In celebration of the girls we were

I have been thinking a great deal about Judy. Not the woman she became. She was self-involved and took no responsibility for the impact her actions had on others. While I am sorry that her final years were full of hospitalizations and pain, I don't regret that I rejected her overtures to reconnect. She hurt me too badly and gave no indication that she understood it or even felt remorse.

But the Judy I met in high school was special. She was important to me. No, she was vital to me. She made me feel less alienated and more understood.

Photo by Sydney Moore on Unsplash 

Judy was smarter than I was. I loved that about her. She was committed to being an artist. She was always working on something – I remember watching her long, slender fingers as strung beads into bracelets or painted. Wait! While I saw her paintings, I don't recall actually seeing her paint. But I did see her lovingly clean and care for her brushes. She also taught me to play canasta. In my mind's eye I see those long fingers again, wearing rings made from spoons, as she dealt the cards. 

After school, we watched old movies together. She introduced me to the Marx Brothers. During last month's Turner Classic Film Festival, I saw Animal Crackers on the big screen for the first time, I enjoyed it thoroughly and had to stop myself from reciting dialog. That was Judy's influence/tutelage.

She gave me an even greater gift in those days. She encouraged me to write and read what I wrote. Mind you, I was a horny 15-year-old virgin expounding on topics I knew nothing about. I'm sure that everything I put on paper was wretched. 

Photo by Diogo Cardoso on Unsplash 

But Judy encouraged me. She made notes in the margins. We talked short stories vs. long format. Fiction vs. non-fiction. Reportage vs. editorial. When her mother* affectionately called me "Louisa Mae Alcott," Judy rolled her eyes as only a teenage girl can roll her eyes at her mother.  "The Gal is going to be a real writer, Mom."

And here's the thing: I did become a writer. Since I didn't go to college, I took a circuitous route, but I got there. I earned a good living, won some awards, and got a great deal of satisfaction from using my imagination and my words.

Looking at her obituary, I see Judy did, indeed, have a career as an artist. Her work was displayed in local galleries and she sold some pieces. No small feat.

Those two awkward misfits who sat on Judy's bed, playing canasta by the hour, fantasizing about being an artist and a writer, actually made it.

Good for us.

Rest in peace, Judy. 

*A gentle, lovely woman. She threw a joint 16th birthday for us (Judy's birthday was two days before mine).