Birthday and Christmas Blessings

Tomorrow on my 48th birthday, I'd like to think that my best friend will look down on me from heaven and bless me with her kind thoughts and hope for a better year in 2009.
Last year she sent me a beautiful celtic-knotwork leather appointment book and a shamrock book mark that I still use. But Muff was thoughtful like that, she was always finding a book I'd like, or a journal, or something celtic-looking that she knew I would love and then sending it to me on a whim. She practiced random acts of kindness, generosity and beauty all the time, and, though I tried, I felt that I could never overtake her in the race to procure and send the perfect gift or surprise.
It always amazed me that she had such an eye for quality. Muff could spot a cheap knock off a hundred miles away. She always preferred to buy things that were handmade, well written, intelligently designed or just plain beautiful.
She once scolded me for giving a bottle of shampoo that I'd already opened and tried (and disliked) to a food and sundries drive for the homeless. "Why would you give the homeless something that wasn't good enough for you? Don't they deserve quality products that work well, too?" I burned with shame for days after that incident.
Muff enjoyed Christmas, too, and was always regaling me with tales of the gifts she and her siblings purchased for one another. I gather it has already snowed quite a bit in Iowa, so they won't have to worry about a white Christmas, but ours isn't coming until this weekend, when we're supposed to get a light dusting of snow that is sure to send the city into a state of panic, because no one in Seattle or surrounding burbs has any idea how to deal with the white stuff. It immobilizes them every year.
But this year I will be prepared, hot tea at the ready, books lined up to read and snuggly blankets deployed on my person in case I am snowed in for the weekend. I'd like to think of Muff in heaven doing the same thing, sitting quietly and reading, enjoying a hot cup of tea and musing over her latest re-reading of Barchester Towers. If only St Peter handed out cell phones to new arrivals, I could chat with her on Christmas eve as the snow was falling, and we'd laugh together about life, love, and good books. I miss you, my friend.

My friend the Distinguished Alumni and Humanitarian

I got an email and several letters from Clarke College urging me to nominate someone from my class (1983) for the Distinguished Humanitarian Alumni Award. Muff immediately sprung to mind, and I found myself recalling all the things she'd done her whole life to help others.
When we were in college, Muff regularly helped me by typing my term papers and running lines with me for the shows I was in. Once she graduated, she worked as a nanny to help a family raise their children...she was an expert at this since she often told me she felt she'd raised her three younger brothers, Michael Bear and Danny. She also told me time and again that she worked not only for herself, but to help her mother and siblings financially whenever needed. Then she adopted a child in a third world country and raised her from childhood to adulthood with monthly donations and care packages or extra checks for various holidays and celebrations. This, when she often had to skimp on things for herself. This past year Muff adopted a platoon of soldiers in Iraq and wrote each of them letters every week. She sent them care packages and included poems and humorous books that she felt would keep their spirits up. She was always lending a hand with the folks at the Marshalltown Library, and she regularly babysat her nieces and nephews and her nieces new son. She was a humble and kind person who was generous with her time and money and whatever else she had that she felt you might need. So I sent in the forms, the Clarke alumni gal asked for more information, so I asked her brother Michael for more info, which he got from BJ and Mrs Jean Russell Larson, Muffs mom, and all was sent in to Clarke. The alumni gal told me that they'd never tried to give a posthumous alumni award before, so she wasn't surprised when the committee picked two living people to give the awards to. I felt terrible about it, though they told me they'd have Muffs name in the booklet of nominees at the presidents dinner during homecoming, but I somehow felt that I'd let my friend down. I wrote and apologised to Muffs brother Michael and he hasn't written me back, so I'm afraid that the Parks-Larson clan isn't too happy with me either. That makes me terribly sad, because I love them all dearly.

I did do something the other day that I think Muff would have heartily approved of. During my volunteer hours at the Maple Valley Library (I work on the book cart, doing intake of donated books and then getting them priced and onto the cart) I had to go through some boxes of aged books, most of which looked like they were just swept into boxes after the passing of some elderly parson or priest. Another guild member was helping me, and figured that many of these really old books would never sell on the cart, so she wanted them tossed into the recycle bin.
I couldn't bear the sight of the Bobsey Twins hitting the dumpster, nor could I bear to see an old turn of the century manual of "Necessary Knowledge" go to waste. And then there was a book of poetry that I just could not pass up. It contained a poem that I know poem Muff would love (she was fond of Robert Louis Stevenson). I am sure she would also have appreciated me rescuing those 5 books that I brought home from an untimely demise.

"The infinite shining heavens
Rose and I saw in the night,
Uncountable angel stars
Showering sorrow and light

I saw them distant as heaven
Dumb and shining and dead
And the idle stars of the night
Were dearer to me than bread.

Night after night in my sorrow,
The stars stood over the sea
Til Lo! I looked in the dusk
And a star had come down to me."

Robert Louis Stevenson

A Reference for my Friend

I was going through my old files on my computer when I happened across several letters I'd written to Muff. One was this reference letter I wrote for her back in 2004, in hopes she'd be able to get some scholarship money to continue her education.
Here it is:

February, 2004


Dear Business and Professional Women of Iowa Foundation,

I am writing on behalf of Rosemarie Larson, whom I have known since 1980, when we both attended Clarke College in Dubuque, Iowa.

