sweet caroline

Dining out with Caroline would include just about one of everything on the menu, accompanied by lots of special instructions for the server to relay to the kitchen.

I can’t believe it’s nearly 3 years since I lost this incredible woman. Yes many people lost her, not just me. Her amazing husband Ben. Her gorgeous and brilliant daughters. Her beautiful grandkids. So many friends, too many to count. But we had something special. A unique and rare friendship. She was unapologetically Caroline. She didn’t give a damn if people liked her or not. But everyone did. She was strong in her faith, but also the first to say if she didn’t agree. She was resilient in her political beliefs, but loved her friends despite their opposing views. She saw beyond the superficial. She gave credit for being more than skin deep. She was compassionately critical when she had to be. She never minced words. You never had to wonder what was on her mind. If her words didn’t say it, her expressions certainly did.

We met working at the neighborhood YMCA. I was new in town and thought a part-time job where most of the community hung out was a great way to meet people. Caroline was a fixture at the Y. When she came through the door, people would practically genuflect. As she entered, she would smile and nod as she passed by, genuinely happy to greet each person. She would set up at one of the desks in the office and open her phone list, reaching out to members when it was time for renewals. Occasionally she would break into Spanish, the pitch of her voice would go up, resonating out of the cubicle. One day as I worked at my computer, I overheard her as she stood up from her desk, obviously pleased with her daily success. Caroline announced how many memberships she had renewed that morning and that she had been on the phone for so long she needed a glass of “woata”. My ears perked up. Woata? I stood up from my cube and asked, “Woata? Caroline, where are you from?” She proudly said “I’m from South Jersey!” To which I responded,. “My husband is from South Jersey and he says “water” the same way!” We bonded at that moment. I’ll never forget it. I just wanted to be her friend.

So we became great friends. I cherished our time together. We would meet up frequently for coffee or lunch. She would put the server through the paces. Asking for “one basted egg” or “If I order pancakes with a side of sausage links, could they roll them up and make pigs in a blanket?” Substituting salad dressings. It had to be just right. There was never enough room on the table for all of the plates, most of them Caroline’s. The first time I visited her at her home, she walked me around and introduced me to all of the favorite things she had collected over the years, as if they were old friends. A painting they bought on a trip to Spain. The pop-art “LOVE” poster from the 70’s. Various objects and treasures from travels. Each one gathered with love and fond remembrance of the moment. She included me in Bunco. I had no idea what that was, but her group needed a substitute, so I was invited to play this dice game with a bunch of women who drank wine and made amazing food. It became a monthly event I welcomed. To this day, that group is still together. A few of the members have changed, but the core group has been together for more than 15 years. Whatever she did, whomever she knew, they stuck together. She forged bonds that stood the test of time.

I couldn’t drive home without passing the entrance to Caroline’s development. Frequently I would pull in. She was always OK with people dropping by unannounced. I would rap “shave-and-a-haircut” on the door and she knew it was me. I would sit on the sofa, and she in her chair, with CNN on the TV. Periodically she would interrupt our conversation to yell or comment on whatever was being broadcast. She was an attentive listener, but didn’t miss a trick. Or, we would sit at the kitchen table with an iced tea and a bowl of cherries, her favorite. She was a fierce University of Miami fan, and called my Buckeyes “hoodlums”. We always talked about food. Recipes, dishes from her family, like the jelly-stuffed raviolis, and so many others. She loved when I’d bake for them. Periodically she would complain about an ache or pain, and I would offer one of my homeopathic remedies as a solution. She would howl “You should open a kiosk at the mall! How the hell do you know all this stuff T?” (T was what she called me).

She was always there for me. When things got tough, she was the voice of reason. When things were good, she was triumphant in sharing my joy. I could call her from the grocery store, the car, the airport. She always answered. She was encouraging, never patronizing. And she’d tell it like it is. Was.

Shortly after we celebrated her 80th birthday, in early October of 2017, her husband Ben called me with shocking news. He said if I wanted to see my buddy, I’d better get downtown to the hospital. She’d had a fall and suffered head trauma, and we lost her a few days later. I visited the hospital daily, hoping she’d know I was there until the end. She survived metastatic breast cancer, knee and hip replacements, other various health concerns. A fall in the bathroom isn’t how she was supposed to leave us.

The memories and stories I have are endless, wonderful, unforgettable recollections of a woman who was so impactful in such a positive, strong way. Recently I communicated with a friend who didn’t know of Caroline’s passing, and was so sad to hear. Caroline just had that warm influence on everyone. Tough as nails, but loving, compassionate and empathetic. She truly cared. And I can truly say that I miss her every day. I’m sure lots of people do, but I still feel that, in a way, she was all mine.