Thirty-nine years. That’s how long we had been friends.
I met Carol back in 1983 when we moved to Ohio for my husband’s new position. I needed a job as well, and someone had given me her name and number. She was head of continuing education for The Ohio State University. Yes, THE Ohio State University. When I questioned why the THE, I was told, “that’s their official name.” Kind of like Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, I guess.
When I finally connected with Carol I found a delightful woman with an accent straight out of the Bronx. Noting it, she told me she was originally from the NYC Metropolitan area and spent her youth in New Jersey, so we had a lot in common. We also had bagels in common, though she told me Ohio was not exact the Bagel Capital of America; however there’s a place in Columbus near the airport called Block’s that’s been around 55 years and bakes a great one.
It also turned out that Carol lived right in the same neighborhood where we had just bought a home, so in the ensuing days and weeks we did a lot of walking back and forth, often bonding over bagels. I could only eat one at a time slathered with salt butter; Carol, who was a tall, thin person, popped them dry, one after another, like they were M&Ms.
Life takes many turns, and we didn’t remain in Ohio, eventually returning to the Northeast. Carol stayed on till it was time to retire, then happily fled to Hilton Head, where she enjoyed golf and bridge and quilting and making new friends; and of course, we visited as often as we could. Miles never can destroy true friendship, and ours was quintessential proof of that.
About seven years ago while vacationing in Australia, Carol had an accident rendering her back, already severely compromised by degenerative osteoporosis, a shattered mess. She went for rehab to a nursing home in Cincinnati to be near her two sons, but worsened, and never left congregate care. Still, we visited from time to time and always brought bagels for communal munching. With each visit she had grown much older and weaker, cognitively not as sharp as the Ph.D we had originally known, but still the stinging sarcasm and sense of humor remained.
Carol left us on March 31st of this year. Her family, spread out throughout the United States from New Jersey to Oregon, decided it would be best to honor Carol’s wishes and not have a formal funeral. So a Celebration of Life was planned for June, and I had to be there. I knew it would be joyous and uplifting, it would be good to see her sons, Greg and Steve, once again, and I would enjoy hearing everyone’s stories of this great woman, my lifelong friend.
I ordered a flower arrangement to be placed on the altar of the Unitarian Church where the celebration would be taking place to honor our friendship, but I knew it had to be different. So, working with a talented Columbus florist who “got me,” I ordered a large arrangement of bright sunflowers interspersed with bagels.
My flight was scheduled for just after 5:30 a.m. with a change of aircraft in Detroit getting me into Columbus in plenty of time for the 11 a.m. service. However, when I got to T.F. Green just after 4 a.m. that morning, there was the terrible word posted on Delta’s board: “Canceled!” How could it be canceled? Didn’t Delta know how important it was for me to be there? I wasn’t alone, however. Hundreds of flights were similarly canceled across the U.S. that day. No pilots available.
I returned home dejected, alerted Carol’s family, and found that the celebration was being live-streamed. So at 11 a.m. I sat in front of my computer gazing at a smiling enormous photo of my friend hanging over the altar some 707 miles west; and for the next hour and a half I listened to Carol’s favorite music, laughed and cried at the stories told, and felt as though indeed I were there. As the camera pulled in for a closeup, my eyes fell on a bright, sunny arrangement of sunflowers happily dotted throughout with large bagels. Not only did it brighten the altar, but my spirits as well.
I may have missed the plane, but I never missed our connection.
Rona Mann has been a freelance writer for The Sun for 20 years, including her “In Their Shoes” features. She can be reached at six07co@att.net or 401-539-7762.