Ms. Larson graduated with a degree in history and literature, and no student could have worked harder than she did to obtain her degrees. While most students sought ways to lighten their work load, Ms. Larson would consistently add to the already weighty reading lists, look for ways to do more research, or to further enrich source material for class. Her professors and classmates at Clarke always found her diligence remarkable and admirable, and Ms. Larson was a popular study partner and friend of many on campus, setting an example many tried to follow.

She is currently working hard to become bilingual, with Spanish language study, she is on the Deans List for academic achievement, a member of Phi Theta Kappa and has completed, with the highest marks, four criminal justice courses. Ms. Larson voluntarily left a dead-end job to improve her skills and gain more knowledge so that she might obtain a better job in the medical or criminal justice fields.

I’ve been the lifestyle and business reporter for the Mercer Island Reporter, a well-respected weekly newspaper in Washington State for nearly 7 years. I’ve won 5 awards for journalism from the Washington Newspaper Publishers Association and the Society of Professional Journalists, Western Washington Chapter. I’m also a published freelance writer with 17 years of experience, writing articles on everything from cooking to CEOs for local and regional newspapers, magazines and web sites. I am married to a broadcast journalist and have a four-year-old son, Nicholas, who is Ms. Larson’s godson. My husband and I felt that her strong spirituality and intellectual integrity would be beneficial to our son.

I highly recommend Ms. Rosemarie Larson for the Professional Women of Iowa scholarship. During her management career, I know that Ms. Larson exemplified the dignified and polished professional woman, and I believe strongly that she will become an even greater force in whatever company is fortunate enough to hire her after graduation. Her intelligence, faith, compassion and professional demeanor will serve to make her an employee who rises to top levels wherever she goes.

I hope that your organization will consider becoming a part of her journey back to the workforce.

Sincerely,

DeAnn G. Rossetti

Great Quote from Plan B by Anne Lamott

"I have survived much loss, as all of us have by our forties.
Rubble is the ground on which our deepest friendships are built.
If you haven't already, you will lose someone you can't live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and you never completely get over the loss of a deeply beloved person.
But this is also good news.
The person lives forever, in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through, and you learn to dance with the banged up heart. You dance to the absurdities of life, you dance to the minuet of old friendships." Anne Lamott

There is a song out by a Natasha Bedingfield called "Unwritten" that I think Muff would have loved.
Here are some of the lyrics:

I am unwritten,
Can't read my mind
I'm undefined.
I'm just beginning
The pens in my hand
ending unplanned.

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
so close you can almost taste it
release your inhibitions..

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it on
One one else no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
the rest is still unwritten.

I break tradition
Sometimes my tries
are outside the lines

We've been conditioned
To not make mistakes
But I can't live that way, no no.

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words
the words that you could not find
Reaching for something in the distance
so close you can almost taste it
release your inhibitions..

Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it on
One one else no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
the rest is still unwritten.

Muff would have agreed with that song, as a writer and a creative person, just as I identify with it as a journalist.
So this dance is for you, my friend. You're still there in my broken heart.

White Shoulders

Yesterday I stopped at a sidewalk sale in front of our local Bartells Drug store, and as I was sifting through various items, I came across a White Shoulders perfume gift set.
I picked it up with the intention of purchasing it, because I immediately remembered how Muff loved that particular perfume.
A few seconds later it hit me that Muff is gone, and I can't send her any gifts.
I felt like someone had pierced my solar plexus with an ice pick.
My husband came to ask why I was standing in the same spot he'd left me, crying, and I all I could say was "She loved White Shoulders."
Just when I thought the pain of losing my best friend was receding, suddenly the loss is as fresh as if it only happened yesterday.
That pain, the horrible midriff-exploding pain, just came right back and reminded me how fragile our lives are, how fortunate I am to still be alive, and how alone I feel without Muff.

Iowa is Drowning

There have been a number of floods and drownings in Iowa in the last 10 days, and I've been watching the news with horror, as I see places like Cedar Rapids go under, and watch people try to salvage something from homes that are now covered in mud and debris.
My friend Roger called several times to tell me of his work sandbagging and helping people evacuate flood areas. Students and professors at the University of Iowa worked side by side for days pulling books out of the U of I library to save them from a watery fate, and there have been others who have tried to save books from the Cedar Rapids library. My mother grew up in small towns around Cedar Rapids, mostly in Monticello and Hopkinton, and she has been very upset about the state of things in her hometown.
I just know that if Muff were still alive, she'd be the first one out there, sandbagging, helping with the injured, saving books and doing whatever she could to help her fellow Iowans during the crisis. That's just the kind of person she was. She believed strongly in community, and in people relying on one another to make it through the hard times. She believed that things happened for a reason, and I know she would also be holding rosaries and lighting candles before mass for the victims of the floods.
When we were at Clarke, Muff was always getting me to sign up for all these humanitarian causes that I'd never heard of, but were integral to her idea of character and conscience. Before I met Muff, I'd never heard of Amnesty International, or Oxfam America, and I'd never worked in a Catholic Relief Workers soup kitchen on a regular basis. My political beliefs were somewhat nebulous, but Muff was having none of that, and would insist that I vote and keep abreast of what was going on locally and internationally.
I sincerely hope that she's working Angel Relief right now in Iowa, helping her brother Michael with the Cedar Rapids library, or giving a glimpse of hope to those who feel they've lost everything in the receeding waters.

Incredible Yeats Exhibit

W.B. Yeats would have been a rock star, had he been born in our era. As it was, he was a delicious poet whose work has withstood the test of time. Muff was a huge Yeats fan, and she was enamored of Irelands National Art Gallery's hall of Yeats family portraits, where it became clear that William was the rogue of the family. She and I strolled through the gallery several times while in Ireland and enjoyed reading every bit of information we encountered on the famed poet. We also read about him at the Dublin Writers Museum.

