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I am a feminist, poet, writer and advocate.

The Most Exciting Summer Ever

The Summer Preacher

1973, A few years before Boston, Massachusetts was ordered to desegregate the public schools

By Nancy Haydon Gray

The children were in the empty cellar of the apartment house where John lived. There were eight of them being very, very quiet. John opened the door in the floor and softly let it lay back on the dusty floor. One by one the children slithered into the hole, down rickety steps, and crawled on their knees for about fifty feet till they got to the cellar of the church. There, without a sound, they tiptoed to the place John said was beneath the pews. They sat down on the cool concrete cellar floor, all in silence.

Above them, the summer substitute preacher started to talk. The children listened while he said a prayer. Then, he started to talk slowly and persuasively. He said that this whole town could be theirs. That they should run the shops and the cinema. He said they should sell the cars and sell the drugs. He said they should be the landlords and the real estate agents. He told them they could do it if they would follow him and do what he says. They should listen very carefully and don’t anyone leave till he was done. He warned them, “Don’t say anything to anyone.

This was his plan: They were going to be the soldiers in a revolution like the city had never seen before. They were going to change the world.   “Didn’t they want a change? Didn’t they want to run things?”

The children heard foot stomping and the men and women in the pews shifted in their seats. A few shouted “Yes, yes!” The Summer Preacher said they were going to run each and every business man or woman out of town and take over stores, services, all the businesses.   They’d run every one of them out by fair or foul but run them out, regardless, and take over. This fiery rhetoric was not like their regular preacher, not like him at all.

The children heard it all, the plans to burn the drycleaners, rob the drug store till the owner gave up, harass the man who sold cars, and intimidate his family.

The preacher’s voice got low and like he was talking secrets. He said they would need money for guns and volunteers to go out and collect money. They could trust to him to buy the guns. He knew where to go. The he said, “Go home and pray for our revolution that it may give us the power we deserve in the city.”

At the sound of these words the children nudged one another, and John got up quietly and started to the tunnel. They all followed. They crawled back to the other end and up the steps. John let down the trapdoor just as carefully and quietly as he had opened it a half hour before. They all went out into the summer night. They sauntered home as quickly, casually as they could so not to raise suspicion. The next morning the all met in Ronnie’s apartment, because it was empty of adults.

The children were nervous and excited at the same time. John, who had lead them the night before, said it would be very bad if the parents got guns and had a revolution. Anthony said lots of the parents might be killed and then what would we do. Gina and Ruth thought it had better be stopped now, but how? TC said they could all be so bad that the parents wouldn’t have time to have a revolution. They like this plan. They talked about how they could cause so much trouble they could keep the Summer Preacher’s revolution from happening. Each child left determined to be bad, and, for sure, ruin the adults summertime. There would be no time for guns and trouble.

The children were left on their own the following Wednesday night while the parents had another prayer meeting.   Once again, John raised the door to the cellar for them and they were so quiet going under the church – nobody made a mistake, nobody even sneezed. That night the children sat under the church and heard the Summer Preacher raise his voice to a roar and boast that he had collected money from the townspeople; he didn’t say what townspeople. He was going to buy guns and explosives in a week or two. He started to plan who would be leaders in the revolution and who would be members of the bands of guerilla fighters.  Anthony’s mother was six feet tall, tough as anyone, and hated the storekeeper – she was named the leader. David’s brother was another; so was Alex’s brother. A prayer closed the meeting and the children made their way back out the tunnel to the trap door. They were all well on their way home before the adults finished their good nights.

The next day they met in Fred’s cellar. Nobody was allowed in Fred’s house ever, but his parents were away and he brought them in a cellar window. Fred’s little brother played upstairs. They decided Reese would go into the Summer Preacher’s apartment and see if there were any guns yet or anything dangerous and report back to the children. If there was nothing that would explode, the children agreed they would start a small fire to scare the Summer Preacher away. Maybe he would leave town and all the trouble would be over.

