When I was Fern
I have a bunch of deadlines coming up, but the past few days I have hardly been able to write. A good friend died a week ago. A friend I hadn't seen or spoken to for years. For no reason other than that life got in the way.
It's all the more ironic because a friend and I had just been discussing how disappointed we were with Fern in Charlotte's Web. Naturally as young girls we were drawn to her and related with her very much when reading the book. I first read it when I was Fern's exact age, eight, at the start. I admired her toughness and devotion to Wilbur, which lasted till the middle of the book. But then Fern just stops visiting until Wilbur is about to be taken to the fair. She shows concern for his welfare, but once she sees he's okay, she wants to take off and even whines about posing for a photo with him! How could she?
Then two days later I heard that an old friend died. Shocked, I tried to remember the last time I saw her. I had gone to a Mass in the Opus Dei center where she lived when my older son was just born. That was nearly seven years ago. And I don't really remember talking to her, with all the other people there. I saw her nearly daily for three of the five years I worked in UA&P. And I remember no more than six conversations with her.
The first was when we met. Someone had mistaken me for her from the back, because we had the same hairstyle and I was wearing a blue and yellow paisley blouse which she also had, though she wasn't wearing it at that time. We happened to be out in the same corridor later that day. She worked a floor below, but someone had told me you could get free Wall Street Journals on the second floor, so I would go down there once a week for it. Someone pointed me out to her, presumably as the person she mistook for her, and since I noticed them looking at me through the glass office doors, she came out and introduced herself. And she remarked on my blouse. I had noticed someone else had worn the same one but it didn't make me love the blouse less. She felt the same.
So often relationships begin on such small things as a shared fashion sense. That doesn't make them trite, for these little things are often hints of deeper aspects of personality. Don't magazine quizzes always try to determine your personality based on your favorite color? She loved the shade of periwinkle blue I had chosen for the bridesmaids' dresses for my upcoming wedding. Blue was her favorite color, and I made sure to wear it to her funeral.
How I wish I could remember more of those times we would end up having lunch together. All I remember was her telling me about studying in Spain, how people sat in cafes till very late and had trouble pronouncing her name. And about a student who sassed her during her first day as a teacher. She advised me to think about studying abroad and soothed me when I was furious that a textbook publisher was trying to avoid paying me the agreed-upon amount for edits. She went to my wedding but I was so flustered that I did not remember seeing her there until I looked at the pictures and video later.
Those are the only pictures I have of her. In the days before smartphones, people didn't normally take pictures of casual everyday events and companions. And I did see the relationship at that time as a casual work friendship. But she did do me one great favor. She referred me to the editor of Baby Magazine when I was pregnant. Not being permanent and therefore not entitled to leave, I had to leave my job when I gave birth. I had a number of writing and editing gigs that I did at home, but I enjoyed the Baby writing job the most, and had pleasant dealings with the editors. I even got to put photos of my daughter in the magazine. It lead to another regular writing gig, when one of the writers from there became the editor of another magazine and offered me work.
And while all this was going on, I was able to bring my daughter to visit my old office only once. Thankfully, she was there. She heard I was around and came to see me and admire my toddler daughter. And I told her how writing for the magazine helped me to earn while staying home with my toddler. She was glad.
And somehow except for Christmas greetings we faded from each other's lives. She was busy too, taking a post-grad degree and becoming head of a new department. I know that those three years I saw her frequently were so little compared to the time her many other friends, colleagues, and students had with her. But they mean no less and the pain of losing her is compounded by the bitter regret that I had not tried to spend more time with her. How could I have forgotten her?
I had been a Fern of sorts, but in reverse.
Fern was Wilbur's surrogate mother. She was attentive when Wilbur needed her, and Wilbur craved her presence until he made other friends of his own. After that, they clung less to each other. They still maintained a bond of affection and concern, but slowly grew apart.
Friendship is the bond of least obligation. Why else would the greatest love be laying down one's life for one's friend? We are expected to do this for family members. Professional relationships carry a great deal of obligation, no more than that of a student to a teacher. This lack of obligation is freeing--you are together only because you like each other. But it also makes the bond more tenuous. We are not obliged to get together on holidays or go to each other's special events. And much as we would like to, when life is too busy, it is all too easy to set aside opportunities to reconnect. And though there is no quarrel between us, we then drift apart.
I suppose my role should be more of the Wilbur because she was the mother figure to me, but because I am the one with a significant other and more mobility, at least since I learned to drive, then I think I am more of the Fern, and the one to blame. I am the one who has lost more too, as well. I would have been happy to have done a Tuesdays with Morrie with Dr. Riza Bondal. But now there can be no Tuesdays or any days with her in this world.
And so I feel a loss purer than when I lost my mother. Because as I said, friendship has the least obligation--and conversely parent and child has the most, and hence the most expectation and frustration. I envy people who can love their parents without struggling with guilt, annoyance, or disappointment or the feeling that they always fell short of their parents' expectations. I can only be grateful that my friend was there when I needed her, and sorry that I was not able to do the same for her. But I also know that even if I had spent more time with her, it would never have felt enough. I can only be glad that the time we did have together was as cordial and meaningful as it was.