Here's a link to a wonderful interactive web site on Yeats that Muff would have loved. Since I can't send it to her, will post it here:
The New Yorker's Book Bench

blog recommended an extraordinary online and interactive exhibit, "The
Life and Works of William Butler Yeats " at
the National Library of Ireland: "If the solitude and decidedly
after-hours lighting don't inspire a virtual snoop, the contents of the
halls will. Original art installations, such as one inspired by 'The
Stolen Child,' accompany explanatory video. But most thrilling is the
library's collection of Yeats manuscripts--the largest in the
world--scanned and magnified."

Muff's Birthday

My friend Muff was a Gemini, born on June 1, and she would have been 47 in just a few weeks.
Here's some information on twin sun signers that is fairly accurate for Muff, though she was very
serious and reserved a lot of the time in her later years. But I think that was part of her duality--her serious side and her witty side.

Gemini is the most lighthearted sign in the zodiac, hands down. The Twins' circle of acquaintances is as varied as their interests, so they see an awful lot of invitations. Of all the reasons we love to have our Gemini pals around, their wit comes first. These folks find humor in absolutely everything, and their ability to say what's on their minds in an extremely entertaining fashion is world-famous and well deserved. These word-wizards and storytellers are able to uncannily impersonate anyone and anything at the drop of a hat. That includes accents, gestures and subtle idiosyncrasies that no one else would ever notice -- but then, if Gemini were a business, its motto would be 'Details-R-Us.'

True to the nature of its ruling planet, Mercury, Gemini is also quite communicative. So during those rare times when these talkative Twins are actually alone and not chatting on the phone, IMing with a friend or answering their voluminous email, they're probably on the phone or the Internet, or poking away at their Blackberries with a vengeance. If not, Geminis will manage to keep those restless minds active by doodling or solving puzzles and word games.

As for the dualities this sign is famous for? They're all true. In reality, there are a lot more than just two sides to the average Gemini, and each facet of this versatile sign has a fascinating story to tell. All that being said, it's easy to see that the one thing they just can't stand is being bored, tied down or isolated. 'Variety is the spice of life' is this sign's very own motto, and Gemini lives every second with that motto in mind.

So if you're a Gemini yourself, you know this all boils down to the fact that you can't stand being in a rut -- especially when it comes to relationships. Your sign has been called fickle more than once, but that's not fair. The Twins are perfectly capable of being faithful, as long as the person they're with is witty and interesting enough to keep them interested. No, it's not an easy task, but it's well worth it. Life with a Gemini is full of constant activity, endless movement and even more fun. And you can bet they won't scatter their affections if they can find someone who'll be willing to at least try to keep up. Gemini, whether you're a friend or a lover, you're one of the main reasons life on this planet can be fun for the rest of us -- so accept our thanks for just being you.

Oliver

"Someday, when we owe no more to the future, we will meet again."
Quote from a letter written by Jean Russell Larson, Muffs mother and famed childrens book author


Muff had a tenderly loved teddy bear named Oliver. She told me she'd had Oliver since she was a little girl, and she often called him "Odd Liver" and would position him with a good book on her bed, as if he could read it during the day while she was in class.
When something would go horribly wrong in our dorm room, Muff would sternly reprimand Oliver, telling him that, unlike Pooh, he was not a silly old bear, and he was expected to be a discerning gentleman bear. Oliver always looked suitably chastened. Muff once showed me how dancers never get dizzy by keeping their eyes on a spot on the wall while she demonstrated by twirling in a pirouette with Oliver, who cut quite a rug.

It was that sense of whimsy that endeared Muff to my heart so quickly, along with her sly wit and love of literature. She often told me that she felt like Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh tales, but she wanted to bounce like Tigger, yet she didn't want to be so irresponsible and undignified as the head-of-rubber and tail-of-spring critter. I was always a Winnie the Pooh type, in body shape if nothing else, and I used to be such a fluff head in the mornings that Muff would marvel at how long it would take me to put on my socks. She could go to several classes in the morning, come back and still find me with a sock in my hand, half asleep.

Muff had a strong sense of practicality and responsibility because she'd help raise her brothers, and she felt responsible for the well being of her whole family. She also had a sense of dignity and honor, and was steadfast in her morals. I learned a great deal from her on how to be more reserved and less wild and "out there" as a theater major can be...I also tended to say whatever was on my mind out loud, a bad habit that always got me into trouble. Muff once told me that tact was the ability to make a point without making an enemy, and I realized that, through my need to be honest, I often hurt peoples feelings. She taught me that sometimes silence is the best answer, and sometimes its better to err on the side of kindness rather than brutal truth. I miss having that moral compass so close at hand, when I could call her and sound out my ethical dilemmas.

She told me before I got married that she'd checked Jim out, and that he seemed like a good guy, but she had explained to him that if he hurt me, she'd find a way to make his life miserable. In that way, she made him realize that to her, I was part of her family, a person to be treasured and not forsworn. I remember joking to her years later that I was musing about having an affair, and she was vehement in telling me that I should do no such thing, because it would only cause pain to everyone involved, and that as long as I had someone to care for me through sickness and financial troubles and other difficulties, I should consider myself fortunate. She yearned to share her self with someone worthy, and was taken before she found him, but I know that she helped me rethink my priorities and my approach to ethical and spiritual problems many times. I will always be grateful to her for that.

