Chapter 4 - Spring 2008

I sat in my car listening to 80s rock, looking out at Allan and Mary-ann. They sat on their front porch, the early stages of spring beginning to show itself, only small clusters of snow still scattered across the ground. Paint chipped away from the posts and the gutter was filled with half thawed leaves.

            Mary-ann rocked back and forth in her chair smiling. She wore a light grey sweater, the lower half of her body wrapped in a blanket and a thin, blue skull cap sat on her head. Her eyes wandered and it looked as if she were seeing things for the first time.

            Allan was hunched forward in a black button up, grey slacks and a pair of slippers on his feet. He sipped on hot tea as he spoke. I could tell he was repeating himself by the way Mary-ann would drift, only to return her attention to him with a quick snap of her head.

            I rolled down the windows and turned the radio off, catching the last half of the conversation.

            “...wasn’t my idea in the first place,” Allan said, setting his cup on the railing. “Brandon was sure they would give us a seat. You tried to warn him.” Allan giggled. He reached over and placed his hand on Mary-ann’s lap. “Right?”

            “Hmm,” she mumbled, looking over at him. “You’re not Brandon. You’re my Allan,” she said, squeezing his hand.

            “Yeah, that’s me. But Brandon almost got us killed, remember?”

            “Oh, yes. Down at Bailey’s Burgers on seventy-second. We tried to warn him. They didn’t want no n*****s in there. Not unless they were sweeping the floor or washing the dishes.” Mary-ann watched as a bird landed on a low branch of the elm tree in their front yard. “Allan?” she said gently.

“Yes dear.”

“Take me somewhere would you.” She turned her head and looked longingly into his eyes.

“Take you where?” he asked.

“Somewhere. Anywhere. We’ve never been out of the city before. It’s not too late, is it?” She turned back to the tree just as another bird landed.

I wrote a story several years ago about bird watchers. I thought sports were competitive until I watched grown men in pushing matches trying to get the perfect shot.

They were common starlings. Orange beaks, black heads that morphed into peacock colored feathers. Purples, greens and blues melding together. One nestled its head into the neck of the other. I took a shot of Mary-ann looking at them and thought that might work well for the book cover.

Allan rolled up his sleeves and asked, “Are you unhappy being here?”

“Unhappy? Why would I be unhappy? We have two beautiful children with a third on the way.” Mary-ann paused to rub her belly, her lips stretching across her face into a smile. “We should think of names. I like Carol.” She turned again to look at him.

Confusion and pain, stretched and twisted across Allan’s face.

“Take me somewhere would you,” Mary-ann said again, rocking gently back and forth.

“I will sweetheart. I will.” Allan stood, kissed her on the top of the head and walked back into the house.

Stepping out of my car, I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked up to the gate. “Hi, Mary-ann,” I said, pulling on the door. “It’s me, Mr. Pitello. From the newspaper.”

She reached for her walker and started to stand.

“No, please. You don’t need to get up. How are you feeling?” I asked, standing at the bottom of the steps.

“I’m doing just fine Mr. Pitello. How’s your writing coming along?” she said, as if back in 2008.

“Good. Very good actually. I made it over to Full Bellies not too long ago.”

“Oh, did you,” she said, sitting up straighter. “We opened that in 1953. I still remember the look on Allan’s face when I showed him the building. We had three children at the time and that place was a mess. Allan had a fit about it, but there were so many local girls running around, that they watched the kids while Sharice and I cleaned.”

I walked up and sat on the railing near her, jotting down a few notes as she spoke. Mary-ann still hadn’t gained all her strength back, which meant she had to use a walker to get around, but she was doing better physically.

“Took us almost a year to get the place ready, but every month, more and more people offered to help. Tables and chairs were donated by some local churches. Allan’s friend Kevin brought his crew over to put in the kitchen, and by that time our paperwork had gone through and we were officially a nonprofit.” Mary-ann’s shoulders scrunched into her neck and she rubbed her hands together, joy streaming across her face.

“How long has it been since you’ve been there?” I asked.

Mary-ann thought for a moment. Her eyes wandered back to the busy street as a car sped by. “Too long.”

            “Mr. Pitello,” Allan said through the screen door. “When did you get here?”

