Safe Passage and Farewell to Friends

Life is a miracle. Students from my writing seminars and classes over the years might gasp in astonishment to read a column of mine that opens with a cliché. But clichés only become tired-out old phrases if left alone. So let me add a caveat.

But so is death a miracle.

Two of my friends passed away this week. These friends, although they did not know one another, shared several things. They both died with dignity, and they both lived life enthusiastically. One of them died in her daughter’s arms, and the other died peacefully with family gathered after a long battle with cancer.

From them, I have learned about living life with vigor despite adversity. Barrie, the friend who died of cancer, called me in October after I moved to Tallahassee. She was in New Smyrna Beach on a shopping spree with some other friends from St. Augustine. My name came up in the conversation, and she said she would call and see if I had the same cell phone number.

“Patricia, just wanted to make sure we all knew how to get a hold of you,” Barrie said when I answered the phone. “We’re having a blast here and shopping and someone said we should make a road visit to you in Tallahassee next.”

I assured her she would always be welcome in my home. I heard through the St. Augustine grapevine, confirmed later by her brother, that Barrie’s cancer of the year before returned sometime in November. She went to hospice early this year. I saw her days before my move when we shared a glass of wine. She just knew my move to Tallahassee would bring good things to me, and she hoped, as the political activist she was, that I would bring a fresh perspective to the capital. While I am not sure about that part of my new job, I do know that Barrie believed in me and let me know it from the moment she met me. From the e-mails I am seeing at her “virtual” funeral I know she treated others exactly the same. Now I am fairly certain I will be able to kick a certain part of the anatomy with Barrie’s energy the force behind my foot.

My other friend, Pearl, lived a full life too. I sat at her funeral with the church overflowing with mourners marveling at the positive impacts one small woman had on those who were fortunate enough to have been in her orbit for even a short time. While her last years contained moments of physical pain, she never wavered in her love for those around her. But it is her playfulness I will remember the most.

Pearl loved to entertain and even at the age of 84, she adored the company of those much younger than herself. Her daughter, one of my dearest friends, arranged for several of us to meet at Pearl’s house several times a year for the past four years. We would sit on Pearl’s porch and have happy hours that deserved the name. The neighbors probably called them hysteria hours. On one occasion someone suggested we give ourselves a name.

“There are six of us,” one of us said.

“What do we have in common?” another asked.

The writer in me who loves alliteration said, “We’re all sexy so why not the Sexy Six?”

Pearl embraced her membership in the Sexy Six and became our queen and our hero as we continued to meet as often as schedules would allow. Sometimes we would venture to a restaurant, but it was hard to contain us in public.

She wrote me a note after my trip to Italy, telling me she had enjoyed my reports back to the Sexy Six on my activities.

“Dear Pat,” Pearl wrote. “Life is a ball, especially if you take it in your stride.  I’ve enjoyed knowing you, and just go with the fun and enjoy it all. I love you, Pearl!”

She wrote those words at the age of 82 and in the next two, final years of her life she followed her advice fully.

The last time I saw her, she asked, “Do you think the Sexy Six can meet soon?”

You bet, Pearl. And there will be a place reserved for you at the head of the table. And you too, Barrie. Safe passage to both of you.

These are the miracles that are not clichés.

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