Thackery and Poetry

Kyrie - Mr. Mister

The wind blows hard against this mountainside
Across the sea into my soul
It reaches into where I cannot hide
Setting my feet upon the road

My heart is old it holds my memories
My baby burns a gemlike flame
Somewhere between the soul and soft machine
Is where I find myself again

Kyrie Eleison
Down the road that I must travel
Kyrie Eleison
Through the darkness of the night
Kyrie Eleison
Where I'm going will you follow
Kyrie Eleison
On a highway in the light

When I was young I thought of growing old
Of what my life would mean to me
Would I have followed down my chosen road
Or only wished what I could be


Muff LOVED the above song by Mister Mister when it came out in the 80s. She also loved their initial hit, Broken Wings, but this song seemed to speak to her soul. It was her "song of the year" that year, just as Crosby Stills and Nash's "Southern Cross" was my song that year. She was also fond of "Come on Eileen" by Dexies Midnight Runners and Squeeze's "Black Coffee in Bed." Only the coolest songs would do for Muff. None of that sticky pop stuff by Madonna or Bruce Springstein or the Police.
She also adored the works of William Makepeace Thackery, and was always reading and re-reading the Barchester Towers series, as well as Vanity Fair. Dickens was always on hand whenever she wanted to read aloud, of course, and she loved his stories of underdogs who triumph, but for her own pleasure reading, it was always Thackery. Muff wasn't a big fan of most routine poetry foisted on English majors, but she did enjoy Seamus Heaney, Oscar Wilde, Robert Frost, the odd bit of Byron, Keats or Shelley, and at times she could be seen reading Gray. She loved Poe, and hated Plath. She liked the wit of Dorothy Parker and the natural imagery of Walt Whitman. She always appreciated Milton and Blake more than I did, and could enjoy an EE Cummings poem, while Cummings always made me shudder. Yet I always had a thing for Carl Sandburg and Pablo Neruda poetry that Muff found bizarre, I think. Her favorite poet was William Butler Yeats, of course, and she could recite most of his ouvre by heart.
I found myself automatically buying a new kind of stationary with matching pens at the Dollar Tree yesterday for Muff to write to the troops, and I had to stop for a moment in the aisles and cry, because it hit me, painfully, in the heart again that she's gone, and no longer has need of pen and paper. Dear God how I miss you, my friend.

Rosary for Rosemarie

Muff once took me to the Sacred Heart Chapel at Clarke to experience a rosary. I tried to follow along, but it was difficult to stay awake because I'd been up til the wee hours of the morning memorizing lines and direction for a play I was in at the time. So, drowsy, I watched as the chapel seemed to transform into something luminous, with Muff and several nuns almost glowing as they recited Hail Marys and Our Fathers.
Flash forward to last Sunday, when my dear friend Jenny Zappala and her delightful mom Dixie came to their parish church, St Louise in Bellevue an hour and a half before mass to say a rosary with me for Muffs soul, now that she's passed beyond this veil of tears.
Muff would have laughed, I explained to Dixie and Jenny, to see me struggling to do a proper rosary in her honor. She knew what a klutz I was during mass, never knowing when to kneel, or stand, or sing or recite a response to the priest. Yet she also would have been touched and glad, I think, that I made the effort. She would have known that I'd risk looking like a dork in a huge Catholic Church because I loved her so very much.
At any rate, Dixie brought three pages of written instructions for us, because apparently she and Jenny hadn't actually completed a rosary for a long time. So there we were chanting hail Marys and Our Fathers and beseeching God to let Muffs soul sit at his right hand and be glorified. Jenny had a grief counselor from the church come and talk to us, and she lead us in a separate prayer, and was wonderfully comforting.
Then we attended evening mass, and the church was full of young people, the elderly and families, and full as well of song. This was a church that celebrated mass by lifting their voices to heaven! It was glorious and beautiful and I loved it. I also discovered that Jenny can sing like an angel! Who knew? Muff couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, bless her, though she was so talented at everything else she set her hand to. But she used to take singing lessons at Clarke, and learn to hear herself sing so she could discern if the notes were sounding right. Sadly, I think she also had a tin ear,or was tone deaf. That never stopped her from singing along with the Chieftans or the Irish Rovers when we were listening to their folk music.
We were joined at mass by Jenny's father, the witty Chuck Zappala. Jenny and her hubby Alex are joining her parents for a huge trip to the Zappala birthplace near Sicily, Italy next week, where Jenny and Alex will be staying for 2 weeks and Chuck and Dixie will be hanging out at the Zappala dairy and noshing on great cuisine with the Zappala clan for an entire month. I wish them great joy on their trip, and I hope meeting the Italian branch of the family is fulfilling and wonderful. I also hope they bring back great recipes for Alex to make and try out on those of us stuck back here in the USA.
Anyway, Muffs name was said in special intentions during mass, and Jenny and I lit a candle for her. I tried not to cry, but I was, of course, a sodden mess by the time we left the church. Yet I felt more at peace than I have since I picked up the telephone that awful Saturday morning and heard the news of Muffs demise. I felt that what Dixie told me after mass was true, that Muff would be my guardian angel now, and watch over me and my family.

