A Painful Stretch of Days

I called Barbara, wanted to ask if she’d have a look at a letter I’d received. Among numerous accomplishments, Barbara was a court-certified graphologist–handwriting expert. Fascinating trade. I had a gushy thank you note from someone who for years hadn’t responded to a single letter I wrote and I suspected the motives. I wondered if guile betrayed itself in handwriting. My friend Barbara also had a gift for growing a fructiferous New England garden…reading one’s Tarot cards (“Oh, Sylvia, here’s “Strength!”)…preparing a delectable breakfast/luncheon/tea/dinner for guests…carrying on delightful chats while walking our dogs Lady and Roxy… painting a charming still-life for a present…relishing her gifted children and grandchildren.

Patrician once-blonde Barbara also had an uplifting sense of humor and Yankee sense of proportion. Should I be getting myself on the way to a tizzy, she’d lyrically chime up and down, “Syl-vee-ah!” and make me laugh. We were two women on our own, she a couple of years older but seemed ageless—it was in the years after Gene died and I’d gone off to live in West Groton, Massachusetts. Barbara was a gift from Gene’s best friend—she and Andrew had been close for decades.

So I left a message on her answering machine and went back to work. It was a petty errand, anyway—maybe it was best Barbara was away and I’d been spared humiliation.

Days went by. Oh dear. Oh no. Then I Googled her name.

Barbara’s 91st birthday was in January—we’d chatted that day—but a month later, our planet was the poorer when graphologist/tarot card interpreter/dog enthusiast/garden appreciator/superb cook/great sense of proportioner/great about everything Barbara took her leave.

When my sadness and disappointment abated a bit, it struck me I had indeed been spared an indignity: now that I think of it, I can imagine Barbara reading the thank-you note and saying, “Sylvia! This is such a generous note! I’m ashamed of you for suspecting otherwise.”

Heck, I know Barbara has read the note and is nudging me lightly, “You’re right. It’s phony. But for heavens’ sake, let it go!”

Five days later came another blow…

Too many years ago a sad bad thing happened in my life.

My husband Gene and I and our kids were close to a family who lived a stone’s throw away from ours. I’d known R.J. the wife, in the eighth grade, and when we moved in and discovered we were neighbors, we were delighted. Our husbands turned out to have interests in common. Our children were of an age. For fifteen years our two houses were a jolly compound.

Then…

Because of a disagreement about a matter of shared property—I HATE MONEY!—rage toward us from our friends became insurmountable. The two people we’d loved and thought we knew intimately said shocking things about and to us. Literally turned their backs on us.

Sadly, except for one, our children stopped seeing their children as well.

A week after I learned about Barbara’s death, I learned R.J. had just died. Leaving her ninety-one year-old husband a widower.

I was so sorry.

And so sorry R.J. and I had not been able to at least make a feint at mending our broken bond. Just for the good of our souls. As a matter of fact, the day after Gene died, R.J. called me, shocked me by saying, “Sylvia, now that Gene is dead, can we be friends?” I muttered something about honoring the dead and hung up. Now I think I was wrong.

I cannot imagine ever having a dreadful quarrel with anyone again. But in these remaining years, I’m here to say that hanging on to anger and hurt is the Devil’s mischief.

Dear friends don’t last as long as they ought.