June 9, 2009

Donna

Yesterday, one of my favorite people left our world behind.

Her name was Donna Lemon. She had a gentle voice, kind eyes, blue hair and a sometimes unnervingly knowing smile. She also knew enough about finance and economics to fill the kind of books people carry around just so other people will think they are smart enough to actually read those books.

Since the day I moved in next door, Donna’s husband Harold and I have enjoyed a special friendship, something along the lines of the wise and infinitely tolerant elder and his younger protégé who doesn’t know enough to keep his head out of the paint bucket.

Guess which one I was?

Harold and I had quite a few adventures over the years. We bought and restored a pontoon boat together. We dreamed up new and innovative ways to build docks. We ganged up on crabgrass and creeping Charlie. We drank pots of coffee and cases of beer.

And every time Harold and I would get to the point where one of us was trying to pry the paint bucket off the other one’s head, Donna would show up carrying a plate of Oreos with the white stuff scraped off, blended with whipping cream and spooned back onto the cookies in perfect little swirls, and she would say, “I thought you boys could use a snack.”

Donna always showed just that sort of grace in everything she did. She would never think of simply tossing a handful of carrots on a plate. She would be more likely to meticulously arrange them in a circle, alternated with blanched asparagus spears and garnished with fresh herbs. Then she would bring her little culinary masterpiece out and offer it to Harold and me, standing waist-deep in the lake, where we would eat it with hands grease-caked from working on the pontoon boat’s motor.

Donna never missed the opportunity to say a kind word, and if you did her even the slightest favor you could count on receiving a beautifully handwritten thank you note.

Donna and Harold were married for 67 years. They raised one son. And a few years ago, when their only son tragically passed away, they stood strong against their grief and remained the kind of grandparents that people write kids’ books about.

They cultivated warm friendships from pretty much every place they went and everything they did, and I do not know one person who has ever met them who does not like and respect them.

I lost my mom and dad more than 30 years ago. Donna and Harold are right around the age my folks would be if they were still alive, and are exactly the kind of people that I would like to dream my parents would have turned out to be. In fact, they are the kind of people I dream of turning out to be.

Donna did not want any sort of memorial service, any ceremony designed to make a fuss over her passing. Her plan was instead to wait for Harold, her husband, the man who spent nearly seven decades at her side, the man who held her hand to put a ring on it and who held her hand as she drew her last breath, to catch up with her.

And then she hoped that those of us who are left behind might take a little time to remember them both.

I guess that sounds about right. It is almost impossible to think about either one of them without thinking about the other one. And Donna always was willing to be patient, to the point of being a little bit stubborn.

When I started writing this column, I was worried that Donna might have thought of it as a kind of tribute, just the sort of thing she wanted us to avoid. But then I decided that she of all people would understand what it really is, a small reflection of the manners and good breeding she taught us all by example.

Thank you, Donna, for everything. Farewell.

Copyright ©2009 Michael Ball. Distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group.

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