Working/Feasting/Paris Cuisine

"We want the liver and the lights of Paris, we want to gormandize until we're green, because we're eating out our hearts for Paris, by which we mean the Paris Cuisine. We'd really settle for some bread and butter, we'd really settle, for a bit of crust, or for some gristle gathered from the gutter, but eat, eat, eat we must!"
From Cyrano, the Musical starring Christopher Plummer


Muff was always a hard worker, and though she learned young how important money can be, especially when you don't have any, she was very generous with her money and her time when she had a surfeit of either.
I remember once when we were unusually poor during our sophomore year at Clarke that we decided to scrounge up leftovers from the 'caf' and the Onion, and also cook some things my grandmother had given me in case the 'evil Catholics' as she called them, decided they weren't going to feed the protestants that day and cut me off from the cafeteria. She and my grandfather had driven from their home in Monticello to Dubuque just to bring me this mammoth roast, some potatoes and douches...don't ask.
Mary Karl got out her rice a roni boxes, and decided that would be a side dish, though it came perilously close to the dreaded pasta that Muff loathed with all her being.
We then seasoned and browned the roast, and put it in the oven in one of the dorms, along with some potatoes and Muff was in charge of cooking some canned corn. I don't know what happened in the ensuing hours, because we had all repaired to the Onion for a brief aperatif before the big meal. Next thing we know, smoke is pouring from the dorm kitchen and there's corn all over the place...seems Muff had figured out a way to make corn explode and the meat had caught on fire. The poatoes actually roasted up rather nicely in the fire, however, and were still edible, but the only parts of the roast we could scavenge were the middle bits where it was thick and still slightly red.
But when we were flush, we'd head to Marios for Ponzarotti, which were the size of a regulation football, and made with bread dough stuffed with motzarella, meat and spices, cooked and slathered with marinara sauce. They were impossible to eat in one sitting, but they were very tasty, and cheap. And the leftovers, like pizza, could be consumed for breakfast.
As I've noted before, while on campus Muff often worked in the cafeteria, with Larondo, or sometimes did room cleaning, so her boss was a 300 pound chef who wasn't too picky. My work study consisted of cleaning blackboards and attempting to be a model for the art students (clothed, of course, usually in whatever theater costume I was wearing for the latest production). I was under the auspices of Sister Xavier, or Zav, as we called her behind her broad back. Sister Zav was one of the few BVMs at Clarke who refused to abide by Vatican 2 and wear normal clothing instead of the big stuffy penguin-like habit. She towered over most of us, and she despaired of people like me, who are serial dawdlers. Yet she gave me the keys to all the classrooms without a qualm, even when I regularly forgot to lock them behind me after I'd cleaned the blackboards. She threatened me with something like eternal damnation (but, realizing I was a protestant and not suseptible to the requisite level of guilt, she lectured me on the aeons of Clarke students graduated in the century before who were responsible, moral adults, and not sniveling, brainless drama dweebs like myself) and told me that if one more book got stolen from the psych professors classroom (Hank Goldstein, who was a nebbish kind of guy, but whose nasal whine could send anyone reaching for a bottle of aspirin), I was going to be fired and roasted in Hades.
Of course, I had some huge tests the next day, and inevitably forgot to lock three key classrooms, so whom did I call to save my bacon? Muff, of course, the only person able to slip into the building and back out without being seen by Sister Zav. I eventually got fired anyway, but I kept the job for a couple more months.
After graduation, Muff tried to follow me to Boston to get her graduate degree in library science from Simmons College. Much to her disgust, Simmons, at the time, wasn't interested in books or periodicals at all, but wanted librarians to be computer experts and focus on gathering information for patrons, not in helping them find it themselves. Because she only had one class that dealt with books, and a childrens book class at that, she lost her enthusiasm for grad school rather rapidly. I was working as a household help to Mrs Pierce, a blind lady who lived in Cambridge and had a disgusting, pig-like dog named Suki. Suki was an English Staffordshire Bull Terrier, according to Mrs Pierce, but she snorted instead of barked, and would eat anything, even rotted garbage, happily. Suki was voracious and had no qualms about biting or chewing through things to get to food. Muff would come over and stay with me at Mrs Pierces place, up in the attic/garret I was allowed, and we'd slip down to the huge old kitchen and make M&M dogs. Muff invented these luscious things, which consisted of a hot dog