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The Driftwood Queen

My life is like a stroll upon the beach, As near the ocean's
edge as I can go.

The Fisher's Boy

The ocean is, was and always will be a big part of my life. My parents were
ocean aficionados, and I was introduced to its beauty and serenity at an early
age. I learned to swim before I walked, had a fishing pole placed in my hands
at age two and was taught how to pilot a small craft by age five—thanks
to my father, who allowed me to "assist" in rowing home.

My fascination with the ocean escalated as the family spent the
summer on the eastern end of Long Island on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean.
I was an early riser, and by age ten I was permitted to go down to the beach
in the morning to collect shells on my own. Every day I would dress quickly,
grab my bucket and head for the beach. I would climb the sand dunes that hid
the ocean from view and sit quietly at the top and watch the waves tumble onto
the shore as I ate my breakfast roll.

One morning I noticed an older, shabbily dressed woman walking
along the beach pulling, of all things, a sled. Now and then, she would stop,
pick up a piece of driftwood, examine it carefully and either discard it or
place it on the sled.

I called out to her.

"Hello," I said.

She didn't acknowledge me. As only a child can, I took this as
an open invitation to join the search. I looked for any driftwood that she had
missed and retrieved it for her inspection. She said nothing, but seemed pleased
with my company.

After a half-hour, I tapped her on the shoulder, said good-bye
and started for home.

After telling my parents about my new acquaintance, my mother
explained that I had met, as the town folk called her, The Driftwood Queen,
or "Queenie" for short. Dad said she was a poor soul who lived in
a rundown cottage near the bay. The community left food packages on her doorstep
once a week, and the church collected clothing on her behalf. No one knew her
real name, and many stories had circulated about where she had come from and
why she collected the driftwood. Everyone had a different slant on the story,
but the exact truth had never surfaced. She had become the town enigma, known
only by her nickname.

My parents were kind and loving people and saw no problem with
my association with Queenie. So each morning I would wait for her to appear
and was always delighted at the smile on her face when she spotted me. I now
carried an extra breakfast roll with me, and Queenie devoured it with gusto.

We scoured the beach, enjoying the cool ocean breeze and the
feel of the ocean mist on our bodies. Although we still exchanged no words,
we became friends through our daily enterprise.

One morning I saw a large piece of driftwood floating close to
shore and retrieved it before it could be carried out to sea. Queenie was elated.
We put the piece on her sled, which was now full, and usually that meant the
end of our day together. But Queenie tugged at my sleeve and motioned for me
to follow her. Before long we stood in front of a small house that had fallen
into disrepair. Remembering how my father had described Queenie's home, I knew
where I was.

She deposited the large piece of wood that we had found earlier
next to the house, then beckoned me to follow her inside. I couldn't believe
what I saw. The furniture, the cabinets, the pictures on the wall and the many
exquisite-looking sculptures—all were made from driftwood.

"Queenie, did you make all these things?" I exclaimed.

She nodded her head, smiled a toothless grin and gestured for
me to sit down. She left for a second. When she returned, she placed some cookies
in front of me and scribbled on a large note pad. Her message said, "Hello
Anne, my name is Erma. Welcome to my home."

I smiled and answered, "Hi Erma, these cookies are great,
and your house is beautiful."

She reached over and patted my hands with great affection and
then began to write again. "I don't talk very well, but I want you to know
that I love your company."

"Me, too, Erma."

We continued our daily quests until it was time for my family
to return to the city. Summer was almost over, and school beckoned. I saw tears
in my friend's eyes as I said good-bye, and I assured her that I would see her
next summer. She placed a small package wrapped in newspaper in my hands and
kissed me on the cheek. I ran home, not turning to wave, as I knew I would cry.
Inside the package was a seagull carved from driftwood. Today, some forty-eight
years later, it still stands in my curio cabinet. Sadly, I never saw Erma again.
My parents sat me down after school one day to say a letter had arrived from
the chaplain at the hospital on Long Island. Erma had been rushed to the hospital
after being found lying in the snow near her home. She had lingered for several
days before she succumbed to pneumonia. Before she died, she had written a letter
in front of the chaplain addressed to "My best friend, Anne."

The chaplain knew my parents and of my association with Erma
and had forwarded the letter to us. It said simply: "Thank you for being
my friend. I love you. Take my driftwood and make others happy. Love Erma."
It took me weeks before I could talk to my parents about Erma's death. She was
the first person I knew who had died. I found it hard to relate to the fact
that I would never see her again. I dreamed about her, the ocean behind her
smiling face, the beauty of her driftwood.

My family donated the collection to the church community center
for all to see and use. I told my parents that I knew this would make Erma happy.
They agreed. Every summer, the first stop we made, upon arrival, was at this
small meeting hall. I would stand and gaze in awe at the items that had come
from the ocean and had been transformed into works of art by my friend. Mom
and Dad said they were proud of me for the kindness I had shown toward Erma.
I knew I had received so much more than I had ever given. I had learned that,
like the ocean, love goes on forever.

Anne Carter

¬2003. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Chicken Soup for
the Ocean Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Wyland. No
part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the
publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc., 3201 SW 15th Street, Deerfield
Beach, FL 33442.