It was very important to Bon that this occasion truly be one of joy and celebration—it was a thought she repeated consistently and often as we talked about what her wishes were for this day.
And it is true that Bon and I have been friends for many years—but how do you do justice to that? I do not know the answer, but I will try by sharing some of my memories about times spent with Bonnie. And hopefully while we will laugh (and I absolutely guarantee that you will laugh---) smile and cry –let’s remember her joyfully for who she was – someone neither I, nor any of us could ever attempt to sum up in just a few words--- though Gerald came very close Thursday afternoon as we chatted over sandwiches with Michelle, Greg, Laurel and Gale at the condo—when he said, “This woman has powers!”
First, I’d like to give just a little historical context to the evolution of our friendship.
The first time I met Bonnie was at the Girl’s Camp run by our church, in the summer of 1974.I had just moved to New England from Utah. I was there as a camp counselor—in fact, coincidentally, Michelle was one of my young charges.
I had a free hour when the little darlings were occupied elsewhere and I was temporarily “off-duty”, so put on my bathing suit and went down to the dock on the lake to catch a little sun. When I arrived, I found that I was not going to have the place to myself like I had hoped. Sitting on the end of the dock were two of the Girl’s Camp cooks—I knew them by sight, but not yet by name--one of them was Bonnie, the other was Greta Peterson.
We introduced ourselves, started talking and the rest is history. It was a most inauspicious beginning to a friendship that would last 35 years—one that has run so rich and so deep—one that I would not have missed for anything-- one that took us to places and through challenges that neither of us could have imagined in our wildest dreams.
A common interest was our involvement in Exponent II-- a newspaper for Mormon women. While Bonnie was one of the original “founding mothers”, I joined the group a year or so after I had met her at camp. It was during those Exponent years that our friendship also deepened in other ways as well-- as we worked together late into the night on the layout of the paper, discussed issues at our monthly board meetings or spent time together at our annual Board retreats.
Somehow Bonnie and I always ended up doing the food. We went along with this for a few years, and then finally one day, we looked at each other and said, “What is wrong with us? We don’t want to do this ANYMORE! And that was the end of our Exponent II catering career!
Interestingly enough, I was thinking back and realized that the beach has always been a great part of my friendship with Bonnie—we both loved peace and tranquility of being there-- and for many years that is where we spent many of our happiest hours—life didn’t get much better than that. We spent time at a lot of different beaches—in RI, on the Cape near a house she and Gerald rented one summer, the North Shore --and often on those spectacular Indian summer days of autumn-- on the beaches of the Vineyard or Nantucket.
These were long, lazy contented times—times when we spent hours laying or walking in the sun, drinking Diet Coke and talking about whatever was on our minds that day.— our lives, our families, our work, our spiritual beliefs, and-- given the time—we often centered on women’s issues and how they affected our lives as Mormon women. It was after all, the 70’s.
It was through these talks and time spent together—whether we were peeling carrots for the evening meal at a retreat, proofing the paper, picking up produce at Russo’s or lying at the beach-- that I came to know Bonnie better and better. Though there were and are still parts of her that are extremely very private, there were others where she was incredibly open-- she was a great conversationalist, an excellent listener and she always had great insight about people and situations and yet at the same time she had that wonderful ability to not judge, plus she had a great sense of humor! We never ever ran out of things to talk about!
I also came to understand and appreciate her solid spiritual foundation—something which would serve her well during her decade-long battle with a list of medical challenges so intimidating that most people would simply fold up their tents and go home.
Not Bonnie. She was and is a warrior and a fighter in the truest sense of the word. Occasionally, she was even a little bit too much of a fighter. Just a week ago last Friday night, Gerald and I spent 20 minutes being “cross-examined” by her in detail regarding the sheets we were in the process of putting on their bed. Had they been washed? Are you sure? Did they match? Where is the pillow with the “mark” on it? “Gerald”, she would say, “I am being very serious.”
Neither of us had any clue what mark she was talking about (and Gerald has slept in the same bed with her for nearly fifty years) but we looked where she directed us to --and sure enough we found it—her little indelible ink mark on the back of the sham right where she said it was! Here was a woman who was in incredible pain and starting to fade in and out of lucidity -- yet she “snapped to” long enough to make sure we were not messing up the bed. Classic Bonnie.
Bonnie loved the scriptures and found great personal solace in them. During this past decade, I know it has given her more peace to read and ponder them. They were a beacon for her-- a lighthouse of sorts-- and along with Gerald as her anchor-- she fought her way through this difficult and foreign territory.
Often, during a long day at the hospital getting treatment or a blood transfusion, I would sort out her bag and re-organize the copious piles of papers. I would always find the same small tattered and torn book—a book that she carried everywhere with her which contained short scriptural thoughts for the day. As I would be cleaning and sorting, she would always ask me if that little book was in the bag. I could always say “yes”. Sometimes I would read to her from it or we would pick a passage or verse and talk about it.
