What a beautiful collaboration, Rona. "She looked like death, as light and dry as dandelion fluff." Fredelle nailed it with that sentence. It took my breath away in its clarity. Friends are the gift of life for sure. With friendship, there's love of all different kinds. I rely on it, and hold my friends as chosen family. They are the people who accept me as I am, and love me because of it. They don't want to fix me, they just see me. Thanks for being my friend. xo
I have only the tenderest memories of the acerbic Miss Nan Tepper with whom I worked more than fifty years ago at the public library. She favored Harper Lee’s boyish white haircut, and Keds, always sage-green Keds. She rushed out the door when she saw me fall off my ten-speed, my arm already swelling and distorted. “I’m taking our girl to South Bay Hospital for an X-ray,” she told the head librarian, who nodded. Nobody ever argued with Miss Tepper. She spoke loudly, over my anxious protests, “They can send the bill to those deadbeat parents of hers,” who’d moved to Hawaii. My arm wasn’t fractured, but sustained a “serious contusion, a bone bruise,” wrapped tightly from fingertips to armpit. Granted two days’ leave, when I returned the library staff presented me with a new radio. My old one—along with nine years of MAD magazines, Peanuts books, and other treasures—had been sold by my parents at their garage sale while I was at work. “Now you can listen again to that 93 KHJ ‘Boss Radio’ that all you kids love,” announced Miss Tepper. I cried.
Wait, you knew someone named Nan Tepper? I love that. The only other Nan Tepper I'm aware of is a woman in her early to mid 90s who lives in the Southern California region. She became a late in life actress. I don't know her, but would like to!
A person with your name is a Googleganger. I found three of them, one a deceased addiction counselor who used to attend some of the same conferences I did while speaking about mental health. We may have brushed against each other in a coffee line.
Googleganger! I do have one (a counsel at Protect Democracy) in Vermont. And then there's Jules Tortolani from Cape Elizabeth, Maine. We became fast Facebook friends because we shared so many common letters in our names. Mostly, my name is a Googleganger for Tortie cats (tortoiseshell) and torte cakes! Adding this one to my Rona-inspired dictionary.
Isn’t it delightful? Wish I had coined it. A documentary filmmaker saw a blog post I wrote years ago about this, wanted to interview me. It never happened.
Thank you so much. When my father died in 2016, I was informed by Google Alert. We were the last of the Goodman-Malamuths, though Goodmans and Malamuths remain.
When my late husband died, his best friend (a Native American woman, although she used the term Indian) read the poem Do Not Weep For Me at our makeshift funeral. It was just the two of us standing in his barn and, of course, all I did after she read it was weep. I wrote about her and the gift of her invented funeral at a time when I was so lost I couldn't manage any kind of memorial for him myself. Unfortunately, that essay, entitled "Cindian," was the end of our friendship. But I think of her and that moment in the barn every time I read the poem. As always, Rona, this was beautiful.
Thank you, Trevy. Emily Dickinson, who knew grief, portrayed mourning as letting go. What makes it so achingly hard is the urge to hold on. I looked up “Cindian.” It touched me. There’s no telling how people will respond to their appearance in a piece of writing.
In writing this lovely duet, and mentioning a few lines about your mother in other stories, she does actually get to be on Substack. And also to live on, because so long as we write or talk about friends and family that have passed on, they live on in print and memories.
Ah, now we see the lineage stream of beautiful writing in your matrilineal line. I love how you structured this piece as a duet, Rona. Two wonderful writers, mother and daughter, singing harmony on friendship and love. What a joy to read!
Oh, Rona. Thank you for this. Rose sounds like the person I try and emulate every time I use a less gentle mantra ( ‘shut the f***up) as I work on my listening head space. The older I get the more my friends and family members have health struggles and losses, expected in my age range. I aspire to be an increasingly good be-with-you-listener. I don't know where I would rank on a scale of good listeners, but as a talker and someone who loves to share my life story if you buy me a cup of coffee, I don't think my reflexive “I know just what you mean, let me tell you my story so I can prove that I understand what you are saying” nature alone would rank me very highly. I know from my own experience often the answers are within me, unearthed just by speaking them out loud. So….I want to really listen.
I have friends at least 25 years younger than me who seem to enjoy my friendship as much as I do theirs. I hope I offer them something. I hope very much that my daughters also have older women friends that they feel totally at ease with, it's such a gift. Most of my older women friends are gone, yet their wisdom, words and loving embrace of me still inform my day-to- day.
Like you, Judy, I'm often taken aback by my need to chime in with a story of my own instead of listening with my full attention to the story my friend is telling, perhaps haltingly. I aspire to be more like Rose and am getting some practice with my younger friends. I feel lucky to have them.
