Memories of Mrs. MacDonald

February 27, 2002

I received a flyer in the mail yesterday and it caught my eye because it contained the word “Bonsall.” I read the lush descriptions of million dollar plus “Majestic Tuscan Estates” nestled amid equestrian centers and golf courses, convenient to shopping, entertainment and dining, and wondered—what has happened to my childhood home?
Then I looked closely at the foldout photo of the panoramic view and I found my Bonsall, right where it was supposed to be, when I spotted Eva MacDonald’s towering eucalyptus. Even now it is a landmark, a beacon for me to find my way back home. And I’d like to think up a steep dirt drive off Lilac Road, there is still a little yellow clapboard house sitting under that huge tree. And Mrs. MacDonald is home…and she is happy.
In my fantasy, Mrs. MacDonald, whom I have known since Patty wore pinafores, patent leather shoes, and fat ringlets in her hair, is puttering around, shooing the dogs, and fretting about one of those mammoth eucalyptus branches falling on the roof. She would be wearing a cotton print dress with tiny flowers that buttoned or zipped up the front, and maybe an apron, but definitely sensible shoes.
She is busy. When she isn’t working in the cafeteria at Bonsall School, she is teaching us kids how to sew, or hurrying Patty along, or listening to a ball game on the radio as she whips up a batch of cookies. When the phone rings, she stops to listen for their distinctive buzz—a party line, a septic tank, a well, or a pack of coyotes are all a part of country life. She enjoys walking down that steep drive to get her newspaper, and she even claims to like the ruts and potholes. Every once in a while I see her riding in that powder blue El Camino, Mr. MacDonald at the wheel, a jaunty hat atop his head.
She is loved. Even though an exasperated “Honest to Pete, Patty” occasionally crosses her lips, she adores her daughter. She listens to Patty, gives sound advice, and then listens some more. She creates a safe haven for Patty, for me, and for all those who let the screen door slam behind them as they step through the sun porch to sit a spell at that little Formica kitchen table.
She is sweet. Mrs. MacDonald loves babies and chocolate, baseball and flowers. She is quick to smile, quick to make a little joke, and quick to hug. She mothers us all a little, and we let her because it makes us feel so good. I can’t think of a soul who doesn’t love Mrs. MacDonald except for possibly my dog—who once bit her on the rear—and after that she still petted him.
She is Bonsall, the Bonsall of my heart. She is a place where everyone knows your name, where your post office box number is in the single digits, and where you can find peace in the sunrise over Mt San Jacinto or in the shadows across the San Luis Rey valley. She is the Bonsall of my youth, when there was time to split open a pomegranate, suck out the seeds without regard to the permanent stains on your hands or clothes. She is the Bonsall of my spirit, where material things are simple, where standing firm on your own little plot of land is good enough, and love is what matters in the end.
Mrs. MacDonald’s last wish was to visit her beloved Bonsall one final time. My wish, for her, is that she is there now.