Barbara wanted to keep her figure and her mobility and strength and she kept them all. When she was diagnosed with terminal cancer in the spring of 2000, she was already 80-something–but not old. She had been getting ready to be a senior citizen.
Barbara’s idea of getting ready to be a senior citizen involved things like jetting off to London with her friend Irma for a week of going to plays, or cruising all around the isles of Greece.
Barbara started the Barbara-Betsy carpool. That was true of most things in our relationship. In any relationship conducted in the early morning hours, Barbara had a natural advantage. She was awake. She was refreshed by the boisterous give-and-take of breakfasting with a small beloved dog. She was wearing lipstick. She was eager to talk about what had happened the day before and to speculate about the events ahead.
She was often ready to go with some piece of advice. I received lots of Barbara’s advice over the years, all of it thoughtful. Any advice that could be construed as criticism was always indirect.
For example, I remember one week when almost every day Barbara would just happen to see somebody shuffling along without picking up his feet–or her feet. These people were everywhere. “Look at that man!” Barbara would exclaim, as we sat at a stop sign. “Don’t people realize how it looks? Out for a walk, and he’s shuffling along like the thousand-year-old man. Stride, stride!” Or after Early Birds class, “Did you notice Susan today? Just dragging her feet around like two lumps of lead. Terrible. It makes her look so old.”
Well, as I said, all these talks took place in early morning hours, so it took me almost a week to say to myself, “That’s funny, all of a sudden, Barbara sees people everywhere dragging their feet.” And then it took me a microsecond more to say–“Wait a minute–I must be dragging my feet.” So I made a special effort to pick up my feet and stride. And on that day, all of the shuffling people with lumpy lead feet vanished from Princeton. So I think I was right.
The Jehovah’s Witnesses say that most of Earth’s very good people don’t end up in heaven. Instead they get strong new bodies and a new life in a second but perfect Earth. I think that would suit Barbara very well.
Barbara was very grounded, full of enthusiasm and zest for real things. You go through a whole lot of springtimes in ten years of driving together. Every year, Barbara was full of enthusiasm for the first crocus–the first daffodil–the first tulip–the blooming of the magnolia trees. In autumn, every euonymous bush or glowing red sugar maple would make her exclaim.
Princeton was her place. She grew up in Canada, but she had given her heart to Princeton years ago and everywhere she and I drove was full of memories. There’s a house on Mercer Street–not hers or mine–that is “the best house in the world for giving parties. The living room is a jewel box–a perfect jewel box.”
One of the pleasures of Earth, and I hope the Jehovah’s Witness heaven will remember to include this, is serendipity. Barbara and I got to be friends for no good reason. We just happened to end up spending time together. We were different in many, many ways. But we shared an enthusiasm for natural beauty, a love of Princeton, and a lot of admiration for our fellow Early Birds. She was my true friend–and I am still her true friend. I still keep my coins in the coin purse she gave me. When I wash my dog, I’m wearing the oilcloth apron she brought me from London. When the beauty of springtime–or summer, or autumn–catches me unaware, I can clearly hear Barbara say, “Well now, look at that.” And Barbara, if you can hear me, I do really try to pick up my feet as you did, and stride, stride!