Jean

 Jean was my neighbor since I was four years old. Her daughter Lin-Liz (I dare anyone except family, Jane, Mike and me to call her that!) has been my good friend for more years than I care to admit.

I mentioned Jean and her penuche (brown sugar fudge)  in passing and suddenly the floodgates opened...I was transported to our shared childhood. Rainy days of playing in the button box (don't knock it until you've tried it), learning to make taffy in the tiny Twentieth-Street kitchen, sleepovers where we'd harass her sisters, hours of Monopoly and baby dolls (long before Barbie). It was yesterday, wasn't it?

I was tempted to call Lin-Liz for permission to talk about her mom, but I knew in my heart it wasn't necessary. After all, Jean was like a second mom to me.

Do you know, she'd keep the cookie jar full of Oreos? If she was out one day, I could be sure when I came to get Lin-Liz for school the next day the jar would be full. I sometimes thought it was just for me, but there were five other young-uns in the house, too! She got a little peevish after the talcum powder fight, but she was silent when we burned the pan while cooking..was it fudge?

I remembered sitting at her dinner table eating her goulash (I loved that!) and savoring the penuche I could never duplicate--even when I owned my candy shop. I remember the ketchup sandwiches Lin and I would take to her shared bedroom. So simple, so satisfying. I was an only child until I was eleven, so the bustle of a family of five siblings was an adventure to me. Looking back I see that we were far more like sisters than friends, with Jean and Dot as co-mothers.

It was at Jean's house I stayed when Grandpa died, drawing crosses with flowers on them, and she, not one to show a lot of affection, patted my shoulder. It was she who let me spend many nights and she who let me tag along on her church picnics.

I moved away but Jean was there for many more years. We'd laugh at the slow, particular way she would park her car, and the way she had developed habits of certain times, certain days, certain events.

We didn't know much in those days about the changes in behavior that were taking place.

As the memories boiled in my brain, I realized that I miss her. Did I grieve? Yes, but not enough because maybe the memories weren't as precious then as they are now.

So here's a tribute to you, Jean--my other Mom, my friend.