Some People Never Die

On the porch at The Island Inn, Monhegan ME, 1970

Today is my dead ex-mother-in-law's birthday. Why I remember the date confounds me, especially when I cannot remember what I had for dinner last night. But then, she was an exceptional person who left a mark. Most people do not.

To begin, Francis Swett Whiting was a fabulous cook. Her idea of a tuna fish sandwich involved first grilling fresh tuna, then whisking up some homemade mayonnaise and serving it on melba toast she baked from a loaf of extra-thin Pepperidge Farm white bread. 

You can just imagine what Christmas was like at her beautiful home in Bedford Village, NY. She got started in mid-September, beginning the long process of making hard sauce for the plum pudding and stringing garlands of popcorn and cranberries for the tree. Fran loved to knit, so each year she created fabulous gifts for her entire family. One year she made cable-knit fisherman's sweaters for five people, myself included.

Besides being very beautiful until the day she died at age 64, Fran was super-smart. Her Smith College education benefitted all who knew her, although she never had a paying job. She won every Scrabble game and finished the daily New York Times crossword puzzle in record time.

She was hysterically funny, with a dry sense of humor that was lost on many. I visited with her a few days before she died of stomach cancer, and she gave me the following instructions: "The day after I die, Lucia Faithful (widow of her husband's deceased law partner) will come to the door with a casserole for Dick, to console him. She's been hoping for years that I would go first so she could snag him. Don't let her in. And whatever you do, certainly don't eat that casserole -- she's a terrible cook!" Sure enough, Lucia showed up around noon the day after Fran died, casserole in hand. I politely took it from her and said that Dick was resting and not seeing anyone. She left unhappy.

Happy Birthday Fran, wherever you are. I still miss you.