Gina and Ruth lured the preacher out to get a coke with them while Reese snuck into the apartment and saw nothing but the usual things. No guns or anything he figured would cause trouble – at least not in the apartment.   He looked all around, under stuff, in the closets, and opened a few boxes. Papers on top of the desk didn’t look like plans for a revolution, just bits of sermons on scraps of paper. He looked out the window and saw Gina, Ruth and the Summer Preacher rounding the corner. He walked out of the apartment house just as if he lived there.

This time they all met in Ruth’s apartment while her mother was at work, Clarence, Anthony, John, Gina, Ruth, Ronald and Alex, were there waiting for Reese’s report. He said there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious in the apartment. So, who was the best person to go in and start the small fire? Who was the most level headed?   Ronald was picked, because he wasn’t awkward, and he was small and quick. Their plan looked good and they were excited and scared at the same time. Ronald would fill up a baby food jar with gasoline from the public works garage. This time, it was TC and Anthony’s job to lure the Summer Preacher to go get some lemonade.

Ronald watched them leave and slid into the apartment, the door was unlocked. He lit a small fire in the living room under a drape and then he got out quick. In minutes, the fire was so hot it cracked the window. Somebody saw flames and called 911. The fire engines sounded immediately. Just as they sped round the corner a ball of fire flew out of another window. It sparked the bush by a cellar window. The glass cracked open with the heat; the frame began to burn; the curtain was in flames. Suddenly, as the firemen were getting out their hoses, a blast ripped out the side of the cellar wall. Whoom!  Sparks landed on the roof of the apartment where Alex lived. By the time the hoses were connected, the whole house was aflame. It happened in minutes.

Clarence was at home. He saw how close the fire was to his apartment house, and he ran to get TC next door and both of them got out with her little brother and sister. They ran out near the main street to get out of the way. The fire spread to houses, buildings, trees. More fire engines came, this time up Main Street. TC ran into Anthony’s house and got him. They went through the halls shouting and got all the rest of the people out. Fred looked at his little brother and felt surprised as tears came into his eyes. He wrapped a blanket around the child and trudged down the steps with him. TC and Anthony gave him a big smile. They all went downstairs and into the street.

Just as Clarence was getting Gina, Ruth and John and his sister and his sick father out, the gas line caught and an explosion rocked the ground. The whole four-unit apartment house swayed; they made it down the stairs and outside. Then, it too was on fire. By midnight, the whole neighborhood was burnt to the ground. The families were out in the street clutching their children. The fire department notified the mayor. The mayor called the Red Cross and asked them to bring blankets and supplies. Grown-ups, children, grandmothers, grandfathers, neighbor and street people all slept in the church that night.

The next day they separated into two groups and used the church and the school gym. They were not so crowded. Within a week, the city was moving house trailers into the big field across Main Street, one for each family. The children agreed they would break up into smaller groups so nobody would think to suspect them. TC, Clarence and Anthony were one group, John, Gina Clarence another, and Ruth and Reese were another.  They avoided each other just in case anyone was suspicious. They were all proud at how everything worked out, but knew they couldn’t look pleased. No big smiles, be serious, don’t say a word. This was hard, but they agreed they could do it.

The trailers were in place on July 1. The families moved in. All that summer a strange transformation came over the grown-ups and children, this new village of trailers. The Summer Preacher was never seen again, and thoughts of revolution were driven from their minds. The rumor went around that the Summer Preacher must have had guns and ammunition in the basement of the apartment, all stacked up for the revolution. Was he some sort of criminal?

The children felt they had done what had to be done. They wished that it hadn’t caused so much damage, but they liked the new situation very much. It was fun. As the summer went on, children and grown-ups grew happier and happier. The people found themselves away from their usual run-down apartment houses. The trailers were clean and bright. They had to entertain themselves. They talked and shared their lives, jokes and stories. They became closer to one another and made new friendships. They took pride in how the trailers and grounds looked. They all sat and cheered with the honey dipper came to empty the toilets. They were very fussy when the trash men came so that not a bit of paper was left to make the place look trashy. It was a real pretty place.

