We have all done it. Lent a book to a friend. Anticipated their reaction while it's in their possession. Had it returned. Then, there's that brief and magical moment where the two friends revel in the reasons why the book was recommended to begin with. Hearts are happy. Neural pathways have been cross-connected. And then life goes on.
I am one to lend out book after book, forgetting which copies have left my shelves until I go to search for one that I want to reread or lend to the next friend. I kick myself each time I forget what I have put on loan without record. A personal library with all the intent and no follow through.
Except, there was one borrow from my troves that was worthy of journaling.
Untamed: The Wildest Woman in America and the Fight for Cumberland Island by Will Harlan was a book where I could barely contain my excitement upon its release. Those of you who truly know me are familiar with my love and fascination of Cumberland Island. I have frequented this place since 1992, captivated by its tragic history and natural wonder. My parents made it a tradition to hike Cumberland on Thanksgiving Day for years during my youth. In lieu of a bachelorette party, I invited my closest girlfriends to camp on the isle with me for a night. When my best friend and I celebrated our 25th anniversary of friendship, we backpacked the entire island, pulling 34 miles in under 3 days before a squall drove us back to the mainland.
Because I want to be forever anchored to this place, I wrote in my will that some of my ashes are to be scattered there.
As for the book, it focuses on my personal hero, Carol Ruckdeschel. She lives on the island in a shack she built herself. When my best friend and I hiked past the shack, I had a fangirl moment and regretted not having a bottle of whiskey to leave her as an offering.
Carol landed on Cumberland via a romantic relationship that eventually ended in her partner's early death. He was one of many lovers she took. A self-taught scientist, Carol sustains on the aforementioned whiskey and roadkill. Most folks would be turned off by her ability to turn car-struck possum into a palatable meal. But I had a weird fascination in learning more about how she recognized the difference between "still fresh" and "past saving" when it came time for scraping remains off the asphalt.
But what is most significant about Carol is her contribution to the scientific community regarding the health and lives of sea turtles along the Atlantic Coast. She has no degree. She is a woman of action. She gets down in the sand and saltwater with these creatures, keeps record of every detail imaginable, and then fights for their salvation by trying to keep Cumberland wild. So far, she is winning the tough fight, being backed by a large community that stand against developers and descendants of the island's former families of wealth, including the Carnegies. Such folks have tried to turn Cumberland into yet another vacation resort. When Carol isn't digging plastic waste from the craws of loggerheads, she's combatting commercial progress while donning a flannel, salt still drying in her hair.
Untamed is not a book I would lend to just anyone.
Enter Carrie.
I have been an educator for 17 years now. But it was when I became a STEM educator some years back that the Siegmunds entered my life.
First, it was Dana. When I was new in my STEM role, I needed IT assistance in connecting my students to real scientists through virtual meetings. Dana was the one in my district who came to help for such. In my sessions with Dana, I learned that his wife, Carrie, was also an educator who had a passion for science.
Funnily enough, it was only couple of months later that I would be in a meeting for regional STEM educators that was led by Carrie.
She was a calm, compassionate human whose heart was in line with a wannabe treehugger like me. I immediately took her for someone who let her hair air dry and bought her scarves at second-hand stores. Somebody who was the definition of grounded and humble despite her wealth of knowledge and experience in her field. I don't even remember what I learned that day. But I do remember that she came with small, striped boxes in which she collected our paper trash to take home later to place in her recycling bins. She smiled the entirety of the meeting, never with force or fakery.
While I was building my school's first STEM program, Carrie was the one who nurtured me in my role. In fact, it was Carrie who coached me while I spent months planning the magnum opus of my career: a day of hands-on science for every student in grades pre-k through 5th. Over 500 students who had been denied access to the knowledge of professors, botanists, musicians, and veterinarians only because they came from rough neighborhoods.
Both Carrie and Dana came as presenters for this simply-named Science Day with a gigantic inflatable whale to wow the littlest scientists. She hadn't just been my coach. She showed up as an expert educator, a lover of science, a friend.
Then came the call from my daughter's school. They wanted me to come and teach science classes and support gifted learners while they worked towards STEM certification. For every official meeting we had around the topic, Carrie was there. Still smiling and guiding, always showing fellow educators that tackling difficult tasks weren't scary as long as you break them down into smaller, digestible pieces.