Now I have fallen in love with Rose and have greater insight into the heartbreak of Fredelle’s thwarted teaching career. The essay made me think of all the friendships my own mother had over the years and how those women, her friends, became a part of my life.
Sheila, it took me the better part of a lifetime to fall in love with Rose myself. She was one of those quiet people who enrich the lives of others in elegantly subtle ways.
The chipped blue casserole dish pulled me into this unexpected story of friendship between your mother and Rose. Prune jelly and mac and cheese and store-bought cookies made me laugh. As always, your writing amazes me.
Joyce has been a steadfast listening friend for me. I hope I have been that for her. I know she truly wants what’s best for me and wishes my family helped me more.
You and Fredelle have, as usual, crashed into my heart and stayed. You never pussyfoot. Your mother clearly didn’t, either. Your words don’t wait to be welcome, they bash down the door and remain, running through my thoughts over and over. You are a poet of prose, Rona. ❤️
One of our deepest human desires is to be fully seen and for me that usually starts with being heard without judgement. The friends I appreciate most are the ones who can listen up to the point where they could give advice, but then stop short, confident that I know the answers. Even when I am not so confident. Now I have a title for those friends..Rose.
Anna, what an interesting observation. When I was younger, with young friends, we gave lots of advice. We’ve outgrown that. Sometimes the best thing a friend can do is connect you with your own knowing.
What a beautiful collaboration, Rona. "She looked like death, as light and dry as dandelion fluff." Fredelle nailed it with that sentence. It took my breath away in its clarity. Friends are the gift of life for sure. With friendship, there's love of all different kinds. I rely on it, and hold my friends as chosen family. They are the people who accept me as I am, and love me because of it. They don't want to fix me, they just see me. Thanks for being my friend. xo
Nan, you have a gift for friendship and inspire others to cultivate their own gift. As you see, friendship is my obsession these days.
I have only the tenderest memories of the acerbic Miss Nan Tepper with whom I worked more than fifty years ago at the public library. She favored Harper Lee’s boyish white haircut, and Keds, always sage-green Keds. She rushed out the door when she saw me fall off my ten-speed, my arm already swelling and distorted. “I’m taking our girl to South Bay Hospital for an X-ray,” she told the head librarian, who nodded. Nobody ever argued with Miss Tepper. She spoke loudly, over my anxious protests, “They can send the bill to those deadbeat parents of hers,” who’d moved to Hawaii. My arm wasn’t fractured, but sustained a “serious contusion, a bone bruise,” wrapped tightly from fingertips to armpit. Granted two days’ leave, when I returned the library staff presented me with a new radio. My old one—along with nine years of MAD magazines, Peanuts books, and other treasures—had been sold by my parents at their garage sale while I was at work. “Now you can listen again to that 93 KHJ ‘Boss Radio’ that all you kids love,” announced Miss Tepper. I cried.
Wait, you knew someone named Nan Tepper? I love that. The only other Nan Tepper I'm aware of is a woman in her early to mid 90s who lives in the Southern California region. She became a late in life actress. I don't know her, but would like to!
A person with your name is a Googleganger. I found three of them, one a deceased addiction counselor who used to attend some of the same conferences I did while speaking about mental health. We may have brushed against each other in a coffee line.
I've never heard that. Love it. xo
Googleganger! I do have one (a counsel at Protect Democracy) in Vermont. And then there's Jules Tortolani from Cape Elizabeth, Maine. We became fast Facebook friends because we shared so many common letters in our names. Mostly, my name is a Googleganger for Tortie cats (tortoiseshell) and torte cakes! Adding this one to my Rona-inspired dictionary.
Isn’t it delightful? Wish I had coined it. A documentary filmmaker saw a blog post I wrote years ago about this, wanted to interview me. It never happened.
Wonderful story, Leslie. I love Miss Tepper.
Thank you so much. When my father died in 2016, I was informed by Google Alert. We were the last of the Goodman-Malamuths, though Goodmans and Malamuths remain.
The end of an era.
When my late husband died, his best friend (a Native American woman, although she used the term Indian) read the poem Do Not Weep For Me at our makeshift funeral. It was just the two of us standing in his barn and, of course, all I did after she read it was weep. I wrote about her and the gift of her invented funeral at a time when I was so lost I couldn't manage any kind of memorial for him myself. Unfortunately, that essay, entitled "Cindian," was the end of our friendship. But I think of her and that moment in the barn every time I read the poem. As always, Rona, this was beautiful.
Thank you, Trevy. Emily Dickinson, who knew grief, portrayed mourning as letting go. What makes it so achingly hard is the urge to hold on. I looked up “Cindian.” It touched me. There’s no telling how people will respond to their appearance in a piece of writing.