“Just a minute ago. Mary-ann’s been telling me about Full Bellies.” I shook his hand as he walked through the doorway

“Oh, has she? God had his hand in all that, ‘cause I know it never would have worked otherwise.”

Mary-ann leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her chin in her palm. She gazed out at the busy street.  

Allan and I walked down the steps.

“How is she really doing?” I asked, leaning against the fence.

“Some days are worse than others. Just yesterday she offered to cook something while I was out back working in the garden. I told her not to worry about, to just watch her shows and I’d be back in shortly. I was only gone for fifteen minutes. When I came back in she was sitting in the living room watching television, but the entire house smelled of gas. She’d turned the knob on the stove and just left it.” Allan rubbed his face with his hands.

“Have you thought of getting help? I know that your sons come by sometimes, but maybe you need to find someone that’s a little more permanent.”

“I have, but I don’t want to choose the wrong person. I don’t want Mary-ann to get it in her head that I’m abandoning her. And she is my wife, my responsibility.” He was starting to get agitated, his words getting stuck in his throat.

“But that’s why people are hired for those positions. They’ve been trained for situations like this.” I reached out and gently touched his arm.

“You’re right. I just feel her slipping away. I can’t explain to you how grateful I am that you reached out to us. She’s talked more and remember things even I had forgotten just with the conversations she’s had with you.” Allan reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I’ve been talking to some people who have been through this before. A support group, you know. One of them showed me this poem by Owen Darnell and I’ve been reading it every day.” He unfolded the paper and handed it to me.

 

Do not ask me to remember,

Don’t try to make me understand,

Let me rest and know you’re with me,

Kiss my cheek and hold my hand.

I’m confused beyond your concept,

I am sad and sick and lost.

All I know is that I need you

To be with me at all cost.

Do not lose your patience with me,

Do not scold or curse or cry.

I can’t help the way I’m acting,

Can’t be different though I try.

Just remember that I need you,

That the best of me is gone,

Please don’t fail to stand beside me,

Love me ‘til my life is done.

 

I folded the paper and handed it back. It took everything in me not to share my tears. “That’s beautiful,” I said, stepping through the fence.

“I spent a lot of time during the first six months blaming her, blaming me, blaming anything I could. This poem has helped me to look at everything differently.” He shook my hand and thanked me for stopping by.

As I drove away, there was one line that I couldn’t understand. It was this recurring theme that everyone I spoke with kept running back to and it bothered me. The best of me is gone. But she’s still here. The best of me is gone. But she’s in all her children. The best of me is gone. But she’s in all the people she’s impacted over the years. The best of me is gone. But she’s what Full Bellies is all about. The best of me is gone.

You should look at the disease through a different lens, I thought to myself. Mary-ann, Mama, she’s everywhere, you’ve just forgotten how to look.

 

<>

 

            I had an appointment with Bishop Anderson later that day. The sun peaked out from behind the clouds as I pulled into the church parking lot. Stepping over a small puddle, I walked up a set of steps and in through the side entrance. Red velvet carpets lined the halls. A large welcome desk sat to the left of a door that led into the auditorium. Visitor handouts were piled neatly next to a bowl of mints.

Near the door was a small sign that read, God’s House. If you wouldn’t put your feet up on the couch at your grandmother’s, you shouldn’t do it here. An audible laugh shot through my lips and I shook my head.

“Welcome,” a voice said from down the hallway. A heavyset, black woman introduced herself as Donisha, and walked me up a flight of steps. “These are some portraits of our previous pastors. This is Pastor Shields,” she said, pointed at a black and white photo of a man in a suit. “He founded this church back in 1946. It is one of the last standing black churches in all of Brooklyn.”

“Please don’t take offense, but why are they still considered black churches? Is it taboo for whites to join?”

“Oh, goodness no. We have plenty of white folks in our congregation. I think that because of the way we worship, people assume it’s populated primarily by blacks.” We continued walking, dim ceiling lights guiding our way around a corner.

“I grew up Catholic. No one but the priest spoke. I’ve been to a few black churches over the years and I had more fun in one, two-hour service than I did my entire life in the Catholic church.”

Donisha laughed with her entire body and she held her hand over her mouth as if to try and contain it. “See what I mean. We get to shouting and waving our hands and some people think the devil’s taken over. That’s just the Holy Spirit moving through us.” Donisha gave me a hug and told me to sit in the chair outside Bishop Anderson’s office. “He should be right out.”