TC’s mother began giving charm lessons and ballet lessons. Gina and Ruth ran the crèche so the mothers could keep going to work. Clarence’s mother taught everybody how to sew, boys and girls alike. David’s mother taught reading classes and helped Fred and Reese to be so much better. TC helped her. John’s father and Ronald’s mother taught how to cook good, healthy food. Ruth’s mother taught how to cane chairs. The effect of all this friendship, learning and cooperation was that the neighbors were more and more confident of their talents. It turned out to be the best summer ever. As the winter came on, they began to drift off from their cooperative duties and got jobs for themselves. Many of them got better jobs than they had ever had. By the time the new apartments were built, all the parents were working. The new apartments cost more but were an awful lot nicer. Ever been.

As they carried stuff up stairs to their apartments, David said to Ronald, “Well, we really stopped that revolution didn’t we?” They put down their stuff and shook hands and gave each other high five.

A Sheep Shearing Shed in Scotland

By Nancy Haydon Gray

It wouldn’t matter if I cried because I didn’t want to help shear the sheep this year. Everybody in the shed was so wet with sweat and dirty with dust and grease and circles of sheep fleece that tears wouldn’t show. I licked tears from my upper lip and felt the hair and the grit stick to my tongue. I sneezed from the irritation of the dust in the air, and then my face was wet from that, too. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, and it didn’t every show, I was so coated with hair and dirt. My eyes were stinging, and Ian’s and Matt’s were red. Nobody noticed my tears.

Dad let one sheep in at a time, and he kept count: 5 done, 25 to go. They were all ewes with lambs waiting up on the hills, always hungry. It was only one in the afternoon. We’d have to work until six.   Once the dogs had rounded up the sheep, Dad liked to get them done that day; he didn’t like to keep them penned overnight. If we kept the ewes in all night, the lambs could starve by the time the ewes found them and started nursing them again.

We all took turns shearing. This time, Matt grabbed the sheep; Ian held its back legs. They turned the frightened, baaing, greasy, wiry animal over on its back. It was my turn to shear. To start, I put my hand under the chin of the sheep. Every time I sheared my hand got more gummy with saliva. We shear the underside of the neck first, then the belly side around the teats. Careful of the teats. Dad would whip me like I was a little boy if I sheared over them. It was hard enough raising the lambs without infected teats. God, you’d think they would be teaming with infection, they were so wet and dirty. Their feet were rotten from the damp. Their eyes had to be filled with ointment not to get runny. Sometime we’d miss one with the ointment, and its eyes would stick shut. How did they find their lambs? By smell, of course. All lambs look alike, and to me, all of ‘em smell alike too: terrible.

The front’s sheared. Ian and Matt turned the sheep over. I started at the neck and worked down the back. Dad watches ‘cause he knows I am sick of the whole thing. He wants the fleece off in one piece. It’s easier to count and sell a solid fleece.

I’m down the back under the fleece now. It falls wrong side out just like it’s supposed to.

“Hold the beast tight, Ian.”

“Keep those legs from kicking me, Matt.”

If I get another one of those musty, rotten hooves in my ear, I will fling the shears into someone’s teeth and run out.

Why does the shearing shed have to be so small, stuffy, airless, and thick with pieces of every stinking thing from these cursed sheep? Why isn’t there more sunlight to dry up the eternal damp? Why isn’t there some place clean, dry and bright where I can go, up and out of this life of sheep?

The Caper of the Amalie Clan

The Caper of the Amalie Clan

            Rama Amalie deftly curled his long, brown fingers around the heavy, new-looking plank door and slowly, gently eased it shut on his knuckles. He eased his fingers out as he silently shut it the rest of the way. He held it shut with one hand. In the other, he held a purple velvet bag which he set down in the dust. He put both his hands over the large latch and pushed it over to hold the door shut. He hadn’t made a sound.

            The light from the apartment above showed him to be young for such a nighttime adventure, thirteen or fourteen, probably. His black eyes were wide open in a look of joy and his chin was lifted as in some triumph. The fingers of his right hand were cut in several places. He looked up and down the alley very carefully. Oddly, he failed to look at the door where he had left dots of blood soaking indelibly into the new wood.

