Nine Okay Years

"Promise me you'll never forget me,
because if I thought you would
I'd never leave."

-Winnie the Pooh

There were five of us women crammed into a small office the size of my dining room. I was the "new guy" and--despite my role as communications manager--I had no computer. So, my communicating was, well, kind of limited. I was trying to be patient and just soak up as much as I could about the organization (interesting), the official hierarchy (lots of titles) and the unofficial hierarchy ... or pecking order (given that we were all women). Also very interesting, by the way.

The best thing about those early days (and all of the days since) was "Okay." Although her title was Administrative Assistant, she ran that place. She was a combination Mom, comedian, organizer, courier, manager, coordinator, and super woman. Oh, and friend. Her slow (and almost hidden) southern drawl would make you feel welcome as soon as she greeted you. But it was her wicked, intelligent sense of humor that left everyone in stitches ... and on common ground. (I love her irreverence.) When one well-to-do lawyer/volunteer started making demands of her during a phone conversation, she told him: "You attorney-types are all-alike... thinking you deserve special treatment." Then she laughed. (He did, too.) It's good to remind people where they live.

She was my example--teaching me what I needed to learn at work, who I needed to pay attention to and who I could take "with a grain of salt." She introduced me to a leprechaun, got me hooked on sour cream and chive potato chips and shared her recipe for crockpot pulled pork (great for parties). She told me hysterical stories about raising her kids, bought enough of my handmade jewelry to open her own shop and loaned me her walking DVDs. We ran laps around the conference room when the pounds started to creep on (then weighed ourselves on her 1950s era aqua green scale). We shared great books and favorite nursery rhymes. When no one was in the office, we'd belt out songs from old musicals (especially after she'd seen a Broadway series revival) or entertain each other with Irish dancer impersonations. We'd talk about faith, the dark forces at work in today's society and hope.

We cried and hugged when her daughter moved away, my husband got sick and ... today ...when we had to say goodbye. Only the words wouldn't come. Couldn't come. How do you say thank you to someone for being a ray of sunshine in your life for that long? A life preserver when you needed it most? How do you say, "Thank you for having faith in me when I couldn't find it in myself?" There are many people who pass through our lives--but so very few who care to stay long enough to become part of it.