The door swung open. I stood, straightening my coat. Bishop Anderson stepped out in a blue, pin striped suit, a white pocket kerchief, and shoes that had recently been shined.

“Good afternoon,” he said, shaking my hand.

“Good afternoon. Thank you for taking the time to sit down with me.”

“My pleasure.” We walked into his office. It smelled of cinnamon and three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves. A circular rug sat under an antique globe. The windows overlooked the city street. His desk glistened, his chairs a polished leather and a large painting of a church on top of a hill hung on the wall behind.

“Have a seat,” he said, walking around his desk.

The seat sunk from my weight and I struggled to find a position that didn’t make me lean one way or the other. After a moment, I gave up, leaning against the armrest and swinging my leg under my knee. Removing my recorder from my bag, I set it on my lap.

“Before we get into anything specific. I want to know, what’s the first thing that comes to mind when I say Mary-ann Cauldwell?”

“Oh man,” he said, throwing his hands behind his head. “Mama. There’s no other word, feeling, or thought that could come to anybody’s mind except, Mama.” Bishop Anderson quickly leaned forward, pointing a firm index finger in my direction. “You got a math problem, Mama’s got you. You fell off your bike, Mama’s got you. You need food for the weekend, Mama’s got you. There wasn’t anything that woman wouldn’t do.”

Bishop Anderson was a man in his early-fifties. Maybe two or three years younger than myself, but it’s true when they say, ‘black don’t crack.’ If I didn’t know any better I’d have thought he was five years out of theology school. Smooth skin, a trimmed beard without even a hint of grey, arms as big around as my thighs and pair of glasses I swear were only to make him look smarter. And they did, too.

“You’ve been at this church for…?”

“I grew up in the church, but I’ve been pastoring for fourteen years and counting. God willing I’ll be here for another twenty.”

A soft knock came at the door and Donisha walked in carrying a wooden tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She set them down on the desk and left.

“That woman right there,” he said, pointing at the door. “Is the only reason this church isn’t overgrown with dust and falling apart. She keeps a calendar like I keep snacks in my bottom drawer,” he said. Laughing, he pulled open the draw and tossed a box of cookies next to the drinks.

“I was told Mary-ann helped out here as well.”

“Up until seven, eight years ago, she was still spending half of her time here. Cleaning, running bible study for young women. She was head of the outreach committee, gathering people together to go and share the good news with those who’ve never heard.”

“So what kind of impact would you say she’s had on this community?” I asked, pouring a glass of lemonade.

Bishop Anderson let out a sigh. “I can’t even put it into words. As a kid, I remember her being the first one to get here. She’d open the church and start getting things ready before the pastor arrived. And, she’d be the last one to leave. Always making sure everyone had everything they needed.” He poured a glass of his own and took a drink.

A car honked and I looked out as a woman walked across the street and slammed her hand against the hood. The driver honked again, pressing the gas and speeding away.

“Why did you decide to write this book?” he asked, sitting back in his seat.

“Community Woman in Shower Robe Found Four Blocks from Home. That was the headline the Daily Shout used when Mary-ann was found that day. If you know anything about journalism, a headline can either pull you in, or send you to the sports section.” I shrugged my shoulders and set my glass down on his desk.

“Yeah, I remember that. Made her out to seem crazy, or on some drug spun craze.”

“And that’s exactly what they were trying to do. After reading more, you find out she was a pillar in the neighborhood in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s and Dementia. I knew there was a greater story there, I just wasn’t sure how it needed to be told.”

“Well I think your right to speak with the people of the community.”

“You’re the ones who would know her best.”

Bishop Anderson nodded his head slowly, droplets of sweat forming on his brow. He dabbed his head with his kerchief. “What can I help you better understand?” he said, marrying his fingers together in front of his chin.

“I think it’s the question every person in the world, especially those who have no faith, ask. Why does God allow something so terrible, so drastic, so painful, to happen to someone who spent their life doing what he asked?”