            Rama picked up the velvet bag and ran quietly into the shadows of the alley. His dark skin and black shorts and shirt made him almost invisible. His bare feet hit the littered, slimy, broken pavement as he ran. He stopped at the end of the alley where it joined the long straight street that led to the beach. Again he checked, looking back down the alley, then up and down the street. His eyes were still bright with an almost hysterical look of triumph!

            Darkened shops lined the near side of the empty street. Across the street and all the way down the far side was a steep slope covered with gravel and brambles. As Rama made a final check before moving on, a rat from the dingy alley raced across his feet. He sucked air in through his teeth and shivered. He held firmly to the velvet bag, crouched low, and ran across the rock and root to pull himself up. One hand held the bag, one was bloody. Rama was quickly up and over the top of the hill.

             The brambles thinned out. Rama turned and sped down a steep, sandy incline on the seat of his pants to the road below. The only sound was the swish of the sliding sand as he dug in his heels to keep himself from sliding too fast and falling.

            He ran silently across the road and onto the stairs to the beach. He ran down the stairs and to the right, crouched, and continued on toward a street light that lit a circle of beach by a large rock. He dove between the rock and some wind whipped trees and bushes. Swiftly he curled his legs in beside him and became part of the rock and bush. He lay there panting in loud and painful bursts. The hand with the velvet gab was dug into his abdomen, his free hand was pressed to his chest. His thin pointy shoulders heaved.

            After a few minutes, Rama’s shoulders were still. He uncoiled himself from around the rock and moved to a sitting position. He edged over to the light, put the velvet bag in his lap and unfolded the cloth. One by one he lifted its contents to the light. He looked at each in a loving, tender way. In the street light his hair shown almost blue-black. It was tied back at his neck. His face was oval. His nose was long and barely hooked at the end. His mouth was thin and straight but showed a slight smile. His eyes still glowed – a wild joy showed in them

             Finally, Rama closed the bag, held it in his hand again and raised his arm to the sky. He threw his arms apart and let himself fall on his back on the sand. His arms and legs stretched out like a star. His shoulders shook. He began to laugh – a low, quiet, satisfied laugh.

By Nancy H. Gray, Newark, Delaware – November 11, 2014

Peace and Poetry Press

Originally written after a trip to Beirut, The Lebanon in 1967.

With My Therapist: Microwave Tale

Microwave Tale

She: Why was I standing there laughing at myself this morning in my kitchen? I was thinking, Why is it that you have such a clean microwave oven? Well, the reason is that once again I blew something up in it.

Therapist: How often does that happen, Nancy?

She: Oh, about once a week. Maybe I should put it on for just a few seconds and not press the minute button.

Therapist: You think?

She: you see, this morning, the sunshine coming in the window overwhelmed me. This is the third consecutive warm day in New England this year. That caused me a moment of utter joy. I was distracted.

Therapist: What was it?

She: Milk for my coffee.

Therapist: Besides the weather, would you like to talk about why you were laughing?

She: Yes, thank you for asking. I was thinking of going over to Gail Ann’s Coffee Shop and spending $1.50 for a really good cup of coffee and having a nice chat, but decided not to indulge myself.

Therapist: Anything else?

She: OK, are you charging, or is this free?

Therapist: I’ll tell you later, but your story better be good.

She: Desperate Housewives opened last night with one of the women using a mop, upside down washing spaghetti sauce off of her ceiling.

Therapist: Yeh, and her husband walked in and reminded her she had done that before!

She: So, my visit is free?

Therapist: You bet.

She: Have a great morning, dear therapist.




There is underclass everywhere
And upper class just a bit.
In between we fall into rank,
Depends on how hungry we are.

If we need fed down deep,
Then the village’s got to help.
But folks can be deaf as a post
If the helping curve’s too steep.

There is always tomorrow
To fix somebody else’s yoke.
I got home safely today
There’s TV, supper and so

The fate of others is there,
But I didn’t feel it today.
Yet, I am beginning to think
Maybe I’d better care.

