July 15, 2026–“Edna” taught all of us in the office how to walk.
Step… step… breathe. Step… step… breathe.
She demonstrated, walking across the lobby, pausing to inhale sharply every two steps.
We had to wipe off our smiles when she reached the far wall and turned back to face us.
Edna was a volunteer who decided in her retirement to grace us with her presence at our community education program. She was a self-assured woman, first demonstrated when she strode into the building and explained patiently that she was there to help us run the program we had been running for 10 years. By the second day, she had her own desk, and was manning the phones, welcoming students, and dispensing all kinds of information about our offerings, half of which was correct.
We never stood a chance against this force of nature. As director I was faced with that dilemma of all non-profit leaders: How do you fire a volunteer?
It turned out we didn’t need to. She quickly slotted into our routine, showing up three days a week, more regular than some of my paid employees.
She was a fount of knowledge. I could never nail down much about her prior life. She alluded to familiarity with the military; she claimed to own a retail establishment; there were mentions of extensive travel and brushing shoulders with titans of industry and politics.
She took her job seriously, and soon was improving our efficiency. For example, when people paid by check and we could not make out the scribbled numbers, she taught us to always look at the longhand spelling to determine the correct amount. She had me change the layout on our registration forms to make it easier for staff to write credit card numbers during rush periods.
And of course she taught us how to walk properly.
Step… step… breathe. Step… step… breathe.
Underneath all her brusqueness was slightly burnished brusqueness.
My wife sometimes brought the kids by the office. At the time my daughter was 6 and my son was a cute 2. Of course all the office ladies oohed and aahed over the baby. But I remember Edna quietly visiting with my daughter, asking her about school and her interests. I mentioned to Edna I had noticed that. Yes, she explained, when everyone is cooing over a baby, it’s easy to neglect the older child. She made a special effort to let her know that she was special, too.
She had no patience for disrespect, myself included. One day she announced they had torn down a fence and asked if I wanted to salvage it for my property. I said yes and would be by the next day.
Something happened, so I didn’t get there until the day after. The fencing materials were all gone. Edna came out of the house and calmly told me since I hadn’t shown up, they hauled it to the dump. I had no argument to make.
The last time I saw her, Edna was in a long-term care facility. She had suffered a stroke, and could no longer talk. I remember sitting on the edge of her bed and rambling on about what was happening back at the office… her office. Her face lit up, and she smiled and gestured in a frustratingly constricted attempt at communication. As I got up to leave, her final gesture was to reach out and straighten my tie, then pat it professionally. It felt like a benediction.
I still think about Edna. Because during one of those inane office white elephant gift exchanges, she gave me a wooden tray. It was a thing of beauty, with hardwood edges, handles, and brass corners and inlays. I was perplexed as I had no need for such a contrivance.
But once again Edna knew better than I. Years later, I dug it out and realized it would make a handy meal tray. Ever since, I have used it daily, carrying my eggs, bacon, and coffee to my reading chair, balancing the tray on my lap while I read the newspaper.
Now every morning, I remember Edna, who taught me how to wake up, as well as how to walk.
Step… step… breathe. Step… step… breathe.