Open the door and walk out

Lillian was the calm, sensible, soothing sister standing there, in age a year or two ahead of Lou and me. She was a source of strength and information, a bulwark of defense against boo-boogles that lived in the attic at night, a calming influence for the whole family whenever disaster descended.

"We'll put this out with water," she said when shelf papers in the pantry caught fire.

"Now the cows have to be driven from the alfalfa," she told Lou and me when we three were left alone for an afternoon and the cows, upon whom the family's economy depended, broke through. "Bring the hoe," she would say quietly when a snake was discovered in the garden.

It was natural that out of all these cool-headed sayings, each member of the family would come to adopt a particular one that seemed to stand him in good stead through all the following vicissitudes of life, although it might be utterly meaningless to someone else.

The one that is mine, "Open the door and walk out," was first uttered by Lillian upon a frightening occasion.

We were caught in a quick flood as often happens in the narrow valley hill country. Still it looked safe to cross the ford.

Lillian drove into the stream, carefully following the hidden trail. Water seeped under the doors. Water was on the floor. Water drowned the engine!

Something cold and tight grabbed at the back of my neck, fixed my eyes and paralyzed my legs. Self-possession flowed away as swiftly as the floodwaters moved and in came all the enemies of my imagination. I knew panic and fear. To have abandoned the car and the precious groceries would not have entered my youthful mind.

"Now the thing to do," I heard Lillian saying from somewhere far away, "is to open the door and walk out of here." When she saw I made no move, she added, "Now!"

It was said in the same tone as she would have said, "sweep the kitchen" or "hang out the clothes."

When I saw her demonstrate her order, I did likewise. The water so deep and swift by this time, we struggled to maintain footholds. By the time we had reached the home shore, it was over the seats of the car.

We heard the family coming, Mom, Dad and Lou running well ahead, Grandpa and Grandma straggling out behind but hurrying. They knew what might have happened.

Looking up at Mom's white face, I spread my palms and shrugged, saying, "We just opened the door and walked out," giggling with the utter simplicity of it.

One seldom sails through life without at some time getting cornered or trapped in a situation not unlike that of being caught midstream in a rapidly rising river. Even an ordinary day can turn into a formidable thing.

Petty irritations keep sliding down mountains and gathering into the stream of the unconscious. Something grabs at the throat, tenses muscles, until at least one feels in danger of being swept away by an irresistible force. Then is when I remember those words, "Open the door and walk out."

And that is what I do. Sometimes literally, going out to stroll through the garden or along some quiet stream bank. Sometimes speaking a quiet "No" or "I don't wish to do this" is tantamount to opening the door and walking out on an intolerable situation.

These words may seem alien, injected into an age when we are cautioned to "see a thing through," "stay with it." But, nevertheless, when no one else's safety is involved, there comes a time when the sensible thing to do is open the door and walk out.

REJOICE!

Footnote: The above column is an edited and shortened version of an article I had in the March 1965 issue of Woman's Day. Copyright by Woman's Day magazine.

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.