He sat in silence for a moment, his face crinkling in thought. “It’s the same reason God allows wonderful things to happen. I know that may sound backwards, but think of it like this. Humanity was given free will, the option to choose how they want to live their life. And in that life, someone may choose to harm, or they may choose to do good. Something as simple as a young man holding a door open for an elderly woman could go several different ways. The woman could be grateful, she could chastise the young man saying, ‘I don’t need your help,’ or she could ignore the deed all together. Does that changed the fact that the young man went out of his way to treat the woman kindly and with respect? No, of course not.”

“So, God chooses to punish one, reward another, and ignore the last altogether?” I asked, playing a little devil’s advocate.

“I see why you would think of it like that. But, God will never ignore us. We are his creation. Created in his image. He does choose to punish some, ‘for all have fallen short of the glory of God,’ and our sins must be punished. But those that believe, have their eyes opened to what grace really is.”

“And what is that grace? And why and what is Mary-ann being punished for?”

A smile spread across his face as he answered. “Grace is a gift. But a gift that is undeserving. A gift of unconditional love.” He paused to stand. Looking out the window he said, “I can’t speak for God. He may be punishing Mary-ann for something she did, or possibly something someone else did, but it’s because he knows that she can handle it. It’s being done for his glory, that we as a community can stand together and worship him for all he has done for us.”

Bishop Anderson turned around and walked to the globe. “When I first found out, I was angry. Angry at God for the same reason we all get angry. Lack of understanding. But when I thought on it, when I prayed on it, I realized something. How many people have the opportunity to be remembered while their still alive?”

That question froze me in my tracks. My eyes darted up and he could tell that he had struck a nerve.

“Exactly,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “As painful as this is for her family and this community, we aren’t waiting for her to go before we remember all she’s done. Four months ago, Donisha came to me with an idea. To put a memory box in the back of the church. To challenge the congregation to write down something they remember Mama doing for them or their family, and drop it in the box on their way out. Ask me how many times that box has been filled,” he said, excitement building in his voice.

“How many?” I asked, genuinely matching his excitement.

He shrugged his blazer off and walked back to his seat, draping it over the back. “Every week for four months. When Donisha and I sat down and talked about it, we thought we might get enough to put a collage together to share with the family. We had to dedicate half of one our Sunday School rooms for the papers alone.” Bishop Anderson sat down with a loud thud. His head dotted with sweat and his breath heavy in his mouth.

I almost couldn’t believe it. The best of me is gone, still rang in the back of my mind. I realized this was the proof I needed to help Allan and his family, and some still in the community, to look at this situation through a different lens.

Bishop Anderson offered to show me the room.

Scriptures lined the walls. Stacks of chairs were pushed to the side, waiting for Sunday morning. The far side of the room had three tables in a row covered in boxes. Each box overflowed with folded pieces of paper. I reached in and took one. When my child was hungry, you brought me to Full Bellies to get a meal. Placing it back in, I grabbed another. My husband lost his job at the factory and you brought us a meal and prayed outside our home. A week later, my husband got a job at the post office.

“There all like this?” I asked, setting the second paper back in the box.

Bishop Anderson could do nothing but smile and shake his head.

 

<> 

            Months later, I stood in the thick summer air, my shirt sticking to my skin. Beads of sweat poked through like daggers making it look as though I had just finished a half-marathon. Ducking under a tree, I watched as a small crowd hurried through the doors of the church.

            Allan and Mary-ann were unaware, but that Sunday would be all about them.

            Aaron pulled up and I opened the door for Mary-ann, helping her onto the sidewalk. She wore a vibrant yellow dress with white and black accents on the sleeves. A floppy hat rested gracefully on her head and her neck was covered in pearls.

            “Good morning,” I said.

            “Mr. Pitello,” she replied with a wink.

            Allan stepped out of the car in an auburn suit and black tie with silver cufflinks pinned to his wrists.

            “Where’s your walker?” I asked, looking in the back seat.

            “He just got out of the car,” Mary-ann said with a laugh, wrapping her gloved hands around Allan’s forearm.

            Allan smiled, shrugging his shoulders as if knowing he had no choice.

            Just inside the front door were dozens of letters hanging from a wire that led into the sanctuary. Allan paused as he read the first. “What is all of this?” he asked, looking back at me.

            “They did this for the two of you,” I said, pointed to the wire.

