Gone Before

image of Blaisdell Plaque
Blaisdell Plaque

So many have gone before
Some just stories of struggle and success
The genetic fiber weaves itself
into the person I am becoming
Life leads me in busyness
to neglect their breath of life
now dead. A puff away from
my own existence, and yet I forget.
Remember, I must, these people
of old. I share their spirit
within my soul. The wind of
history can steer the course
and I, I may not know.
– MPS

Judy was on a journey to discover her past, her heritage. Her mother died when she was very young. Because of her father’s deep grief, her mother was not talked about much if ever after her funeral. In her memoir, Judy shares a story of the day of her mother’s funeral. The large black car slowly drove up to the front of their house. Her father and grandparents walked down the steps, got into the car and were driven away. Judy was left on the porch not knowing where they were going or where her mother had gone. This image inspired Judy to dig deeply into her family history. Being an only child, and having no close family, she did not know where to start. Finding a box of old family photos, Judy began trying to piece together her family history. She found one or two pictures of her mother. There were other family pictures, but most had no labels to identify the people. Judy was frustrated by the lack of information but was determined to find life in her heritage.

Visiting Pemaquid Point, Maine several years ago, Judy came upon a memorial rock. It was a memorial to the Blaisdell Family. Judy was thrilled. Being a Blaisdell, she finally had a sense of her roots.

Judy’s stories of memoir are funny, touching and sad. She was always searching to hear the voices of the past. She did not have time to solve the mystery of all the people in the old family photos, but she left us with a sense of peace. She must be celebrating with the mom she lost all too early for both.

Judy in Maine
Judy in Maine

Goodbye to Judy

My writing group friend, Judy, died early this year from a brain bleed out caused by her glioblastoma brain cancer.  Her death was unexpected. She was going to have a brain map done to prepare for the next step in healing, but the illness and her brain wore out first.  We didn’t have a chance to say goodbye or to visit in the last weeks. My flu virus stole our last moments. We emailed instead, each cyber note mentioning love. Love seemed to be her last language:

I will cherish the love sent to me and our family by your caring and love. 
I wish I could have thanked you in person. Your love and caring spreads wide.

Love, Judy

Thank you for all the love you spread. May you have a wonderful holiday filled with joy and a special time with family and love ones. You are the “tops!” Looking forward to our next get together. I cherish you.
Judy

I wanted to see her and catch once more the slight smile on her sweet, ageless face.  Judy stayed young and vibrant in her own way right to the end. Age has its stereotypes:  short grey-lavender hair and elasticized-waist pants, but Judy’s wore a pale blonde pageboy and rocked some serious jeans.

She wrote memoir and screen plays, but also occasional poems.  Who writes tender visual pieces at 80? Judy did. She wrote about old apartments, being a flight attendant, dogs she loved, or the nun who stole her chance of finding God in a particular denominational form.  And of course, her first and successive years without her mother. For this she is one of my heroes, a motherless girl who found her way to be a girl, a wife, a mother, and a woman without her mother walking beside her. Each of her pieces is a treasure, a golden nugget made all the more precious because of her willingness to hear the writing group’s reactions and incorporate them—immediately. She scribbled our suggestions down as we said them, all of us sitting around the dining room table with her writing in front of us.  She trusted us that much.

We met at each other’s homes.  At least twice we met at Judy’s home, a lovely cottage with photos of her in theatrical presentations, her children, her grandchildren, and her beloved Gil. She would set out china teacups with little cookies she baked, and I was swept into an era that honored gentler things. Once she emailed us to say she was babysitting a little white pup.  She wanted us to be certain we understood the dog was an honored guest, too, so please accept him as best as you can. I can’t imagine Judy rejecting anyone, much less a little white pooch. I think he sat between us on the sofa and we both petted him throughout the meeting.

I want to believe that Judy will be with us the next time we meet, that she will bring some little cookies and will ask us what we think about her last piece.  I want to tell her again how great she looks in those jeans and see that sweet hint of a smile. “You paved a road for me, Judy,” I want to say. “You grew older your own beautiful way.”  Heaven seems a little closer, a little more doable because she slipped away first, graciously and predictably, without making too much trouble for anyone right to the end.

I want to believe we will be sitting together with some little white pup between us, laughing at life and how all the cruelest things, all the losses, couldn’t hold us back from our share of its joys.

God bless you, sweet Judy.
I will always love you and your sweet spirit.

Butterfly

Judy at the Natural History Museum.
Butterfly Pavilion – NYC 2016

I saw Judy on stage at CapRep once and her performance as a miserable old lady gave me no desire to meet her. Years later, when she joined our writing group, I changed my mind. Her stories about moving in with grandmother, bonding with a dog, scanning the skies for enemy planes, flying cross-country as a stewardess fascinated me. When others read, she listened with patience. She gave helpful hints in a soothing voice. If I thought of the miserable old lady on stage, the memory told me Judy was a talented actress.

Then came the diagnosis. During precious final days, the real Judy wasn’t acting: bright eyes, soothing voice and even perfect hair endured.  So did insight, courage, curiosity. She accepted her prognosis, talked about it, but never gave up. “I want to live,” she told me with just a hint of tears.

A poem she wrote in December tells me she was confident she would, somehow, do that:

Butterfly
Blue, Orange, Black
Rises to heights unknown
Calmly returns