As I sat by her bedside at home over the past two weeks, I noticed another set of scriptures on the nightstand and still others tucked in different spots around the room. And while her spiritual philosophies changed and evolved some along the way, she was always clear that there is a God and we have a Savior, Jesus Christ.
In last week of her life, during the moments when she was feeling less pain and could think a little clearer --we had some wonderful snippets of conversation that I will always treasure. One afternoon we were talking about how we thought this would unfold. I asked her who she thought would greet her first when she crossed the bar. She didn’t hesitate for a moment, she said, “I am going to see God and Jesus Christ.”
I have fought a good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith.
2 Timothy 4:7
It was actually on a beach in RI that we decided to take that amazing trip to Eastern Europe in the summer of 1997. What spawned the whole idea was one of our many “beach” conversations—it was my birthday and we were celebrating with an overnight at our house in RI. Judy was telling us about her plans for a sabbatical the following year and an opportunity she had to teach at the University of Timosoara in Romania-- that she and Jim were very seriously considering the idea.
Bonnie immediately brought up the fact that her father came from Romanian stock, and then we got off on the tangent about the monasteries of Bucovina which is way up in the northern most part of Romania—near the border of the Ukraine. And almost in unison, Bonnie and I said, “Hey, We’ll meet you in Romania when you finish teaching and we’ll all go to Bucovina together!” That was that, the idea was hatched and we were off and running.
While Bonnie was a seasoned world traveler, I was not, and for me, this was the trip of a lifetime. I had never ever been to Europe, though it has long been on my list-- so I was excited beyond belief and thrilled with the prospect of seeing Eastern Europe first. We planned it carefully and methodically—relishing each detail along the way. The countdown was on!
Bonnie and I both felt that we would travel well together—(and we all know that if one is really honest, you can’t travel with just anyone) we both love to explore and wander, we are very curious and quite clear that we had no interest in being part of a group that was marching around behind some guy holding up an umbrella like a banner-- but we also knew that we were both comfortable enough in our relationship to say, “You know what, I want to sleep in today and just chill out. You go ahead.”
Bonnie is a great travel companion because she is so fun and is interested in EVERYTHING, but also because she is a voracious reader of travel books and loves learning what there is to see in every single city—the museums, the ballet, the bakeries, the places off the beaten path that no one else would know existed, let alone bother to find. It was just magical! We walked a lot, we mastered public transportation in each new country and loved traveling by train and seeing the countryside as we moved from Prague, to Vienna, to Budapest and then onto Romania—where we had organized what we realized in retrospect was a completely ridiculous and naïve plan to meet Jim, Jude and Eliza at a train station in Cluj. But that’s a story for another time…
We flew to Copenhagen, then to Prague, then began our travels by train to Vienna where we ate the best chocolate cake (which was served with peach herbal tea) I have EVER had in my entire life. It is one of my favorite photos from our trip and Bonnie & Gerald brought another copy to me for my birthday last year. To this day, I still hope that some day I will wander into an antique store and find one of that Tiffany-style silver sugar pourers exactly like they had in that little shop in Vienna. That would pretty much make my life complete…
Throughout Eastern Europe, I loved the churches and we went in every single church we passed. I was awed by their beauty and their age—I marveled at how someone could have constructed something like that a thousand years ago—I began to recognize the architectural roots of much that I love about New England. I was constantly humbled by the faces of the beautiful elderly women on their knees praying-- women who you knew most likely had lived through the unspeakable horrors of the Second World War and the Holocaust.
I fell in love with Budapest! While in Prague and Vienna, we had stayed in small, charming hotels or little B & B-like places off the beaten path— in Budapest we opted for a large, newer contemporary hotel right on the Danube River. It was a spectacular location and we knew by that time in our trip we would need to be in a place where we had “technology” to confirm final arrangements for the next leg of our journey to Romania and attempt to get in touch with Jude and Jim.
(I use the term technology loosely as even finding a phone that worked was still pretty much a challenge in most places at that time. The next challenge was hoping and praying a person who would actually answer the phone and the third challenge was to not get cut off in mid-conversation--which then required starting the whole process all over again.)
There is an amazing river walk that runs the length of the Danube. Every night, we would dress for dinner and then stroll the river afterwards. And that’s what the people do there—they don’t walk purposefully—they stroll. The lights on the bridges, the beautiful women, and the earthy grittiness of that spectacular city made it absolutely shimmer at night. There were fountains, little shops, and charming castles. It was a breaktakingly beautiful place with energy that you could palpably feel the second you get off the train, but can’t really describe in words that adequately capture what this place is about.
