Estelle Darrow Rice, poet and fiction writer
is 100 years old this month.
In her early life, she was a mental health counselor. She still practices helping others by always being there to listen to me when I need a shoulder. We can talk to each other about everything. We both lost our dear husbands and grieved with each other and for each other. Her mind is keen, her sense of humor is intact, and her conversation is brilliant as ever. She has faced the loss of a daughter and a grandchild, but her faith and resilience endured. One of her daughters lives with her and her grandchildren often come to visit.
Estelle Darrow Rice is a North Carolina native who has lived in other states but came back to spend retirement in the mountains in Cherokee County. She holds a BA degree in Psychology from Queens University, Charlotte, NC and an MA degree in counseling from the University of South Alabama, Mobile AL.
Her short stories and personal essays have appeared in numerous anthologies and journals. Her book of spiritual poems, Quiet Times, was well-received and highly praised. She has taught writing for NC Writers’ Network-West and for Writers Circle Around the Table in Hayesville, NC.
Estelle Darrow Rice is a phenomenal poet, who often writes of home and bygone days.
The Back Porch Steps
Lilies of the Valley, their tiny bells
as white and innocent
as a child’s dream grew
beside our back porch steps,
where in the evening Mother and I
watered her rose garden.
Sometimes we sang, but mostly we talked.
We planned to decorate my playhouse curtains
with rick-rack. We’d fill a window box
with pansies and petunias.
These were the things we talked about
When I was ten.
Now my dreams transport me
to that time when she and I
sat on the back porch steps.
I still hear her gentle voice,
and her laughter.
I remember the fragrance of roses
and I am certain I hear
the tinkling of tiny white bells.
----Estelle Darrow Rice
The Back Porch Steps
Lilies of the Valley, their tiny bells
as white and innocent
as a child’s dream grew
beside our back porch steps,
where in the evening Mother and I
watered her rose garden.
Sometimes we sang, but mostly we talked.
We planned to decorate my playhouse curtains
with rick-rack. We’d fill a window box
with pansies and petunias.
These were the things we talked about
When I was ten.
Now my dreams transport me
to that time when she and I
sat on the back porch steps.
I still hear her gentle voice,
and her laughter.
I remember the fragrance of roses
and I am certain I hear
the tinkling of tiny white bells.
----Estelle Darrow Rice
