Last Friday I got the sad news. A dear friend of our family passed away. She was 77 years young. And all that I could think of was that I owed her a few letters.
Estelle Penn worked with my dad and two other mutual friends at a Howard Johnsons in the 50s, and somehow the four families remained close for more than half a century. That's not too shabby in itself.
More than anyone, Estelle loved Philadelphia. As the city of Brotherly Love was only about an hour's drive or so from our doorstep, we would visit often, frequently dropping by on the rest of the HoJo crew as part of the festivities. But the neat part of visiting Estelle was that she lived in the very HEART of the city ... close to the museums, Independence Hall, and the Liberty Bell. The residence that I recall the most vividly was a loft apartment with a large wicker swing chair.
She also loved Coke. Classic Coke. Non-Zero, non-cherry, vanilla or Diet. Coke. I suspect Dad was twice as thrilled with her visits because he knew that there would be some good old Coca-Cola in the house, which was a rare treat in our iced tea household. Yes, iced, not "sweet." I'll explain that in a future entry.
I think I was about twelve years old when I made the bet. I bet her five dollars that it was more fun being a grown-up than it was to be a kid. I paid the bet off somewhere in my 40s.
During one gathering, my dad introduced her to his favorite (then) board game, the classic global conquest contest from Parker Brothers, "Risk." She lost interest in the game when the other four players had her whittled down to three or four territories and she surrendered her armies to a twelve year-old upstart of your acquaintance. Yep. I brought her back from the brink and wiped out the grown-ups. Thank yewwwwww!
She was married to Glenn Ewry for the first couple decades of our acquaintance. Glenn was a big bear of a man who loved kids and motorcycles. He called Estelle "Strub," which I've never understood but hope to learn one day. It was Glenn that first got me on a bicycle and taught me to ride. Our exchange student from Ireland one year still has a picture of herself astride one of Glenn's motorized steeds, and he remains a cherished memory. He passed on many years ago. I'm not sure why their marriage didn't last, but I suspect that his love for the highway outweighed his affection for people.
Estelle moved to Florida about fifteen or twenty years ago, and other than occasional meet-ups when we both happened to visit my folks in Mt. Gretna, PA, the only time we heard from each other was by the written word. Estelle loved to write letters. We last corresponded about three years ago, when I was still smarting from my recent divorce, and it was both nostalgic and comforting to be back in touch. She talked candidly about the projects with which she was involved with other seniors, and wanted vivid details about my daily routine as well.
I was good about responding to her maybe twice. Then her final note came, and a half-written drafted response that I was preparing still sits in my junk drawer wistfully never to be completed. Estelle passed away following heart surgery, but her doctor indicated that she was expected to make a full recovery. She asked to make a rest stop on her way home from the hospital, and that's when she went the rest of the way home.
It's a difficult loss for me, but it's been devastating for my dear sister, Jen. In addition to letters (which Jen is FAR better than I at perpetuating), they would phone each other frequently, and the thirty-year age difference would melt away. They'd exchange recipes and the news of the day. My sister has lost an older sister she never had.
As for me, I'm reflecting today on the two letters that I'm currently working on to respond to my nieces, who each wrote me over the holidays. Those letters need to be finished, and while I don't do the whole "resolution" thing anymore, I do need to get better on keeping these communications up.
There's little in the world sadder than an unfinished letter that can never be sent.