One of the things Bonnie said we must do while in Budapest was to go to the Gellert Baths. (Actually, in retrospect I think Deborah told us about the baths--as she had been there before we were--) and this is my all-time favorite Bonnie story. And by the way, I have her permission to tell it!
Budapest is famous for its beautiful public baths, so we put it on our list. After we spent close to half an hour trying to converse with a young woman attendant (who spoke about six words of English) about whether or not we could wear our bathing suits, she finally shook her head and said very emphatically, “No, nudie,” and then handed us each a thin white towel about the size of a facecloth. (Bonnie had insisted that we bring our suits with us .)
With some hesitation, we stripped and then tried to surreptitiously make our way the 20 feet or so from the dressing room into the baths. Bonnie was hunched over trying to cover up all her vital parts with this 12 x12 inch of fabric. We already stuck out like sore thumbs--- the only two blondes in a sea of dark-skinned, dark-haired robust women. I was laughing so hard, I could hardly breathe--- finally I said, “Bonnie, we are going to do this, just drop it. We don’t know anyone here and we will never see them again.” She dropped her “Kleenex” and quickly slid into the water. Hey, when in Budapest, do as the “Budapestians” do!
Her ten-year medical odyssey began in August of 1998 when Bonnie was first diagnosed with a virulent, very aggressive form of breast cancer. It was remarkable journey in many ways, both for the repeated moments of triumph—as well as an equal number of times of darkness and despair.
Much of it is simply too deeply personal to recount—a conclusion that interestingly enough Bonnie and I each came to independently. We were each asked individually--several years after her transplant-- if we were willing to come and discuss her medical marathon experience of that first year at an Exponent retreat. When we talked about it with each other later, it was interesting that we both settled on the same words to describe that experience: No, it was simply too sacred to talk about.
It was year which included a mastectomy, several months of chemotherapy in preparation to harvest her stem cells, then a stem cell transplant – a period of such intense, high-dose chemotherapy that it literally brought her as close to death as possible in order to kill all the malignant cells, followed by her “rebirth” ---introducing the new stem cells back into a brand new “clean” system. That was followed several months later by six weeks of daily radiation treatments. Little did any of us know at that time, that this was just the beginning.
Knowing it would be nice to have a simple symbol to remind us we were in this together; Leslie went to work and made these clever little “prayer” bracelets for family and close friends. I have worn one pretty consistently over the past ten years ever since—in fact, I have worn out either four or five and have had to request a new one more than once. Leslie has always obliged me. Last summer when I told Bon my latest model was looking pretty shredded, she went on the hunt and spent half an hour searching around the condo-- as she was certain she had a couple more stashed somewhere and sure enough she found them.
“In my Father’s house are many mansions, if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” John 14:2
As I headed to their condo last Wednesday afternoon, it suddenly became very clear to me that there was one last thing I needed to do—it was time for my prayer bracelet—that simple black cord with a silver bead (with a “blue B on one side and a black B on the other” for Bonnie) to go from my wrist to hers--- I knew I didn’t need it anymore, but I also understood that she did – for this was the last and most important leg of her journey home --and I wanted my prayers to go with her. So around 5:00 pm, after sitting with her for several hours, I quietly placed it on her tiny little wrist, kissed her on her forehead, stroked her arm one more time, told her that I loved her, thanked her for sharing this incredible journey with me and said good-bye.
In tenth verse of the 46th Psalm it reminds us so very simply, “Be still, and know that I am God.”
Life…so fragile. Loss…so sudden. Hearts… so broken. And yet, there is the wonder of it all. In the wake of such a loss we may be haunted by things that we simply can’t control or the questions we may ask and yet still never understand. Yet the solace we seek may not come—even from the answers. So I look for comfort in my faith and trust in a loving Heavenly Father’s eternal care and concern for each and every one of us. May that love lift you, sustain you, hold you close and give each one of you peace.
Now, Gerald, Bonnie has something special just for you and you only. It was not written down in her list of wishes for this service for a reason—and for that same reason it was not included on the program for this celebration…because this is something she wanted to do just for you. So today, in this moment, with this song, she is reminding you once again of her great love for you--as Val Wise sings “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” It is her love song to you.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Judy Dushku Tribute
Nearly twenty years ago, my sister Trish & I planned Trish’s funeral and we ran into frustrations with people making suggestions we found upsetting. I went home and called Bonnie to lean on. Bonnie, of course, listened with compassion, gave her good advice and then said,
Hey Jude, we will keep it simple when one of us dies. If you die first, I will speak at your funeral and if I die first, you speak at mine.
I felt so vulnerable then. I assumed strong Bonnie would long outlive me. Nevertheless, her comment did plant in me, in a barely conscious way, a decision to be especially observant of Bonnie’s qualities, observations, and her spectacularly sensitive, brave, wise, helpful observations. I did nothing toward writing a funeral talk for Bonnie, you understand, but I became unusually watchful, often taking mental note of the particularly fine things she did and said. I tucked them away somewhere in my heart. That little mental file remains a gift to me and I feel I can always peek into it. I am touched and impressed each time, knowing that it is mine to keep. I thank her.