© Nancy Haydon Gray,  July 1, 2014, Newark, DE



We need a blockbuster movie to show us the troubles, a poem

Is FAIR so hard?

We need a blockbuster movie to
show us the troubles.

We need a blockbuster movie
so rich people get it.

We need blockbuster movie to
light a fire.

We need a blockbuster government but
we aren’t going to get one.

We need a blockbuster barrel
of money to cool the troubles by ourselves.

Cause if there is no blockbuster
of something we will burn.

That fire will burn and bust
All the neighborhoods.

There’ll be neither boutiques nor
pawnshops anymore.

We need a blockbuster movie on
how to get back to fair.

Do we need a blockbuster movie
to define fair?

Come on!
Nancy Haydon Gray 5/24/2014

New! Breaking the Surface, a book of poetry

One of the 24 poems in Breaking the Surface and the Importance of Breathing

I Am the Colorado Sun.

 I am the Colorado sun.

I come up on the flat plain

And fly

Over the most beautiful blue sky

You ever saw.

I change to red

And drop behind Mt. Meeker and long’s Peak

Just for you.


Burn—more sunny days than anywhere;

Makes people smile,

Go outside,

Act proud and cocky—not like Texas though.

Colorado’s special; it’s joy.


I’ve come through for you, haven’t I?

You come, and I shine.

Your new dogs run.

They run in the joy of the grass,

the trees and the squirrels—teasing.

I make Rainbows because they dry your tears.

I call the swallows from your barn.

I say “Fly through the rainbow,”

and you take pictures and laugh

—just as I hoped you would.

And I stop for rain, hard, astonishing rain

—because it makes you stop.

My corn is so high and sweet-scent alfalfa, no soybeans.

Remember, Jim tried to grown soybeans on the old pasture?   Too many weeds.

You and Donald work to beat back the weeds.

You plant seeds: Big Bluestem, Side Oats Grama, and Indian Rice Grass

“I want a medium-grass prairie. I want it to wave in the wind,” you said.

The seeds don’t take, not even trailing, little Buffalo Grass! It’s too dry here.

You work in my sun and become taller and happier than you had ever been.

Colorado and sun.

Hunters, blinds, trucks, gun racks, even holsters, flat prairie,

Furrows, seeders, tractors, harvest, plow to fine dust—a storm, brown air coats everything.

December, January, and February:

I snow on ten-thousand-foot-tall mountains; they glisten.

Snow, spring, snowmelt

to rivers, to creeks, to ditches, to fields, rushing, cordoned off, shares—of water!.

I show you all this that is new, you smile, and your mind breaks free.

“Shares of water, can you imagine that!” you say.

You thank me every day.

By Nancy Haydon Gray, Newark, Delaware, November 21, 2010

To Build a Practical Memorial Granite Bench

To build a practical memorial granite bench

You might want to build a bench to honor a relative, a hero in your town or a special event. Here is what we did. My family and I designed and built a granite bench to honor my husband. The bench is in the center of our family burial lot. He died when he was only 58, and it was important that my son, daughter and her husband and I work on something special to mark his life. The project took a year and a half, and it worked as a precious healing time for us, which is exactly what I hoped it would be.

May this essay of mine speed you on your way if you are thinking of honoring a person or commemorating an event or a place. I felt my husband’s life demanded special attention, and as I was now head of the family, I was going to be sure it got it. I wanted a project for us that would let us pay tribute to him and help us close his life with the respect it deserved. He died so young with no warning. Very quickly, we found a place we liked in a garden cemetery that is dear to my son’s heart. He led that process. We did the rest with each of us doing what we could do best.

As most cemeteries do, it had design and placement restrictions, actually a set of guidelines and rules. We reviewed the rules and generally agreed with them except that lettering and decoration could not be embellished with gold or color. At first, we had a meeting with a design firm and asked them to design our bench, but theirs was too fancy. Their work was done on the agreement that we only paid for it if we liked it, and we did not. They had agreed because the project was quite different and they wanted to give it a try. I thought we could do it on our own.