in an open bun covered in motzarella cheese. Then we'd pop them into the toaster oven until the cheese melted, add a bit of mustard and voila, mustard and motzarella dogs. Our only problem was keeping the pig-dog quiet. Suki would grunt and push forward inside of her locked dog carrier so hard, she'd have the thing scooting across the floor because she knew there was food being made and she wanted it---all of it. So inevitably, we'd have to bribe Suki with three hot dogs and some buns with peanut butter on them to keep her quiet while we made our repast. Before Muff left Boston, I felt it only proper to take her out to a real seafood dinner, since Iowa affords little opportunity to eat fresh fish. As we were served freshly boiled lobsters and crabs, Muff dropped her napkin and paled visibly when the food arrived. "I can't eat this," she said "It's LOOKING at me!"
"But Muff," I said, "It's dead, its been boiled, its no longer on this earth, trust me, and its delicious, please don't let it die in vain, just give it a try!" But she refused, from that day on, to eat anything that was cooked with its eyes still in, so it could look at her. And I was stuck eating a lot of lobster and crab...not that this was such a bad thing, mind.
Muff went on to become a nanny for a family in Chatanooga, Tennessee. She was required to take care of the three kids, help with the laundry and light housekeeping, and, unfortunately, occaisional cooking. Muff didn't like to cook because she felt she wasn't too adept at it. She especially disliked cooking the food she hated the most, the dreaded macaroni and cheese. Muff would rather be dipped in boiling oil than eat a spoonful of mac and cheese. Once, when Muff, myself and Monica, the three leads in the Great Cross Country Race play, were invited to the director Tom Scores house, Muff had to sit down and politely make her way through a stuffed manicotti shell with a tiny bit of marinara sauce over it. I was going to say something, but she looked at me and hissed through gritted teeth "NOT ONE WORD" and proceeded to eat with great deliberation and in tiny bites, everything on her plate. OF course, the favorite food of the kids she was taking care of was none other than mac and cheese. Poor Muff, consigned to pasta hell for a year.
Once she returned to Marshalltown, Muff started working for Hardees Restaurants, after working briefly at a town Made-Rite Diner, and I recall telling her once how much I loved Hardees breakfast cinamon-raisin biscuits. "Those things are made almost entirely of LARD...you do know that, right?"she said. I was appalled, and never touched another of those fat-bombs again.
Muff worked for Hastings Bookstore for many years, and rose in the ranks just as she had at every job she'd tried that had even a whisper of advancement potential. She told me that while working there she'd gained a lot of weight, and I didn't really believe her until I saw her deplane in New York, where we met to get on our flight to Ireland. Muff assumed I would be horrified, but I wasn't bothered at all...I could tell my friend Muff was still there, full of life and adventure and mischief as ever.
And fortunately, Ireland isn't at all enamored of pasta, because potatoes, which Muff adored, were plentiful as were pork chops and chicken and beef dishes. The first "Irish Fry" breakfast we were served at the Blooms Hotel was a bit off-putting, however, because it consisted of eggs, Irish oat bread, a rasher of bacon, broiled tomatoes and, gasp, black discs of blood sausage. Neither of us could bear to even try the darn things, let alone eat all that we were served. But the lovely requisite pot of hot Irish tea made everything taste good. We had some fantastic meals while in Ireland, especially at the Waterford Crystal plant. Their cafeteria made the most delicious dishes, and you could go through cafeteria style and pick what you wanted, and eat for a pittance. I remember having a delicious stew and I think Muff had pork chops, but I remember the portions being large and satisfying and the Irish people being wonderful and warm to both of us.
Muff worked for a video store after Hastings closed, but then surprised me, as she often did, by going back to Marshalltown Community College and getting administrative training (she really wanted to do paralegal training but they didn't offer that) that allowed her to get her dream job of working in a library.
I remember her phone call the day she got the job--she was so thrilled, and I was so thrilled for her. She didn't mind that she'd be working in the basement, she was just happy to be working amongst books and bookish people. She told me that she'd had BJ cook healthy meals for her, since being diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, and that she'd lost some weight, enough so that she didn't have to take as much Metforin as she had before. Muff had stopped smoking and had the use of a CPAP machine for her sleep apnea, and was in better health than she'd been for years, she told me.
Thats why it was such a blow to hear of her untimely death.
I raise a glass to you, my friend, and know that I will always remember you.

