I lost a friend--last year? The year before? Time goes by so fast, I'm not always the best keeper of time.
But there's an author you should know about. She's not extremely well-known, and honestly, she probably got more recognition from her music arrangements than her wordsmithing. But if you ever have the time, check out Olive Huisman's Best Friends. It's really well-written tiny book and it made me cry. I haven't read it in years to know how it aged, but one day it will probably disappear from shelves, so I recommend you get it while it exists in new copies.
Livvy was a wonderful person. She went to church with my grandparents, and around the time I'd fallen in love with the written word and decided I'd be a writer, she had published her book. My grandmother had passed along some of my poems, paper copies printed out, and passed along at church. And Livvy wrote back to me the same way. I, of course, had some hesitancy because I was a new writer, and as lovely as her words were, looking too closely at a dream--well, sometimes the smoke fades, and you realize the room the lays beyond the illusion. And talking about it is scary.
But we began a correspondence, through my grandmother, and with my impeccable timing, I had started writing to her, just before she moved out of state. She gave me a book on writing, marked up with her notes; and her email address, address, and phone number on a card inside.
I started writing her through email, and it was just--special. Something about writing her, always felt like I was writing something really special, it lit up a section of my brain--descriptions I liked, pieces that made me smile. It was a way I would like to share with you, if it wasn't just so public and I wasn't just so shy. Elusive, giving so much away without giving away anything at all.
She was incredible. I would self-edit my words, because certain ways you speak, well, they just don't go over as well with an eighty year old woman. But the way she wrote at eighty--the sharp clarity of her brain. She was so, so beloved.
One reason why it's taken so long to write about her, is trying to sift through what I'd like the world to know and what was wrapped in the privacy of friendship. I was privvy to self-reflection, of the sadness that comes from little things we'd wished we had done. Not big things, really. Small things. Kindness over propriety, love over what was consider proper. She was a very good woman, and those self-reflections, they add to the texture of who she was.
And with her, I have those same self-reflections, wondering if the choices I made were right or not.
She had a few pretty brutal falls, and a stroke, I believe. And in the end, she didn't remember me. Even in the midst of forgetfulness, she still wrote beautifully--properly spelled, nice punctuation, as she wondered who I was and how I knew her and if I was a fan. Her letters became more infrequent, and each letter I sent to her, I had to re-explain who I was, and that we were very good friends, and I believe that hurt. More than just getting confusing letters, getting letters that explained you weren't remembering everything, that there's a decade of time that you no longer had complete access to--I know that was hurting her. So I stopped writing her and I worried. I wondered how I'd ever know if anything happened to her. I would google her name and look for obituaries, waiting to see my friend's face and breathing a sigh of somewhat relief when I didn't see it, because there was always that part of me wondering if I'd missed it, and I lost her in a more complete way
In the end, I'd learned of her passing through my grandmother--she had been a very dear friend of hers as well, but then again, my grandmother's memory is not what it was either.
Livvy was/is a dear friend. I treasure her, and I value all of my memories with her, all mostly through letters, though there were a few meetings in person. She was a wonderful person. She loved her family, missed her son that had passed too soon, adored music, and wrote splendidly. This is not the letter I waited so long to write, but it's the one that exists in a way those others never will.
This is my favorite book she wrote: Best Friends
And this is the woman, I had the utmost pleasure to call my friend: Olive Huisman.