So we proceeded with our designing and all the plans that were necessary. My daughter drew a bench and the templates for the decoration and wrote the inscriptions for both it and his gravestone. She was back home overseas at that point, and phone calls were expensive. This was many years before Skype or vigorous competition between phone service providers. Nevertheless, we mailed and faxed drawings until we had that part together. We all liked it. Her husband made a small wood model which let us visualize the design.

My son and I checked out the work to actually make the bench. I visited two stone cutters, one a young man and the other a seventy year old woman, an old timer and more of an artist, to see about the design and inscriptions, but hand stone work turned out to be impractically expensive. Instead, my son heard that a friend did etching on glass and asked him if he could do it on granite. He could, and the cost was far less and less time consuming than stone cutting. My son made an appointment at the E. L. Smith Quarry in Barre, Vermont, and set off from his home in Massachusetts with our designs. When it was finished his friend went to the quarry and did the etching.

Next were some of the very practical tasks. The bench was to be put on a truck and delivered to the cemetery, but first, it needed a concrete foundation to be poured, cured and ready to receive it. I called two landscape designers to see if this was something they could do. One seemed too casual about it and setting a bench that weighted at least a ton was not a casual task. The second designer had just finished her studies in landscape designer and was quite positive about what had to be done. When it was delivered, truck, crane and workmen, she was on top of the job like the true supervisor she was trained to be. Over twenty years later, the bench is there, as solid as it was on the first day it was set. Our designer chose the plantings, a fothergilla, as the background shrub for our lot, and low plantings around the armrest. Fothergilla is a flowering shrub that grows to about 10 feet high and has white fuzzy flowers in the spring with downy twigs and pretty leaves, native to woodland and damp ground. Our lot is shaded and that worked just fine.

We are proud of the design of the bench; it is soft, medium gray granite, five feet long and curved, rounded at one end and with a substantial, boxy arm rest at the other, and the back curves up in the middle. There is a floral design etched into the back and my husband’s (and our children’s) surname and mine are on the side of the arm. We all worked together and contributed different talents. Each of us was responsible for different parts of it depending upon what we were good at.

We visit it when it is covered with snow and sit on and talk and look at the scenery in the sun in good weather. We like our bench. We discovered we could do this, and it is not only heroes and notables who can have a bench. My son lives close by and often visits to sit and enjoy where it is, in a garden cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts. We wonder how many other people sit on our bench and we hope they enjoy it too.

Naughty nighties, oh, no, not that way!

Dear Ladies’ Nightgown Industry Head Honchos:

Re:  Nightgowns and Winter Time.

Please, dear designers, consider redesigning nightgowns for those of us who live in a climate that includes winter.

Why do I wear one if not to keep warm? Because the sheets are cold and the nightie is warm. I am warm from the day and my shower. When I slide between the sheets for that first few minutes, my body is saved by my nightie. It’s saved from the shock of putting my nice warm back and bum on the cold sheet.

Soon, soon . . . my shoulders are cold, cold I tell you. The neckline is more suitable for a pop-up bra commercial. There I am with my sheet and blanket carefully arranged at my chin to keep my shoulders warm, and then I roll over and have to adjust the covers all over again. Then I roll over on my other side – you see what I mean? My Nightie is designed to keep me awake all night adjusting it to keep my shoulders under the covers. If the nightie came up nice and warm and soft around my neck, it wouldn’t matter if I got those covers just right. And, oh, a bit of sleeve, ah, that’s it.

And the volume of fabric, goodness! There I are on my back. Fine. Then I roll over and all that fabric has to be rearranged. As I fall asleep, I turn on my side and untwist all that fabric. Its fine when I turn the first time, but now, again, you see what I mean? Try untwisting all that and not waking up. I say, “How dumb a design is that!” and I write a letter in my head to you all as I try to assemble myself once again.