            Donisha stood by the visitors table holding a stack of bulletins. She was wearing a dark, violet dress and her smile cascaded boldly from her lips.

“Allan. Mary-ann,” she said, stepping forward. “I’m happy to welcome you to what Helping Hands Baptist Church will forever know as Cauldwell Sunday. If you would follow me, we have your seats reserved.” Donisha slowly opened the door and led them into the sanctuary.

As they entered, the sound of hundreds of people standing thundered throughout the room. All along the walls and hanging from the rafters were the letters the church had collected over the months. A large sign at the front of the church read, We Love You, Mama, and the choir, dressed in full robes swayed gently back and forth as they hummed the melody to Blessed Assurance.

Their journey to the front was slow, collecting hugs, handshakes and smiles along the way.

As the congregation sat, and the choir fell silent, Bishop Anderson walked up on stage. He removed a light grey jacket and draped it over the arm of a chair.

“Blessed morning,” he said, his voice like a crashing wave. “I want to thank you all for coming out to this special occasion.” Wiping his face with a towel, he leaned forward, resting his arm on the pulpit. “Don’t get things twisted, we are not here to worship these two. We are here to celebrate the fact that God has placed them in our lives.”

“Amen,” a woman shouted.

“As you can see, there are hundreds of slips of paper all around this room. They are reminders of how the Cauldwell’s used their gifts from God, to share love and bring joy to each and every one of you.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” another said, waving their hand through the air.

Bishop Anderson walked down the steps and helped Mary-ann to her feet. “We took up an offering last Sunday, and asked that if God placed the burden on their heart to give boldly to you and your family, then instead of running from that burden, they run headlong into it with God leading the way.” He removed a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to Mary-ann.

“This is one way we would like to thank you for being a leader, a friend, a comforter, and a mother in our community,” he said as the congregation began to clap.

Mary-ann held the envelope to her chest and began to cry, saying, ‘thank you,’ her voice lost in the applause.

Bishop Anderson raised a hand to quiet the crowd. Allan helped Mary-ann back to her seat and put his arm around her shoulder.

“We would also like to share this video with you.” Bishop Anderson walked back on stage. “Because of Donisha’s hard work, we were able to gather together photographs and personal testimonies of how you’ve impacted the lives of those in our community.”

One of the deacons used a hand crank to lower a white screen. The lights dimmed as the video began.

We love you Mary-ann, said a group of teens standing under a tree. The screen flashed to a picture of Mary-ann holding a baby in each arm as she stood at the front of a room teaching a bible study. Her hair was cut short and bobby pinned away from her face. Next was a short video of her in her early forties chasing a group of teens with a water balloon. The crowd roared with laughter.

The video flashed with testimonies of women finding shelter in the Cauldwell home, men learning how to tie a tie from Allan before then went to a job interview, and old friends sharing stories of her as a child.

Tears mixed with laughter, and laughter blended gracefully with shouts of adoration.

As the video came to a close, the last scene was of Sharice. She sat in her wheelchair, arms resting in her lap. She wore a pair of sunglasses to hide her eye, but the way her mouth twitched, I could only imagine she was hiding her tears as well.

Hey meatball, she said. Her head tilted to the side and a gentle smile slid across her lips. I saw a rainbow the other day and thought of when we used to dream about the pot of gold waiting on the other side. I miss sitting in my mama’s house painting nails. Or standing on those blocks getting our hands dirty in the flour as we baked cookies. I miss trying on dresses before school, and giggling when a boy looked our way. I miss tearing down those walls and cleaning the floor to the soup kitchen we built together, and the look on your Allan’s face as you walked down the aisle. The way you held and loved each of your children, the same way you held and loved my own. But the past is there to remember. And the here and now, well, it’s here to hold onto until it becomes the past. I love you sister.

Her video faded to a picture of them standing outside Full Bellies, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, cheeks squished together, eyes closed and mouths wide open in the purest smile.

A thunderous applause rang out as the lights flickered, returning the room to a bright glow. Bishop Anderson stood, a smile draped across his face, looking down at Allan and Mary-ann.

“Stand with me and worship,” he said, turning over his shoulder and nodding to the choir.

We sang for what seemed hours, a line of people filling the middle aisle dancing, waving towels in the air. As the music settled and the people sat, Bishop Anderson spoke of new beginnings. Taking what is old, what is broken, what is weighing you down; and casting it away, allowing God to set forth a new path.