It's all the more ironic because a friend and I had just been discussing how disappointed we were with Fern in Charlotte's Web. Naturally as young girls we were drawn to her and related with her very much when reading the book. I first read it when I was Fern's exact age, eight, at the start. I admired her toughness and devotion to Wilbur, which lasted till the middle of the book. But then Fern just stops visiting until Wilbur is about to be taken to the fair. She shows concern for his welfare, but once she sees he's okay, she wants to take off and even whines about posing for a photo with him! How could she?
Then two days later I heard that an old friend died. Shocked, I tried to remember the last time I saw her. I had gone to a Mass in the Opus Dei center where she lived when my older son was just born. That was nearly seven years ago. And I don't really remember talking to her, with all the other people there. I saw her nearly daily for three of the five years I worked in UA&P. And I remember no more than six conversations with her.
The first was when we met. Someone had mistaken me for her from the back, because we had the same hairstyle and I was wearing a blue and yellow paisley blouse which she also had, though she wasn't wearing it at that time. We happened to be out in the same corridor later that day. She worked a floor below, but someone had told me you could get free Wall Street Journals on the second floor, so I would go down there once a week for it. Someone pointed me out to her, presumably as the person she mistook for her, and since I noticed them looking at me through the glass office doors, she came out and introduced herself. And she remarked on my blouse. I had noticed someone else had worn the same one but it didn't make me love the blouse less. She felt the same.
So often relationships begin on such small things as a shared fashion sense. That doesn't make them trite, for these little things are often hints of deeper aspects of personality. Don't magazine quizzes always try to determine your personality based on your favorite color? She loved the shade of periwinkle blue I had chosen for the bridesmaids' dresses for my upcoming wedding. Blue was her favorite color, and I made sure to wear it to her funeral.
How I wish I could remember more of those times we would end up having lunch together. All I remember was her telling me about studying in Spain, how people sat in cafes till very late and had trouble pronouncing her name. And about a student who sassed her during her first day as a teacher. She advised me to think about studying abroad and soothed me when I was furious that a textbook publisher was trying to avoid paying me the agreed-upon amount for edits. She went to my wedding but I was so flustered that I did not remember seeing her there until I looked at the pictures and video later.
Those are the only pictures I have of her. In the days before smartphones, people didn't normally take pictures of casual everyday events and companions. And I did see the relationship at that time as a casual work friendship. But she did do me one great favor. She referred me to the editor of Baby Magazine when I was pregnant. Not being permanent and therefore not entitled to leave, I had to leave my job when I gave birth. I had a number of writing and editing gigs that I did at home, but I enjoyed the Baby writing job the most, and had pleasant dealings with the editors. I even got to put photos of my daughter in the magazine. It lead to another regular writing gig, when one of the writers from there became the editor of another magazine and offered me work.
And while all this was going on, I was able to bring my daughter to visit my old office only once. Thankfully, she was there. She heard I was around and came to see me and admire my toddler daughter. And I told her how writing for the magazine helped me to earn while staying home with my toddler. She was glad.
And somehow except for Christmas greetings we faded from each other's lives. She was busy too, taking a post-grad degree and becoming head of a new department. I know that those three years I saw her frequently were so little compared to the time her many other friends, colleagues, and students had with her. But they mean no less and the pain of losing her is compounded by the bitter regret that I had not tried to spend more time with her. How could I have forgotten her?
I had been a Fern of sorts, but in reverse.
Fern was Wilbur's surrogate mother. She was attentive when Wilbur needed her, and Wilbur craved her presence until he made other friends of his own. After that, they clung less to each other. They still maintained a bond of affection and concern, but slowly grew apart.
Friendship is the bond of least obligation. Why else would the greatest love be laying down one's life for one's friend? We are expected to do this for family members. Professional relationships carry a great deal of obligation, no more than that of a student to a teacher. This lack of obligation is freeing--you are together only because you like each other. But it also makes the bond more tenuous. We are not obliged to get together on holidays or go to each other's special events. And much as we would like to, when life is too busy, it is all too easy to set aside opportunities to reconnect. And though there is no quarrel between us, we then drift apart.
I suppose my role should be more of the Wilbur because she was the mother figure to me, but because I am the one with a significant other and more mobility, at least since I learned to drive, then I think I am more of the Fern, and the one to blame. I am the one who has lost more too, as well. I would have been happy to have done a Tuesdays with Morrie with Dr. Riza Bondal. But now there can be no Tuesdays or any days with her in this world.
And so I feel a loss purer than when I lost my mother. Because as I said, friendship has the least obligation--and conversely parent and child has the most, and hence the most expectation and frustration. I envy people who can love their parents without struggling with guilt, annoyance, or disappointment or the feeling that they always fell short of their parents' expectations. I can only be grateful that my friend was there when I needed her, and sorry that I was not able to do the same for her. But I also know that even if I had spent more time with her, it would never have felt enough. I can only be glad that the time we did have together was as cordial and meaningful as it was.
No comments have been added yet.
