Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
He started the car and put it into gear. “You’re right,” he mumbled under his breath, “I need to remember that.”
I expected perhaps a nurse or two to show up to the church. I was not prepared for hundreds of people who attended Marlene’s service. Not a single person was there because of me. The large church was packed with friends and teammates of Brody’s. I don’t know why I was surprised; everyone loved the man. He introduced me to a few people, and the first chance I got, I excused myself to go sit in a pew. Right before the service was about to start, Brody walked to the front row to join me. His hand was meshed with his girlfriend's, and there was another woman with them.
Luckily, the priest began to speak, forcing any uncomfortable introductions to wait. The service was simple, and I thought I had gotten through it without falling apart. Until the priest asked if anyone would like to get up and say a few words, and Brody stood.
He talked about how his mother had died when he was seven, and his dad had never remarried. The one grandmother he had lived a country away, and he had no real experience with girls. That got a good chuckle from the audience. Then he told a story I had never heard.
“After my mom’s burial, everyone came back to our house. I don’t remember too much, but I remember people were sitting around talking and laughing. I didn’t get how they could be smiling when my mother had just been buried. So I went outside to stew a bit, and my neighbor, Marlene, found me out front on the stoop. She sat down next to me and tried to get me to talk, but I wasn’t much in the mood. After a while, she told me to follow her, and we went back to her house next door.
“She took me into the kitchen and started asking me to grab things for her. Vanilla, milk, flour. She’d point to the cabinet where they were, and I’d get them out. Eventually, we started to talk while she made cookies. When we were done, I remember sitting down at her kitchen table with a big glass of milk and a tower of oatmeal-raisin cookies in front of me. She explained that there were going to be days in life that would be very hard, and the best way to get through them was to find one good thing to focus on. My mom had just died, and it was pretty impossible to find good in anything, but Marlene was so nice to me, I didn’t want to disappoint her. So, before I left to go back to my house, I thanked her and told her that the one good thing for me was her making me cookies that day.
“I’ve never told anyone this, and Marlene and I never discussed it, but for the next twenty odd years, I’d often discover a batch of oatmeal-raisin cookies left where I could find them. In fifth grade, when I flipped over my bicycle handlebars trying to do a wheelie and broke my arm, warm oatmeal raisin cookies kept me company that night. In eighth grade, when I threw an interception that lost the playoff game against our biggest rival, there was a Tupperware full of cookies on my doorstep. Senior year, when I didn’t get into my first pick of colleges, cookies. Five years ago, when my dad retired to Arizona and we packed the last of his things in the moving truck, cookies in the front seat of my unlocked car after I hugged my dad goodbye.
“This morning, on my way here, I stopped off at the bakery around the corner from where I grew up. It was Marlene’s favorite bakery. I bought a bag full of oatmeal-raisin cookies. For more than twenty years, she kept up making me those cookies, and every time it would bring me a smile. But this morning, as I ate one, it just wasn’t the same. You know why? Because it was never the cookies. It was the lady who took the time to recognize I might not have anything to smile about, and made sure to give me a reason. She was my reason.
“Marlene is survived by her daughter, Amanda, and her granddaughter, Willow. She may not have been my blood, but she was there through all my sweat and tears—so she’s my family, too. I know Marlene wouldn’t want any of us to cry today. She’d want us all to find that one good thing and hang on to it until things get better. But to truly honor the life of Marlene Garner, the next time you see someone having a bad day, make them a batch of oatmeal-raisin cookies in her honor. It could mean more than you’ll ever know.”