Clarke Memories

"Had I the heavens embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths,
Of night and light, and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams."
William Butler Yeats

Muff loved Yeats, and had the above poem memorized. She often used it as a short audition piece for the theater dept at Clarke.

I met Muff when I'd only been at Clarke for a week. I was settled in my own room at Mary Benedict Hall (called Mary Ben) and was on my way back from supper when I noticed a walking stack of books coming toward the elevator at Mary Ben. Seriously, it was like the books had sprouted legs. Being a bibliophile since age 4, I recognized a fellow book nut, and I HAD to find out who was behind that prodigous stack of literature. So I peeked around it at the sweet face of my soon-to-be best friend, who had two long braids of brown hair and soulful brown eyes. She was only around 5 feet 2 inches tall, so she was struggling to keep the books from toppling out of her arms, and I introduced myself and offered to help her carry her books to her dorm room.
We started chatting about books, discovered that we liked many of the same kinds of books, and Muff abruptly said "Are you rooming alone?" When I confirmed that I was, she asked "Can I move in with you? I have a relentlessly chipper cheerleader type for my roomate who is actually a morning person, and she's driving me crazy." As I am not a morning person either, and I have a deep dislike of cheerleaders as well, I agreed, and soon we were sharing a room that was set up like Felix and Oscars bachelor pad on the TV show "The Odd Couple." My side of the room was ridiculously neet, and hers was a huge mess of old food containers, clothing, shoes, papers, books and records.
Muff was a huge Celtophile, and loved all things Irish because of her Irish heritage on her mothers side. That year she introduced me to a host of Irish bands and Celtic music, among them the Irish Rovers, the Chieftains, The Dubliners and The Wolftones. She insisted that I read Leon Uris's "Trinity" (which was one of the hardest books I've ever had to read) and that I read James Joyce and Yeats and Oscar Wilde, any author with Irish heritage or lineage was fair game. Then we'd be required to dissect the novel or short story, and discuss all the plot intricacies, metaphors, etc. It was like having an English professor for a roomate! Muff also loved the Doors, Pete Townsend of the Who, and certain musicals or plays, such as Cyrano, Playboy of the Western World, and Juno and the Paycock. She adored Dickens, mainly because he wrote about the underdog who triumphs in the end. That first year, I won the title role in the "Great Cross Country Race" which was the story of the tortoise and the hare, and Muff won the role of Basket the dog, my sidekick, while my dear friend Monica (Nease) Jenkins won the role of the snappy and witty hare. The three of us had a blast learning our lines and doing that childrens play, and the drama dept had to add on shows because it was so popular that kids were coming by the busload for miles to see it. There was a point in the play where I was supposed to do a Jackie Gleason style dance with the hare in front of the stage, and I just couldn't do it, having had two left feet my whole life. Tom Score, the director, told Muff and Monica to take me to the student union, affectionately called "the Onion" and get me drunk and teach me how to dance. I knew nothing of this directive, of course, so when Muff and Monica escorted me to the Onion and sat a pitcher of beer in front of me, I had no clue what they were planning. I'd never had a drink before in my life, and I certainly didn't like the looks of that pitcher of beer, which had a funny smell. Monica advised "Just drink it down quickly and you won't have to taste it." So I did, and I don't remember much of anything else about the evening. Apparently I was dancing on the tables and doing a fine job of making an idiot out of myself in front of the entire student body. But I could certainly do the dance the next day in rehearsal, no problem. (I still can't stand beer, to this day).
Muff put photos of her brothers on her bulletin board in our dorm room, and they looked so adorable and sweet, and her anecdotes about them were so delightful, I had BJ, Michael, Bear and Danny in my head as little boys, though I knew they had grown up over the years, gotten married, and had children of their own. But I fell in love with Muffs whole family that first year at Clarke, because her tales of them were so vivid and fascinating. Muff had a talent for both oral and written storytelling that I think was passed down to her by her famed mother, childrens book author Jean Russell Larson. She could tell a story about Danny as googoonanafoodoo, the swashbuckling superhero, that would have myself and anyone else listening in stiches, laughing so hard we were crying. Her colorful clan was only part of her storytelling, though. Muff would often pick a book that she'd loved and read it aloud to anyone willing to listen, which, by the time we were seniors, was half the college. She would do voices, have expressions and gestures that just made the book come alive. She would also write 'sagas' as she called them, about her favorite baseball player (Bill Buckner for awhile, then she moved on) or her favorite movie star or rock star who had a new video out. Muff and I watched the advent of MTV together on a TV in "Red Wing" the dreaded haunted wing of Mary Francis Hall in 1982 or 83, I can't remember which, and after that first playing of "Video Killed the Radio Star" Muff turned to me and said "It'll never last."
When I got the lead in Sam Shepards "Buried Child" in 83, I was terrified I'd not be able to memorize all the lines and do a decent job, and Muff kept assuring me that I'd do fine, and then she went around her room in Mary Fran and put sticky notes on all the items in the room, telling how the related to me. "Given as a gift by the leading lady" said a note on a pair of boots, "Borrowed by the leading lady" it said on a stack of books. I was never so touched by a gesture of faith as that one.
Muff was there for the invasion of the Saudi Arabians when they came to Clarke not for an education, but mainly on a crusade to rape and pillage as many infidel American women as possible during one semester. They all had the same name, "Abdul" except for one short guy named Charlie. They didn't want to learn from nuns, because, as women, nuns were not supposed to know anything or even be literate, so they felt free to ignore classes, and they had plenty of money, so they bought sports cars, jewelry and air conditioners to send home. They were appalled that the cafeteria served pork, because as Muslims that was a forbidden food, so one day several Abduls sped across the countryside in a fancy red sports car until they located a goat. They ran over the poor thing, tied it to the hood of the sports car, and dragged the bloody carcass into the cafeteria, where they dropped it at the feet of Larry, (or Larondo, as he was nicknamed by the students) our 300 pound Boston-born chef. They pointed to the goat and at Larondo and said "Cook!" Like a guy who is used to getting industrial-sized boxes, bags and cans of food is going to have any clue how to butcher and prepare a dead goat! Muff was working in the cafe that day, and had to run into the back room to laugh because she knew if Larry saw her watching him sputter, he'd be furious. Muff had a lot of work study to do to help pay for her room and board at Clarke, and she was given the onerous task of cleaning up after the Abduls once they'd been expelled for dozens of traffic tickets and a couple of rapes. They claimed diplomatic immunity, so were never held accountable for all they did to flout our laws while they were here. Anyway, they also seemed to not know how to use flush toilets, instead using their rooms for facilities, and generally making a horrible stinking mess. I offered to help Muff clean the rooms, but she insisted on doing the majority of it herself.
Muff dated an Iranian student named Kamel, who was very handsome, but also culturally hidebound in his beliefs that women knew nothing and were not to be trusted or treated with kindness and care. He and Muff had a rocky relationship, where he used her for everything he could get, and wouldn't give anything of himself. The only other relationship I knew that Muff had was with an older man who was her boss at a local maidrite, and he also was using her, as he was married at the time of their affair. I think Muff probably compared all men to her handsome, accomplished brothers and found them wanting. I know she tried several dating web sites at my insistance, but was disappointed in the men who responded to her ad. But she didn't feel confident enough in herself to carry on a relationship, assuming that men wanted to only take from her. It makes me sad to think that she never married and had children, because I know that was a dream she held dear, to "hold a child of my own in my arms," as she once told me.
During our last phone conversation in January, I told Muff that if I ever managed to adopt a child from an Asian country, as my husband and I had planned to do before we had Nick, I would name the girl child after her, because she was such a wonderful person and friend. I hope to one day be able to fulfill that promise.