It was through these meetings that Carrie and I realized we both had a love of Cumberland Island. Without hesitation, I brought her my copy of Untamed. I had underlined my favorite lines and bracketed passages. I was excited to see what she thought of Carol's story.
She loved it so much, she had Dana read it. They were both fans. I couldn't tell you how much time had passed since I had lent it to her, but I was ready for the book to be back in its spot on the shelf in my living room. I asked if she would bring it to our next meeting.
Carrie texted that she was sure she had returned it. She messaged Dana. They searched their house. It couldn't be found. Carrie apologized several times. I searched my own spaces for it and came up empty. Maybe in moving classrooms I had lost it among the boxes instead of bringing it home? It was unlikely, but not impossible.
Aside from the temporary covid interruption in our stages of planning toward STEM certification, we still met every 4-6 weeks. When we met in January of 2021, Carrie messaged ahead of time asking me to lead. Not her. I wasn't sure why she hadn't asked one of our administrators to the task. But I accepted. I felt a bit unsure as I took teachers through our agenda, but Carrie just smiled from the back of the room at me while I did.
Two months later, I learned why. Carrie shared with the world she had a brain tumor. Glioblastoma. She couldn't lead the meeting because she had been suffering from headaches and spells of forgetfulness for some weeks. She was keeping her symptoms as quiet as possible, and she needed someone to stand in for her while working with her doctors. Looking back, I do not take it lightly that it was me that she asked.
The tumor was over 2 inches, but it was operable. The community came together to bring her family meals and help drive her children to school or practice while she recovered from surgery. There were even T-shirts and car magnets that were printed with Carrie's token greeting: "Hey, you!"
My magnet went straight to my fridge. It holds a post-it Carrie wrote me thanking her for the meal I dropped off with her family last May.
I sent Carrie a text here and there, once requesting the chance to see her over the summer. Time got away from both of us, so it was never a reality. Every time I glanced up at the space on my living room shelf where Untamed was supposed to sit, I thought of her. If anyone was allowed to lose my book, it was Carrie.
By September, the tumor returned with a vengeance. Surgery. Radiation. All sorts of medications. Her family kept the community abreast of progress and setbacks through a website where we could post pictures and make donations. We acted as cheerleaders from our living rooms when she was sad about losing her hair or even her appetite. We celebrated the small steps, like when she could keep down a bottle of Ensure.
On her birthday, 9 December, I sent her a text message telling her how much I wanted to hug her. I wasn't sure if she had the energy to check her phone by then. But three days later, she sent a response where I could feel her smiling. She relayed that it had been such a good day.
Then on 21 December, we got the news that Carrie had been placed in hospice care. I broke down in my kitchen while I was making my daughter breakfast. I cried at least a dozen times throughout the day. It wasn't fair that the world was allowing someone so full of light and love to be taken from it.
A shift in the Universe, and Carrie was gone.
Dozens of people were much closer to the Siegmunds than myself. I didn't ask around as to when services would be held or if there even would be any. I just reached to her dear friend and neighbor, Lindy, saying that if she wanted to talk about Carrie, I'd be her girl for it.
We went back to work and even had our first STEM meeting of 2022. Lindy had put a pair of Carrie's cowgirl boots out for us as a memorial. It was a fitting way to say goodbye to our friend in a space where we so often met with her.
But it was what happened next that caught me completely off guard. Dana messaged me with this picture:
He said, "I think this belongs to you, right?"
I cried at my desk.
Dana said he had found it in a strange place. He pointed out stains on its pages, saying he'd gladly replace it for me. I think I responded with, "Oh, that doesn't bother me" like I was trying to do the nice thing by not getting him to spend the money on a new copy. But on the inside, I was having an emotional response where I wanted the book in the exact state it was. Carrie had touched it. Carrie had left it in the strange place where it earned its stains. I wanted it back with the combination of my underlined passages and the interactions with an unidentified substance from her household. Weirdly sentimental, I know.
When the book finally came back to my hands, my eyes misted over. I flipped through the pages, trying to guess if she had gasped in the same places of human drama or had been similarly touched by lines full of wisdom. I felt her energy in the pages.
Dana thanked me for allowing them to borrow the book, citing many memories he and Carrie made on Cumberland Island. Not everyone understands the island's allure. But the two of them did.
Untamed is back in its spot on my living room shelf. And now when I see it, I think of Carrie, knowing that she is a part of the island in memory and spirit.
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