“The Wind Beneath My Wings” by Mary Hibbett

I was born a twin, and I always thought that was the greatest thing in the world. From the very beginning, I had someone who understood me, walked like me, thought like me, and always had my back. My sister Nancy and I were as close as two people could be. People said we were identical twins, but I never quite believed that. We looked alike when we were little, but as we grew up, we began to look more like sisters than identical twins.

We grew up in Weymouth, Massachusetts, on a piece of land where my father grew vegetables. We had goats and chickens, and life felt full of simple joys. Our neighborhood was a mix of old Yankees, Lithuanians, Irish, and Syrian families. Everyone got along. But when my parents separated and my mother moved us to Quincy, everything changed. Suddenly, we weren’t welcome anymore—because we were Italians. When we went to knock on doors and ask if friends could come out to play, their parents would say, “Oh no, she’s sick today.” We didn’t understand why we were treated differently. Coming from a neighborhood where everyone played together, it was a shock to find doors closed in our faces.

My mother was strong. She worked two jobs, seven days a week—mostly as a waitress—so she could take care of us. She had worked in an office for a while, but she wanted hours that let her be home when we were. She gave everything she had for us, and I will always call her a great mother.

Growing up, we didn’t have much, but we had love and laughter. Holidays were big family times. Thanksgiving was always at my grandmother’s house just around the corner, and Christmas was filled with fun and surprises. One of our favorite traditions was a big box game. We’d pass around a giant box filled with smaller boxes inside—each one hiding either a candy or nothing at all. It was silly, but we loved it.

Faith was part of our life, though it wasn’t always easy. Because my mother was divorced, the Catholic Church told her she couldn’t receive communion or even attend certain services. But she made sure we went to church and learned faith. I sang in the choir—though honestly, my singing was best left to the shower. Still, church was an anchor in our lives. Later, when I got married, my husband and I went to talk to the priest about the ceremony. The questions annoyed my husband so much that we walked out, and that priest refused to marry us. That was painful, but it didn’t take faith out of my heart. 

When I was a little girl, I discovered my passion—dancing. I must have been nine when I saw some women dancing at a carnival. Right then, I knew: That’s going to be me. My mother encouraged me. On Sundays, before she went to work, she would turn on the Polish hour on the radio, and we’d dance the polka together in the middle of the street. The music was loud, but nobody complained. It was the 1940s—life was slower, neighbors cared, and joy was simple.

Dancing became part of who I was. I wore sequined tops and shoes that sparkled. I felt alive when I danced. I even had a dance partner for a while. But life has a way of surprising you. One night, I went to a small dinner-and-dance club with a friend. She was hoping to meet someone, but I was the one who did. That’s when I met Lenny. I liked the way he dressed and even the way he ate his meal! He came to the club by himself, and soon he started picking me up for dances—sometimes dressed like a cowboy, sometimes a farmer. Every time, he made me laugh. We’ve been together ever since. It’s been over twenty-five years now, and we still tease each other like we did at the beginning.

We bought our house in Houlton, Maine, about five years ago. It was meant to be a getaway place for Lenny—for fishing and hunting—but we ended up moving here full-time during the pandemic. Before that, we lived in Massachusetts and had a home in Florida, too. At one point, I was managing three houses and even a motorhome! Those were busy days. Now we’re settled here, and I love it. Houlton reminds me of the 1940s—the porches, the lawns, the trees. People care about how their homes look. It feels wholesome, like the world I grew up in.

Finding the Methodist church here has been one of the best blessings of my life. The love and kindness I’ve felt are unlike anything I ever experienced before. I cried the first time I realized how truly welcomed I was. In all my years, I never had a priest say my name out loud during a service. Here, I’m seen and known. I tell everyone—the Catholics could learn something from this place!

I worked for many years as a receptionist at a small office in Boston, near Neponset Circle. I loved the job, and the people were good to me. I always believed in working hard and treating people kindly. That was how my mother raised us. She always said, “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember what you said.” I’ve tried to live that way.

Looking back, one of the hardest things in my life was facing prejudice as a child. To be treated as less because of who you were—it leaves a mark. But I learned how to stand up for myself. If someone bullied me, I found their weakness and made sure they’d leave me alone. It wasn’t easy, but it made me strong.

And there were proud moments, too—many of them on the dance floor. Dancing gave me joy, confidence, and a way to express who I was. During COVID, we couldn’t dance anymore, and that was hard. We were stuck in Florida then, unable to fly home for weeks. When everything shut down, something in me quieted too. I still move a bit—I hold onto the back of a chair for balance—but the sparkle shoes are retired now.

I have one daughter, and she has four children—and now they’ve made me a great-grandmother! They live down on Cape Cod. It’s beautiful there. I love my family deeply, but I worry about the world my great-grandchildren are growing up in. Technology has made life easier in some ways, but it’s stolen real connection. Kids today think they have friends on Facebook, but those aren’t real friendships. They don’t sit together, laugh, or share meals the way we did. There’s more loneliness, more pressure, and too much focus on “me time.” Parents today sometimes forget that raising children is a full-time calling of love and sacrifice. The child didn’t ask to be born—you owe them your time, not what’s left over. Your own time will come later.

If I could pass on a few lessons from ninety-plus years of life, they’d be simple ones. Be kind. Tell the truth. Pay your bills. Live within your means. Eat together as a family, because that’s how parents learn what’s going on in their children’s lives. And don’t believe everything you hear—some people will tell you what you want to hear, not what’s true.

I hope people remember me as someone who loved to dance, who had a good family, and who was fun to be around. I want them to say, “Mary made us laugh, and she lit up the room.” My favorite songs tell my story—The Wind Beneath My Wings by Bette Midler, which reminds me of my twin Nancy who passed away thirty-eight years ago, and Amazing Grace, which always makes me cry. Those songs hold my heart.

When I’m gone, I’ve told my family not to fuss—no service, no rituals. Just remember me once in a while. Say my name. That’s enough.

These days, I keep my mind sharp by reading the newspaper every morning and books when I can. I’ve always loved reading. Maybe that’s the secret to staying young—curiosity. That, and not eating too much. I never liked to eat much anyway—always thought it was a waste of time when I could be reading or dancing!

So, that’s my story. I’ve lived through hard times and beautiful ones. I’ve known love, laughter, loss, and grace. I thank God for all of it—for the twin who shared my first breath, for the mother who showed me strength, and for a church that finally felt like home.