The first time I “met” Anne Rittenberry, she told me her name was Anne with an e, like Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery. The literary reference to the beloved main character in “Anne of Green Gables” tipped me off to exactly who the lovely person corresponding with me was.
“Dear old world, you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you,” Anne said in the story. And I always got this feeling from the real-life Anne.
This lovely Southern lady was one of the most well-read people I knew, and she added enormously to my vocabulary because of my looking up words she used in her columns for the Signal Mountain Mirror. Previously unbeknownst to me, they were the most perfect words to describe whatever she was writing about.
A Signal Mountain Woman of the Year, this accomplished woman was The Signal Mountain Playhouse’s champion. She was its cheerleader, workhorse, public relations person and more. Last summer, when she was battling cancer with her chin up and her chest lifted, she braved the stifling July midday heat and announced the actors and actresses for the summer play, “Wizard of Oz,” for the Library’s noon preview for the children. After introducing the players, Anne set out lemonade and snacks and manned the hospitality table, making sure everyone got backstage tours and a cool glass of lemonade. It was so hot, I barely made it through the brief production while sitting in the shade.
Later that night, and for every other dress rehearsal during both the winter play and summer play, Anne saved a seat for my mother and me. The summer seats involved her lugging folding chairs around and setting them up in a prime spot, then introducing us.
Halfway through my first year at the Mountain Mirror, in November 2013, my father died. I still hadn’t met Anne in person, but a beautiful gift arrived on my desk a few days after his funeral. Her words about my daddy being ever-present, no matter I couldn’t see him or hear him, were so comforting. The picture frame with his beaming face reminds me of him every day. And Anne, too.
Anne wrote her last article for the Mountain Mirror this past winter, spreading the word about the winter play, “A Bad Year for Tomatoes.” She was undergoing chemo but when asked about it, she only said, “I’m doing well on my chemo - a little wobbly and tired but otherwise fine.” Of course, she downplayed it.
A couple of weeks before she died, she made sure I had the Playhouse story for the July issue. I assured her I did. She had told me the cancer had spread to her lungs and lymphatic system. When I told her how sorry I was, she said, “I’m still in the game though!” making sure the disease did not define her.
Anne died on the Fourth of July, one of the “Hot July days when the air was full of the scent of clover and the hay fields ... those are the days that make you glad to be alive,” as L.M. Montgomery wrote in one of her journals about the magic of July. It’s also a day that will always be celebrated by everyone who knew Anne, with watermelon and corn on the cob and everything that is good to eat. And fireworks. Lots of bright, sparkling light bursting with sparkles and illuminating the night sky.
I know I won’t be the only one thinking of Anne with an e on every Independence Day.
by Ferris Robinson
“Dear old world, you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you,” Anne said in the story. And I always got this feeling from the real-life Anne.
This lovely Southern lady was one of the most well-read people I knew, and she added enormously to my vocabulary because of my looking up words she used in her columns for the Signal Mountain Mirror. Previously unbeknownst to me, they were the most perfect words to describe whatever she was writing about.
A Signal Mountain Woman of the Year, this accomplished woman was The Signal Mountain Playhouse’s champion. She was its cheerleader, workhorse, public relations person and more. Last summer, when she was battling cancer with her chin up and her chest lifted, she braved the stifling July midday heat and announced the actors and actresses for the summer play, “Wizard of Oz,” for the Library’s noon preview for the children. After introducing the players, Anne set out lemonade and snacks and manned the hospitality table, making sure everyone got backstage tours and a cool glass of lemonade. It was so hot, I barely made it through the brief production while sitting in the shade.
Later that night, and for every other dress rehearsal during both the winter play and summer play, Anne saved a seat for my mother and me. The summer seats involved her lugging folding chairs around and setting them up in a prime spot, then introducing us.
Halfway through my first year at the Mountain Mirror, in November 2013, my father died. I still hadn’t met Anne in person, but a beautiful gift arrived on my desk a few days after his funeral. Her words about my daddy being ever-present, no matter I couldn’t see him or hear him, were so comforting. The picture frame with his beaming face reminds me of him every day. And Anne, too.
Anne wrote her last article for the Mountain Mirror this past winter, spreading the word about the winter play, “A Bad Year for Tomatoes.” She was undergoing chemo but when asked about it, she only said, “I’m doing well on my chemo - a little wobbly and tired but otherwise fine.” Of course, she downplayed it.
A couple of weeks before she died, she made sure I had the Playhouse story for the July issue. I assured her I did. She had told me the cancer had spread to her lungs and lymphatic system. When I told her how sorry I was, she said, “I’m still in the game though!” making sure the disease did not define her.
Anne died on the Fourth of July, one of the “Hot July days when the air was full of the scent of clover and the hay fields ... those are the days that make you glad to be alive,” as L.M. Montgomery wrote in one of her journals about the magic of July. It’s also a day that will always be celebrated by everyone who knew Anne, with watermelon and corn on the cob and everything that is good to eat. And fireworks. Lots of bright, sparkling light bursting with sparkles and illuminating the night sky.
I know I won’t be the only one thinking of Anne with an e on every Independence Day.
by Ferris Robinson
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