When the Historical Society honored beloved local legend Mable Granke on the fifth of May, the stars aligned and the legions who love her declared it Cinco de Mable.

Her stewardship of—and service to—our community is already well-chronicled. So my mission was to learn how someone like Mable evolves into the powerhouse who put the "public" in "public hearing."

We begin her story when she’s a child of eight. Mable’s hero, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, famously said at his 1933 inaugural that "we have nothing to fear but fear itself." Three months later, Mable stood with her mother on the south lawn of the White House for the annual Easter Egg Roll. Since every adult needed to have a child to enter the event, a stranger took Mable by the hand, attempting to kidnap her for a few hours.Mable’s mother saved the day and Mable rolled. Now she rocks the world of establishmentarians—regularly.

In her early teens, the Deacon of her church told her she wasn’t to return without a hat. Rather than purchase one, Mable took this as a great excuse to find a new congregation. Her father forbade her to wear lipstick. No problem. Red jelly beans—skillfully crushed and smoothed onto the lips—would suffice until she could buy lipstick with her own first paycheck.

She met her husband Dick at her very first USO Dance in D.C. and they courted all around the capital—biking on Hains Point and dancing the night away at the Hotel Washington, a block from the White House. (Am I the only one who hears "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" in the background?)

In May of 1945, she emerged from the theater on U Street showing of Gone with the Wind to find joyous crowds in the street. The war had ended. And the world would soon see that unlike Rhett Butler, Mable Granke frankly did give a damn.

Her career as a secretary (small s) at the Department of Commerce put her in close proximity to the cabinet Secretary—and a memorable elevator ride with President Harry Truman.

Dick graduated from MIT and as young parents, they moved the family to Pittsburgh. Mable’s first taste of the struggle for civil rights was in the predominately white suburb of Mt. Lebanon. The Grankes put their house up for sale and created quite a stir. She never quite understood the furor caused by fear of blacks next door. She and Dick worked through dicey dilemmas with their neighbors, emerging with a heartfelt understanding of—and abiding desire to fight—racism.

Their return to the D.C. area—Montgomery County, Maryland—brought Mable to the League of Women Voters and with it a newfound passion for conservation issues and community planning. With a houseful of teenagers in what was then "the boonies," public access to mass transportation was a top priority. Her proudest memory of this period is cutting the ribbon at the Silver Spring Metro Station: Hats off to Mable—proclaimed locally as the Mother of Metro. She ran for public office twice—in ‘74 and ‘78—and although her effort for elected office was unsuccessful, her record of accomplishment was never in question.

The Grankes bought their Rehoboth house in Schoolvue in 1985. Having raised the children, it was time to settle into a well-deserved retirement. Long before cable TV had 101 shows dedicated to home improvement, Mable and Dick scrubbed and painted their little slice of heaven. So the news of his cancer diagnosis came at an awfully cruel time. He struggled with the caustic treatments, but ultimately succumbed at home during a freak snowstorm in November 1987.

Widowed at 61, Mable decided then and there that if she were going to be alone, it was going to count for something. And count it has. Dick always said that there isn’t a flat surface that she won’t fill. Today, Mable’s table is mostly occupied with West Rehoboth Land Trust—and a smattering of Save Our City and youth programs. When she isn’t on the phone with Dover or Georgetown, she stares out at the school and worries which students will fall through the cracks. If you want to see the monstrous building that was built in Dewey Beach because of a loophole, Mable can show it to you. While she’s able to give you the forensics on a fishy deal like that, she’s also preparing for the next mountain to climb. If you thought you could go into a back room, and benefit from insider hanky panky, meet Mable Granke.

Her reason for creating a more positive Rehoboth on every possible level is simple: we are all God’s children. Her first real bonding with the gay community was notably when she mentored Patrick Gossett during his tenure on the Planning Commission. She took Patrick by the hand and showed him everything he could ever want to know about local land use, opening his eyes to all the beauty that surrounds us. The only thing that could have made that story more perfect is if her name were Mame.

For those of us who shuttle to and fro from Washington, D.C., it’s a cliché that we spend the first half hour of the drive back thinking about whether we locked all the windows and turned off the coffee pot. By the time I hit Route 16, I’ve usually calmed myself that all is OK. Now, I’ve added to that list. Are the parks and the trees and the lakes and the kids in West Rehoboth OK? Yes, I tell myself as I make the turn. Mable’s watching.