Rosmarie Myrtle Larson, 1961-2008

"Life as it is? I've lived for over 40 years, and I've seen life as it is. Pain, misery, cruelty beyond belief. I've heard all the voices of God's noblest creatures, and moans from bundles of filth in the streets. I've been a soldier, and a slave. I've seen my comrades fall in battle or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I've held them at the last moment. These were men who saw life as it is, but they died despairing. No glory, no brave last words, only their eyes, filled with confusion, questioning why. I do not think they were asking why they were dying, but why they had ever lived.
When life itself seems lunatic who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical may be madness, to surrender dreams, this may be madness--to seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness! But the maddest of all is to see life as it is, and not as it should be!"
From The Man of La Mancha as portrayed by Peter O'Toole.

This blog is being created in memory of my best friend, Rosmarie Myrtle Larson, called Muff by her family and friends because of her lack of prowess in the kitchen. Muff's brother BJ called me in the morning on March 29, to tell me Muff had died earlier that morning, quite unexpectedly. They had her taken in for an autopsy with the state medical examiner, who happens to be a good friend of my high school friend Roger Blakesley, but they've not heard anything yet as the definitive cause of death. Muff's sister Kath, who had taken her to the doctor the day before she died, said the doctors told her she was doing well with her CPAP machine helping her recover from sleep apnea, and taking Metforin for her diabetes. She emailed me three weeks ago to say she was busy helping her mother recover from a broken hip, but that all was well and she'd be calling me soon. I never heard from her again.
The quote from Man of La Mancha was Muff's favorite quote from a musical theater piece, and I'd recorded the short monologue onto the end of her CD copy of Cyrano, the 70s musical version of the beloved tale of Cyrano De Bergerac, starring the incomparable Christopher Plummer, whom Muff and I both adored from frequent viewings of The Sound of Music at Clarke College. We both believed strongly in seeing life as it should be, and making our own worlds, our own realities, as close to our dreams as possible.
Muff was a dreamer, a Catholic who truly believed, a brilliant student, a bibliophile and a tireless humanitarian. She touched, healed and helped many people during her short 46 years on this earth. She wrote to troops in Iraq every day, she supported a child in a third world country through monthly contributions and holiday gifts, Muff drove her mother to chemotherapy while she was battling breast cancer. Muff taught me that there was a vast difference between monetary poverty and the poverty of the mind, heart and spirit. She had 6 brothers and 1 sister growing up, and because her father and stepfather weren't available, she'd known what it means to go hungry. But she never, ever lacked for richness of heart and spirit. Her love of reading and books transported her to places far and wide, while her deep love of her siblings grounded her and kept her moving forward. She was particularly enamored of her four younger brothers because she believed that she'd helped to raise them and they'd helped her grow as a person as well, instilling in her a lifelong love of children. BJ was the nearest to her in age, and she often spoke of his quiet ways and itchy feet that lead him off to an adventure at least once a year. BJ attended Clarke for a brief time, and I remember him as a romantic skinny kid with a poetic heart and a sharp mind. Several young women in the drama dept carried torches for BJ. Now he's grown into a handsome, compassionate man who is a caretaker of the elderly. Muff would tell me often how BJ would clean her abode and cook for her and take care of organizing her life as well. Michael has grown from a blonde lad with an artistic bent to a tall, gorgeous man whose graphic novels and graphic arts training have lead him to create wonderful novels and illustrations for his mothers childrens books. Bear's childhood photo on Muffs wall in our dorm room at Clarke revealed an angelic face with more than a touch of mischief about it. He's now a good-looking burly man who, as an electrician, plumber and mechanic can fix almost anything set before him. Danny, the youngest, was a dramatic child who used to wrap towels around his shoulders as a cape and pretend to be a singing/dancing/acting crimefighter. Muff had a special place in her heart for Danny, because of his creativity and whimsy. He's now a lithe and beautiful man with twinkling blue eyes who dances, sings and acts, and shared with Muff his love of all things Dark Shadows. Kath, who looks like a Dresden doll with her Nordic beauty, has become a wise woman and head sibling of the Parks Larson Clan over the years (due in part to the death of their eldest sibling Rick several years ago) and she now has two grown children, plus an adorable grandchild, Ethan, whom Muff loved. Bears two daughters, Emma and Bria look like little cherubim angels, just like their father, and Muff used to send me photos of them, along with emails regailing me with adoring anecdotes. Her bright brother David is the family intellectual, and is married to a quietly strong and gentle woman named Doreen. Muff's mother, famed childrens author Jean Russell Larson, was always a treasure to me, because she was such a wonderful, wise human being and fabulous writer who actually came to Clarke once to speak to us. Muff was justifiably proud of her parent, and was helping her mother recover from a broken hip when she died.
Muff's funeral was lovely and heartbreaking and all too brief. I felt as if I were part of her family, and I also felt, at the gravesite, that Muff was somehow there, as the priest said "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.." and suddenly a warm wind wound around our legs that carried the faint scent of White Shoulders, Muffs favorite perfume.
My good Irish friend Aidan Maher gave me a prayer in Gaelic to recite at Muffs funeral that he felt would be appropriate to her, because he grew quite fond of Muff when he squired us about in Dublin.
"Ar Dheis De go raibh a hanam dilis" which means "May her worthy soul be at the right hand of God." Amen.
I believe that's where Muff is now, in heavens library, reveling in all the tomes she now has time to read, and watching over us all. God go with you my friend. I wasn't sure, as I flew into Iowa for the first time in 25 years, how I'd learn to live without my beloved former roomate, but I now believe that as long as I can remain in contact with her marvelous family, and share memories with them, I will never truly be without my best friend.