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 I, 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 hand written thank you note.

Donna and
Harold were married for sixty-seven 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 every thing 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 thirty
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 I that
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. Fare well.

 

What I've Learned So Far... by Mike Ball is a syndicated feature distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group. If you enjoy this work, please contact your local newspaper's editors and ask them to carry it.