You see, in the mad rush of life, I never got a chance to let either of them know how much they meant to me.
That’s something I will always regret.
Sandy was a vibrant 58-year-old who looked 15 years her junior. She was bright, sophisticated, a talented writer and, my favorite thing about her, irreverently funny.
Several years ago, when I was going through my divorce, Sandy was working part time in my office. One afternoon, I was on the verge of melting down at my desk.
She took one look at me and immediately got me outside for a walk. Within minutes, she had me laughing about some of her “adventures” of growing up Jewish in a predominantly Christian town; how some obnoxious girl came up to her in high school and told her she was going to go to hell, because of her religion.
Sandy, who was a mere teen back then, replied something to the effect:
“Oh, I guess I will see you there.”
Or the time, as a young journalist, she accidentally inserted a bawdy joke in copy she was editing for some important international journal in Washington, D.C. (Fortunately, if I recall correctly, another editor caught it before it went to print, thus possibly avoiding an international incident.)
Oh, how she kept me laughing when I needed it the most. We fell out of touch and I kept meaning to pick up the phone ...
When she fell gravely ill she wasn’t receiving friends. She so rightly wanted to spend all her last moments with her family. She died at home with them in April.
Happy Hanukkah, Sandy. Indeed, you are in heaven and, of course, cracking everybody up.
Every summer, Shelly’s garden was a magnificent explosion of reds, yellows, purples, white and all manner of green. I often told Shelly (I called her Shelle-Belle) that she could put a master gardener to shame. She’d laugh; I don’t think she believed me.
Gardening was a way for her to relax and work off excess energy and did she have it.
She was talented in many ways. She was a hair stylist; a decorator; she could make florist-grade bouquets and throw a memorable bash.
In August, only 44, she was killed in a car accident on a country road near her home in Hampton, Pa.
Remaining in her garden is an engraved stone I bought her for her 40th birthday.
It bears a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Earth laughs in flowers.”
Indeed, she helped the Earth laugh so heartily and she is now in heaven making it beautiful, as well.
Merry Christmas, Shelle-Belle.
Patricia Poist is a staff writer for the Living section. Her e-mail address is ppoist@lnpnews.com.
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