At the top of the list was an invitation at an early age from a neighbor, Mrs. Goldstein, to attend the local Baptist church. Her family had not been particularly religious but this woman’s singular interest in Doris gave her the confidence to try something new. It opened the door to participation in the church choir and a whole new community, one which her family would eventually join with her. Most importantly, it opened her up to a life of faith launched by a mature woman of God and a caring congregation.

Early on, Mom found joy in a simple lifestyle, a skill she would carry with her for the rest of her years. She played outside with her big brothers, Ray and Paul, accompanied her mother to the grocery store, watched her father tend a garden in an abandoned lot beside their apartment. I never heard a hint of resentment or regret for her family’s economic status or class. Her world was her world and there was much to be discovered in it if one looked around.

But acceptance would never be confused by passive resignation. When on the verge of adulthood it came time to think about her future, she could visualize a path beyond the working class world of her childhood. While her parents had her slated as a cashier at the ‘five and dime’ store (early 20th century version the dollar store), she saw such a destiny as something she could in fact change. It wasn’t easy, but with some steely determination and a loan from her brother, she scraped together enough money to enroll in nearby Boston University, still a bold move for a woman back in the day. College meant her small neighborhood world opened up into the cosmopolitan world of the city. In it, she discovered world-class music: she always claimed she never found a conductor in any setting the rest of her life that matched the skill and finesse of her choir director at B. U. She found a new career: she would major in music education and complete her bachelor’s degree. It meant exposure to social circles made up of scholars from around the country who would pursue higher degrees and move into professional fields. It meant her curiosity about the world around her could be pursued on a much larger scale, be more meaningful, and lead to lifelong learning.

One such church social circle, built around the young adult group at the Old South Church, put her in touch with Gary Gordon, her future husband, an aspiring physicist who had grown up another hemisphere altogether. As their love grew, so did her acceptance of certain new limitations on her life. For example, a career in music education was not the fit she had thought it would be. She had chosen to start out her teaching career with a very challenging class of special needs children. Who knows if she would have gone further in education if she had chosen an easier classroom. Whatever the case, she would give it up for a more domestic occupation. For most of her life, while more and more women were choosing full-time careers in the workforce, she stuck to the home front. Maybe this was a very intentional choice or maybe it was simply accepting a life with my father that was not what she had originally anticipated.

No doubt she knew this would most likely mean child-rearing. Whether she had any idea it would mean rearing five children, I don’t know. Traditional families can be larger but most of the families of the friends I grew up with were smaller; five was a lot. Mom did the job with aplomb, managing this larger household with a traditional husband who worked 8 – 5 and brought a lot of homework home every night. She never complained (at least not in her children’s presence), never lost her temper, never had to ‘get away’ for any extended amount of time. And while I never got the sense she lived to be a mother or had longed for such a role, she embraced it wholeheartedly – acceptance! – and learned on the job. She was a great mom who keenly saw each of us as individuals and did her best to nurture our talents as well as transfer her passions to us. I recently came across a small journal in which she wrote out on each page my earliest sayings, carefully categorized and selected with drawings to go with them. In our family, the question was not whether we would take up a musical instrument or not, it was which instrument we would choose! For five years straight, until I could drive myself, she took me weekly to my trombone lesson across town and accompanied me on the piano for my solo performances through the years. I don’t think she particularly enjoyed cooking but she not only did it, she was constantly updating her recipe box with entrees from different cultures and suggestions from her kids. She washed clothes, assigned household duties, and disciplined us as need be. But she also encouraged our discovery of art, history, nature, and culture, investing in our non-academic education in ways that didn’t always net intended returns on investment. When I was in elementary school, I decided that I wanted to pursue leather work and a leatherworking kit – complete with fancy tools and equipment and no small price tag – would launch this pursuit. She paid for it. I brought it home. It never got much use. But she had been willing to take chances on us. Some years later, the upgrading of a rental trombone to a fine concert instrument did, on the other hand, net huge dividends for me for many years to come.

All this to say, childrearing may not have been what she dreamed of doing one day. But upon becoming a mother, she found ways to invest herself in the process and make it fulfilling, blessing others in the process.

Marrying my father did open up doors otherwise unimaginable for a small town Boston girl. She never quite got over the two-month trek through Brazil my father took her on soon after their wedding, introducing her to the first half of his life up close and personal. It was a long way away from New England in more ways than one. But she relished the discovery process ever if it was overwhelming at times. It was a good introduction to a clan - my Father’s - spread out across the world but never too far away from the next big reunion which, in later years, would more often than not land on her doorstep in Washington Grove with meals to prepare, sheets to change, and transportation to coordinate. I can only hope the joy, conviviality, and love that entered her home through innumerable sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews made up for the frequent impositions on her time and space. I think they did.