The service ended and the wires were cut, letting the notes fall like snowflakes to the floor. I helped Donisha and a few others collect and place them in a box for Mary-ann to bring home.

“You were a part of this?” Allan asked as we walked downstairs to where refreshments were being served.

Nodding, I opened the door. A cool breeze pushed through each layer of clothing like cold water being poured on my head. Shivering, I welcomed it with a smile.

“Thank you,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“I thought it would only be appropriate to let her see how much she’s loved, you know, before she forgets.” We walked to a small table where Mary-ann was already sitting. A few of the women from the soup kitchen were there, along with Aaron.

Tears still trickled from Mary-ann’s eyes, getting caught in the corner of her lips as she smiled.

“That was so lovely Allan, wasn’t it? They’ve named a day after us,” she said, taking a napkin and wiping her nose.

            “I know sweetheart. It’s unbelievable.” He took the seat beside her and I walked to a table to get a glass of water.            

            “Donisha,” I said, tapping her arm. She turned, greeting me with a hug. “It turned out really well don’t you think?”

            “Absolutely. I couldn’t have imagined it any better.” She handed me a cup. “Mary-ann will love reading through those letters.”

            I agreed, thanking her again for letting me be a part of it, and walked back to where the Cauldwell’s were seated.

            “Can I read one of the notes to you?” I asked, taking a slip of paper out of my pocket. “I was hoping you might remember and could elaborate.”

            “Sure. I don’t see why not,” Mary-ann said.

            Unfolding the paper, I read, you sold your car in the spring of 1959 so I could pay for college. I didn’t find out until ten years later, but I promise I would not be where I am today if not for you. Thank you, Mama.

            “You sold your car?” I said, tossing the paper on the table.

            Mary-ann’s lip curled and she looked over at Allan, who was hiding behind his hands. “Why don’t you ask the person whose idea it was?”

            “Allan?” I said, turning in my seat.

            “Now don’t go making this all about me,” he complained, leaning his cane against the table. “Yes, it was my idea, but it was Mary-ann who did all the haggling with the dealership.” Embarrassed, he turned the story back to her.

            “Anthony Walters. One of the smartest, young African American’s I’d seen. If one of our daughters would have had their wits about them, they could have had themselves a fine husband.” She turned and sniffed her nose in the air.

Allan chuckled, leaning back in his chair and exhaling audibly.

“His mother had gotten sick and passed away when he was a boy, and his father

worked hard to keep him school. But when graduation rolled around, he was going to have to give it all up to find a job.” Mary-ann reached over and gripped Allan’s wrist. “Allan came home one day fittin and frettin about a conversation he’d overheard. Said God was tugging on his heart to do something about it. The next morning, he sent me down to the dealership to work something out with the salesman. A week later, Allan dropped an envelope in their mailbox with a letter that said, ‘For Anthony to go to school.”

“I had no idea that’s what happened to the car,” Aaron said, his mouth falling open. “This whole time I thought you’d just gotten sick of it. Never in a million years did I think you sold it to send someone to college.”

Mary-ann smiled, folding her arms over her lap. “This life isn’t about boasting in all you’ve done. It’s about sitting back and letting God get the glory.”

“Well, I think God is sharing a bit of that glory with you today,” I said, sliding back in my seat. “Will you read them?” I asked.

 

“Certainly. How else will I find out who forgot to thank me,” she said, rolling with laughter.

“As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Allan was a much bigger part in this than you know. So, I look forward to reading them and being reminded of what he’s done.”

Just then, Bishop Anderson walked to the table. Leaning down, he planted a soft kiss on Mary-ann’s cheek, then turned and shook Allan’s hand firmly. “What a wonderful day,” he said, itching at his collar.

“Indeed, it is,” Allan said. “Thank you, and your team for putting it all together.”

“Absolutely. It’s well deserved.” He placed a firm hand on my shoulder and said, “And

make sure you keep this guy around. He’s a good one.”

Those at the table nodded in agreement, sending heat back to my neck and cheeks.

The crowd dwindled as the afternoon pressed on, people by the dozen coming by to give Mary-ann and Allan hugs, thanking them again for all they’d done.