Which leads me to say, nightgowns are too long or two short. If they are too long, there is altogether too much fabric to fight with. If they are too short they don’t quite fit under my bum so it’s cold, and I have nothing under me when I sit to watch TV. Some designers understand, and I thank them, but I do have to look high and wide for just the right length, a modest neckline, a slim cut without so much fabric.

And by the way, ditch your scratchy nighty designer labels. Dear designers, rub your chosen label across your cheek. No, not that one, the one on your face. Do you see what I mean? I cut them off and your brand name is lost for good. Summer is coming soon, and I won’t have to wear a nightie at all. So, maybe you can work on these problems over the summer. That would be wonderful.

Sincerely yours,


© Nancy Haydon Gray June 8, 2014 Newark, Delaware

79-year-old English major writes poetry, illustrates and takes dance

From the University of Delaware Review, student newspaper

79-year-old English major still showing off talents

May 18, 2014

Nancy Haydon Gray, a 79-year-old English major, writes poetry, illustrates and takes dance classes at the university.
Cori Iliardi//THE REVIEW
Nancy Haydon Gray, 79, has been taking classes at the university for four years. Currently, she is enrolled in Dance 101.

Copy Desk Chief

Among the students showing off their long boards, knitting projects and modified toy vehicles at the Design Innovation and Positivity (DIP) club’s showcase last weekend, there was one student who didn’t look quite like the rest: a 79-year-old English major.

Nancy Haydon Gray has been studying at the university for four years, taking one class a semester on a pass/fail basis, but this is not Gray’s first time pursuing a degree. Gray already holds two master’s degrees in communications management and elementary education.

She has been taking classes for four years, but she says she doesn’t have a status like freshman or sophomore.

“I get away with as much as I can, so I never have to graduate,” Gray says with a smile.

Gray displayed her works over the last 25 years at the DIP showcase, she says. Her works were compiled into books of poems and short stories which also included illustrations Gray has created over the years.

At the showcase, she asked attendees—children, students and adults alike—to draw a picture of a wagon for her next project. Her next project is a children’s story, most likely a picture book, she says. On the table was a prompt for attendees to read, explaining why she was asking them to draw wagons.

The sign—which demonstrated the purpose of the book and wagons—talked about a neighborhood that’s bare and sad, but the children come up with an idea to make it more lively again.

“[It will] show how a bunch of little kids can do more than maybe their parents think they can do,” she says. “They’ll create a parade with wagons.”

Gray is going to use the wagons the guests drew for her in the picture book, she says. These wagons will be spread throughout the book as the parade of wagons the children in the story create.

Although Gray is majoring in English, her interests span far beyond that, and she takes more than just English classes. This semester, she chose to take Dance 101 where she says they learn about history of dance through films, but they also try out some of the dances.

“They’re beautiful young people, absolutely beautiful, and some of them are so graceful,” she says. “It’s just a pleasure to be around them.”

Professor Jeanne Walker met Gray when Gray took her Introduction to Poetry class. She says she was excited to have someone Nancy’s age in her class, even though it was a class of mostly juniors and seniors—all under the age of 22.

Walker says Gray was one of the top students in the class, and she was always up for anything. She was top of the class, very smart and highly motivated, Walker says.

“Nancy always said what she thought,” Walker says. “She was very straightforward. On the other hand, she is capable of making friends with somebody at any age, and therefore, our undergraduates, I think, loved her.”

Gray is very hospitable and kind to people at all levels, Walker says.

To demonstrate Gray’s kindness, Walker says she once met with Gray to discuss some of Gray’s artwork and poetry. Walker says her office was so cold, she almost needed mittens. After the next weekend, Walker returned to her office to find a large package outside her door. She says she couldn’t imagine what it could be, and when she opened it, she found Gray had sent her a space heater.

“It’s absolutely typical of the way she goes through life,” Walker says. “I bet a lot of people could tell stories that are similar.”

But beyond just being sweet and kind, Gray has lived an interesting life, knows a lot of people and stays in great shape, Walker says.

“She still has the capacity to meet new situations with zest and curiosity,” Walker says. “She has a fierce intelligence, and she’s still curious.”

Posted by Cori Ilardi

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