As children grew up and left home, and running a big household became a one-off event rather than routine, my mom saw an opportunity: free days and some discretionary funds to pursue what was maybe more of an actual calling, namely, fine art. While growing up, we had seen pen-and-ink drawings and watercolors. But now it was time to invest in a big way in what she saw as a family legacy, specifically, a Nichols family legacy. As I learned later, all the member of her nuclear family had skill with their hands – her Dad as a painter, Uncle Ray as a draftsman, Uncle Paul as a sculptor of wood. Moreover, she never felt like her father had been given the proper nurture as a child (his mother died when he was young) or opportunities to realize the full potential of his innate abilities. But his limitations would not be hers. Soon after I left home for college, my mom also returned to higher education, this time refining her skills as an artist. She began experimenting with different materials, different media, and various artistic techniques, using pastels one week and egg tempura another. Class after class she took. Who knows? Maybe she exhausted the community college’s offerings! At some point, she took a pottery class and uncovered an artistic talent that would surpass the rest. People appreciated her watercolor. People bought her pottery. After purchasing her own wheel and kiln, she began cranking out the sort of inventory one could make a living off of, although with my father’s income, there was not the need. Nevertheless, at least once a year she held a very successful art show in her home and usually sold out. It is pleasant to know that vestiges of her handiwork are spread throughout Montgomery County and beyond. Art would not be the summation of her talents but certainly its most signature manifestation, something she could call her very own.

And so from around age 50 to age 80, my mom lived her best life, creating art, participating in her local community of Washington Grove, hosting family, and serving in church. There was always a creative way to contribute to the greater good through her various affiliations: making outdoor signs for the Grove, forming an art group at church, substituting as director of the handbell choir, and when her grandchildren came along, passing on her passion to the next generation. 400 Center Street, their Washington Grove home for 46 years, sheltered the full panoply of her life pursuits: a basement for her wheel and kiln, a living room for the never-ending parade of guests she and my dad offered a home to, and a den where she and my dad could take turns learning more about their world - from encyclopedias to birdfeeders, from newspapers to tall tales told by world-travelling guests, from mathematical puzzles to hanging mobiles, from leaf-blown autumns to snow-white winters.

In the year 2015, their golden years began to wane. They were compelled to pack up their beloved Oak Manor and move to the nearby Asbury Methodist Village retirement community. Two years later, my dad passed away, leaving my quite healthy-for-her-age mom alone to carve out a very new and unchartered life. For starters, she had always left the finances to my dad. She had leaned heavily on my dad for organizing outings, trips, vacations, social gatherings, and family get-togethers as my Dad enjoyed these endeavors. Moreover, as my mom confided in me soon after being widowed, she had never in her life lived by herself. While she must have anticipated the possibility at some point, singlehood hadn’t really been planned for.

As uncomfortable as this new status may have been, mom knew what to do: don’t wallow in what you cannot purse but get busy with what you can!

That she did. I’ll never forget the moment sitting next to my mom at the dining room table at Asbury with my Dad, mere weeks away from his death, when my mom and I both realized that my dad was no longer capable of managing the bills and that this task would need to immediately pass to one of us: who would it be? She could have deferred to me, but she didn’t. At age 87, she grabbed the opportunity to do her own bookkeeping, thank you very much. And that set the tone for this final chapter in her life: downsizing into her own smaller apartment, creating her own friendship circles, picking and choosing from among the plethora of activities offered at Asbury such as the Diamonds in the Rough musical ensemble, the Keese Lecture Series, and select Bible studies. She continued to stay connected outside of Asbury as well, singing in the church choir at Gaithersburg Presbyterian as long as it was feasible, and of course accompanying her children and grandchildren to plays, concerts, soccer games, recitals and the like. Her life was all her own now and, given certain physical limitations which, due to her age, were relatively few, she delved into whatever suited her fancy. She carefully curated those causes she felt worthy of her philanthropic dollars. She compiled a personal reading list unparalleled in breadth and depth; I personally found her selections always well worth the read. And while she didn’t feel like her wheel and kiln would fit in her apartment, she continued to paint into her 90s, proudly displaying her work in the Asbury art gallery.

Serenity followed her into her final year despite its significant challenges. During the last nine months of her life she got a blood transfusion, lost a lot of sight, had to give up her driver’s license, suffered lots of aches and pains, needed more daily care, and finally had to move to assisted living. Accepting what she could not change was a weekly, sometimes daily decision. But she never stopped changing what she could, whether it was carefully choosing which floor she would live on at the assisted living facility, deciding whom she would dine with, or decorating her final one-bedroom deluxe apartment. Fondness for a hibiscus plant which we carefully transferred to her new place carried her spirits through those final days buoyed by the love and support of her children who never left her side out of gratitude for her almost century-long role in their lives. The week before she died, she was still enjoying strolls around the gardens by her granddaughter.

95 years. So many eras therein. My mom was both strong and gentle, purposeful and accommodating, introverted yet friendly, kind-hearted yet passionate, self-assured but meek. Her sweet spirit belied a life of dogged determination. Her faith in God ran deep but did not confine her to religious circles; her trust in her Lord could be found just as easily at the potter’s wheel as at the altar.

All told, she overcame many limitations to pull off a full, robust earthly existence. She served her husband, her children, the extended family, her church, and her community with diligence and imagination but never lost track of her unique callings and giftings. She created many beautiful works of art in her years but by far her greatest work of art was her very life, shared freely and generously to all those privileged to know her.