Neither Elegy nor Eulogy

On my day off today I walked to Wonder Lake, climbed Blueberry Hill, and ate my lunch. Fair weather cumulus and sun filled the sky, moderate breezes kept the the bugs away. Buses passed (both VTS and Denali Back Country Lodge), so I waved; brief snippets of conversation and laughter from the two canoers on the lake added to the background. Over there to the southwest, Denali hid behind a cloud layer--we'll see it on another day

Everywhere wildflowers bloomed--yellow Arnica, pink plume, white shaggy-headed cotton grass, the purples of early Larkspur and lupine--but it was the Chiming Bluebells lining the road that caught my eye and my heart. They're tiny flowers, but their color is brilliant. I don't know why, but they reminded me of Nancy. Maybe because they were plentiful and she was full in my mind. But they rang for her, all those little bells.

Nancy died last Saturday. She had struggled for years, fighting bout after bout with cancer. But like the Chiming Bluebells fighting out the Alaskan winter, she never gave up; she kept showing up. Her body gave out on her in the end, but not the parts of her we remember.

We met as students at Bates College, finally rooming together as juniors. If I were back home in Milwaukee, I'd rummage through the old photo albums to find snapshots. But they're in my mind as are the sounds of us talking and laughing with others. Singing, too. We used to sing along to Pete Seeger's "Bells of Rhymney"--maybe that's why the bluebells resonated.

Who we are at 19 is not who we become. But it is a time of testing. Testing our intelligence in class, talking about family dynamics, visiting each other's homes, trying on defiance, finding new ways of defining our worlds. Part of my test was to leave Bates, to try life. It meant leaving Nancy, too, that nice corner room in Frye House now hers alone for the last month or so of the semester.

We stayed in touch for a while, stood as bridesmaids to Corky and Al, but then we didn't contact each other that much, and we lost touch. Then when I was in Atlanta for my last summer of graduate school, I received a round-about message that Nancy was in the city, too, for an NEA conference. We met, had dinner, talked and laughed, laughed and talked as if the years hadn't passed. She and John were getting married, and she wanted me to be there. And I was. Her happiness was palpable. It was a treat to see her siblings again, and a treat to see other Bates friends with whom I'd lost touch.

Because of Nancy, really, I stepped hesitantly back into that circle of friends.

So what I remember of Nancy--beyond the twinkling smile and the throaty voice in which she sang "Scotch and Soda"--is the connection, the link to others that she offered. Bless that connection.

And bless her. She will be missed.