Tribute to a Friend

Her name was Carol, although at first I knew her only as "Lark" -- a pseudonym she created to conceal her identity online. I met Carol exploring an early version of social networking on AOL. We both shared a passion for computers and were intrigued by this brave new digital world still in its infancy. Carol served as an online mentor to me and we became fast friends. Eventually we decided to meet in real life.

In the southwest suburbs, Carol lived in a small tri-level home she and her husband purchased long ago. Don died at a young age, only 46, leaving her a widow at an equally young age. Their only child, a son, chose a difficult road; he drifted in and out of her life occasionally.

One of the sweetest, most kind and deferential people I have ever met, Carol was not one to put herself in the limelight. She felt more comfortable in the role of counselor, offering common sense advice, lending a sympathetic ear, or providing solace and empathy.

During a difficult year of my life, after losing both my brother and mother, Carol took me under her wing and became a comforting source of support. She confided in me a familiar set of tragedies: the loss of her mother at an early age, plus the dual sorrow of dealing with the unexpected death of her husband on the heels of losing her sister and only sibling to cancer.

Our deepest, most profound conversations took place in her hot tub on the back porch, Celtic music playing in the background, sipping exotic drinks whipped up in a kitchen whose cabinets were painted a lively shade of lime green. Carol was fascinated with European and Celtic culture, extraterrestrials, pagan rituals, and the Druids. She had a special affinity for the natural world.

I enjoyed spending time with Carol, strolling through her gardens, feeding pea pods to her lop-eared rabbit, watching her fingers work a giant loom in the dining room, admiring her latest silk flower creations, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the near-feral cat that moved in constant stealth mode throughout the house.

Carol was thrilled when I met Dave. She found him quite handsome and felt we were well-suited, a good match. As often happens with a new relationship, I spent more time with Dave and less with Carol. In the meantime her life had changed dramatically; she discovered that like her sister, she too had cancer.

Not wanting to burden her friends with the news, a long time passed before she told any of us. The cancer progressed quickly, leaving her partially paralyzed. After a brief stay in a rehabilitation center she returned home; her sister-in-law moved in to help Carol during the last months of her life.

Carol was too weak to visit or talk on the phone as the end neared. I called to wish her happy birthday a week before she died but never had the chance to speak with her. She came to me in a dream about the same time she left this world. Not long after I heard the news that she was gone. According to her wishes, no memorial service was planned, just a small gathering of friends to share stories and raise a toast.

When I first saw her grave marker, I was surprised to see her birth date etched in stone: the nineteenth of August. All those years I believed her birthday was the ninth of August. How silly I felt right then, knowing I called her every year on the wrong day! Still, I smiled to myself. How very like Carol to not correct me, sparing me any embarrassment.

Dear Carol, although you are missed, I want you to know that my memory is long and remains fairly accurate. I'm sharing one of your glamour shots in this journal. I know you felt they were frivolous and extravagant, but I always thought you looked beautiful in them. They captured an essence that maybe you could never see in yourself.

When someone talks about Las Vegas, I'm reminded of our fun-filled whirlwind visit that Memorial Day weekend so many years ago. When I hear the song of a meadowlark, see pictures of Stonehenge, read about crop circles, or listen to Celtic music, I think of you.

Thank you for being such a good friend. Most of all, thank you for sharing your generous heart with so many. I miss you...

Channeling my Mother

A few weeks ago I was clearing up the evening dishes. Distracted by conversation and news coverage, I let the hot water run a bit too long and nearly scalded my hands under the steaming faucet. Without hesitation I hollered out a saying: "Hot! Burn the baby!" then started to laugh.

There I was, channeling my mother again.

When we were little, that was mom's phrase to warn us about hot surfaces or boiling water. "Hot! Burn the baby!" was her way of teaching us to use caution around the stove, coffeepots, toasters, or a sink or bathtub filled with hot water. Even when we were older, she would continue to remind us of impending burns with the same phrase.

Mom used a heaping portion of idioms and colloquialisms in her daily life, with a side order of old wives' tales thrown in for good measure. These phrases were a natural part of her language; she had a saying suitable for nearly every occasion or circumstance.

As I began piecing together this journal, I discovered that I remembered much of the vernacular--some I use to this day--but had lost track of the more obscure bits and pieces that were standard fare in the colorful and interesting expressions used by my family. A quick internet search helped refresh my memory. Some of my all-time favorites are contained in this story.

One of mom's least favorite family members earned the nickname, Old Fuddy-Duddy. I can't imagine why she was like that, except possibly she was one of those people who seemed to get up on the wrong side of the bed nearly every day. However, you wouldn't dare tell the old fuddy-duddy what you really thought of her, because that would surely go over like a lead balloon.

Our neighbors who brought home a color television long before anyone else could afford one were living high on the hog, no doubt due to the fact that the husband had lucked into a new job where he was In Like Flynn. With a seemingly frivolous display of new wealth, the wife was frequently spotted in town all dolled up, prancing around like she was Astor's Pet Horse.

Mom wanted to make sure all of us were careful not to bite off more than we could chew. Apparently dad didn't need to worry about that particular problem because he had a cast iron stomach. Not long after finishing a meal, dad was likely to doze off... sometimes in the midst of a large family gathering. Word has it that he loved to nap so much he was capable of falling asleep on a picket fence.

My oldest brother Rich was often accused of making up cock and bull stories to explain his violation of curfews and other parental rules. Sometimes those stories were wildly fantastic scenarios that included everything but the kitchen sink. Fortunately, they were usually sufficient for him to get off Scot-free.

No one ever worried that middle brother Ted, the most responsible and studious of the bunch, would ever put all his eggs in one basket or lose his head. As such, he was voted most likely to go from rags to riches in his lifetime. Ted could usually be found toiling over his homework or art projects and never wavered from his goals, well, at least not until the cows came home.

Because of my proclivity to question everything and remain skeptical after otherwise acceptable explanations had been presented, mom had long ago dubbed me her Doubting Thomas. In my teenage years she warned against my tendency to go through life with a chip on my shoulder and pointed out that I was guilty of wearing my heart on my sleeve, a problem that plagues me to this day.

In winter, mom would lecture me about leaving the house with wet hair; you're just asking to get sick, she would say with a cluck of her tongue. But should that dry winter air make my palms itch, turns out there was a fifty-fifty chance some money might be coming my way. Unfortunately, I could never seem to remember which palm signified money in and which meant money out.

Many times I heard I was the spitting image of my mother in her younger years. I never could see it until I started getting a bit long in the tooth myself. One thing we do share is our housekeeping philosophy: If you don't have time for a thorough cleaning, just give the house a lick and a promise.

This past winter, Dave and I were at our favorite brewpub enjoying a drink at the bar. All day long my nose had been itching like crazy. As I sat there scratching the tip of my nose, I told Dave that according to my mother, this meant I was about to kiss a fool. Right then Dave leaned over and gave me a great big smooch. I can't remember if my nose stopped itching but I can report that my heart swelled in my chest.

Now, it's entirely possible that I'm pulling your leg about some of these situations. Because although I may remember the lingo, I don't always recall specific instances when they were used.

I bet most people have similar memories. What are your favorites?