So true. Thank you❤️
In writing this lovely duet, and mentioning a few lines about your mother in other stories, she does actually get to be on Substack. And also to live on, because so long as we write or talk about friends and family that have passed on, they live on in print and memories.
Now, why had this not occurred to me? If there’s an afterlife, my mother is smiling—and sharing this essay far and wide.
Ah, now we see the lineage stream of beautiful writing in your matrilineal line. I love how you structured this piece as a duet, Rona. Two wonderful writers, mother and daughter, singing harmony on friendship and love. What a joy to read!
Thank you, Jeanne. And now you can also read my sister, @Joyce Maynard. We could have a trio.
Oh, Rona. Thank you for this. Rose sounds like the person I try and emulate every time I use a less gentle mantra ( ‘shut the f***up) as I work on my listening head space. The older I get the more my friends and family members have health struggles and losses, expected in my age range. I aspire to be an increasingly good be-with-you-listener. I don't know where I would rank on a scale of good listeners, but as a talker and someone who loves to share my life story if you buy me a cup of coffee, I don't think my reflexive “I know just what you mean, let me tell you my story so I can prove that I understand what you are saying” nature alone would rank me very highly. I know from my own experience often the answers are within me, unearthed just by speaking them out loud. So….I want to really listen.
I have friends at least 25 years younger than me who seem to enjoy my friendship as much as I do theirs. I hope I offer them something. I hope very much that my daughters also have older women friends that they feel totally at ease with, it's such a gift. Most of my older women friends are gone, yet their wisdom, words and loving embrace of me still inform my day-to- day.
Like you, Judy, I'm often taken aback by my need to chime in with a story of my own instead of listening with my full attention to the story my friend is telling, perhaps haltingly. I aspire to be more like Rose and am getting some practice with my younger friends. I feel lucky to have them.
Now I have fallen in love with Rose and have greater insight into the heartbreak of Fredelle’s thwarted teaching career. The essay made me think of all the friendships my own mother had over the years and how those women, her friends, became a part of my life.
Sheila, it took me the better part of a lifetime to fall in love with Rose myself. She was one of those quiet people who enrich the lives of others in elegantly subtle ways.
There are several beautiful words and sentences in this piece by you and your mother. My two favourites belong to you, though:
I read her letter on the landlord’s scratchy couch as my mother’s love for Rose broke over me.
My mother holds a cookie to her lips. It tastes of nothing except love.
Thank you for your keen eye, Linda. That cookie was particularly close to my heart. If my mother were alive, you can bet she'd be on Substack.
The chipped blue casserole dish pulled me into this unexpected story of friendship between your mother and Rose. Prune jelly and mac and cheese and store-bought cookies made me laugh. As always, your writing amazes me.
Thanks so much, Jill. I try to serve a laugh or two when tears are on the menu.
Joyce has been a steadfast listening friend for me. I hope I have been that for her. I know she truly wants what’s best for me and wishes my family helped me more.
Sometimes the ones who help you most cannot be family, whose expectations can get in the way. Thank you for this glimpse of my sister as a friend.
“My Lord, what a morning when the stars begin to fall.” “Like dandelion fluff.”
Lovely picture of the Radcliffe English teacher. 😃
Thank you, Adam. She was a doctoral student, not a teacher then, but flourished as a creative writing teacher in a high school.
That final paragraph is a real gem, Rona! Beautifully paced and poised. A fitting ending to such a moving essay on friendship.
Thank you, Jeffrey. Endings are hard. Sometimes even harder than beginnings.
You and Fredelle have, as usual, crashed into my heart and stayed. You never pussyfoot. Your mother clearly didn’t, either. Your words don’t wait to be welcome, they bash down the door and remain, running through my thoughts over and over. You are a poet of prose, Rona. ❤️
How colorfully put. Thank you, Suzanne. I’m honored to be running through your thoughts.
A beautiful memory.
Irene, I’m glad you shared it with me.
This piece was so powerful. And that ending, my god. Incredible writing.
Ps my partner walked in as I was listening and said, is that Sigourney Weaver? Apparently you sound identical.
Thank you, Rebecca. You cracked me up with your partner's line about Sigourney Weaver.
A perfect duet on deep friendship. A good example of how friends can truly complement each other.
The vivacious one and the serene one. The acerbic and the gentle. Yes indeed. I am drawn to friends who have qualities I lack.
One of our deepest human desires is to be fully seen and for me that usually starts with being heard without judgement. The friends I appreciate most are the ones who can listen up to the point where they could give advice, but then stop short, confident that I know the answers. Even when I am not so confident. Now I have a title for those friends..Rose.
Anna, what an interesting observation. When I was younger, with young friends, we gave lots of advice. We’ve outgrown that. Sometimes the best thing a friend can do is connect you with your own knowing.