After Trish died I felt incapacitated for some time, and Bon came to me with the utmost sensitivity. She knew, she said, that no one could ever “replace” someone else or the special relations that two unique people have with each other. She said she would never presume to replace my sister in my life. However, Bonnie said:
I would like to offer to be something like a sister to you.
She observed that I needed a sister close by and she was willing to do anything she could of the things that sisters often do. We were already close friends and we became closer. I did need a sister and since that tender offer, I have regarded her, and have frequently described her, as “this dearest friend of mine who is more than a friend and is something like a sister.”
The perks to me that went with Bonnie’s new role were these:
• Talk anytime about anything at all.
• Love my children and inquire about each one
• Care about what I told her of my and my children’s lives
Now who does that? Who really cares about and remembers what you tell them about all of your kids and grandkids? Those are sister-gifts. And she talked to me about her children. However, I have come to understand that Bonnie was considerably more discreet in her telling about her children than I was about mine. Many Dushku family secrets have left this mortal life with Bonnie.
Bonnie would freely give advice – often unsolicited. I considered it a blessing. I often did not know what to ask for and what I needed. Her advice covered such things as cooking: how thin to slice mushrooms; how to cut carrots at an angle. She told me how to tie those fabulous “Bonnie Christmas wreath bows” on which Mormons spend so much time. She told me gently but firmly that if I could not tie them right after repeated instruction I had to toss mine into the pile of non-Bonnie-bows. She had her standards. I remember she told me that if I preferred to talk all evening then it might be best if I cut wire. If I was making her kind of bows, I had to improve.
Bonnie also encouraged me to be more optimistic about people. “Jude, remember, they can change,” she would remind me when I felt discouraged or critical of someone; “you might be surprised someday.” She always urged patience and acceptance, rather than giving up on anyone -– very much how she lived her own life.
The most treasured unsolicited advice she gave me was to marry Jim. It changed my life in all good ways. Jim and I had decided, for what we thought were very good reasons, not to marry. He had brought one stepmother into his four daughter’s lives to the enduring dismay of all of them and we both read how difficult it was for a stepfather to come into the lives of teen-aged boys. And I had three. Then there was my prepubescent daughter. We were afraid our marrying would undo her. Instead, we decided to stay close in our miraculously wonderful mid-life romance, but live on opposites of the Charles River.
One weekend we went with Bonnie and Gerald to Martha’s Vineyard, and on arriving back at the car in the Wood’s Hole parking lot, Bonnie explained that she and Jim were riding in the front with Jim driving, and Gerald and I could enjoy conversation in the back seat. All fine. So, while Gerald and I made every effort to focus on what we were saying to one another, Bonnie told Jim all the obvious reasons why our decision not to marry was totally wrong and that he must change his mind or he would be missing a chance for the greatest happiness he could enjoy. Every argument he made in resistance to her unyielding advice, she answered back with steady insistence that he was wrong, wrong, wrong. Gerald tried to stop her, reminding her that Jim was nearly sixty and I was fifty, but Bonnie had no restraint in the matter:
Jim, you must marry Judy – and soon. All of your excuses are bogus.
We dropped Gerald and Bonnie at their home, and I drove Jim to Beacon Hill where he lived and went home to my house after picking up my kids. Soon afterward, Jim and I decided to marry. It was absolutely the wise thing to do. It came from the best authority. And we have been one of those happily-ever-after couples who tell each other so many times each week how blessed we are to have found each other. And after so many expressions of gratitude for this state of happy matrimony, I typically look to the Heavens and say, “Thank you God for our joyful marriage” and then Jim raises his arms to the sky and shouts, “Thank you Bonnie Horne!”
Jim often observed, “Bonnie doesn’t say something unless she really means it. Then she is clear, and I for one will listen!”
Jim and I had spent most of 1998 and 1999 Romania and Ireland when Bon was diagnosed with cancer and had some of her roughest early months. We were in touch only by phone, and I knew times when she was bad. When we came home, I spent a lot of time with Bonnie trying to understand what she had endured while I was away, and trying to understand how she had survived it all with what appeared to be such calm resolve and optimism, at the same time her telling me that she also knew that death was a possibility.
One afternoon we returned to the idea about speaking at her funeral. “You know me really well, Jude,” she said, and I want people to know the truth about who I am.” “Well then” I said, “I have to know if you are or have been afraid to die?” “Absolutely not,” she said firmly. She told me about the tapes she listened to, scriptures she’d read, a series of radio programs with women ministers that, along with conversations with family and friends, had helped her be peacefully prepared for this possibility. “But,” she said, “saying I am ‘not afraid to died’ does not mean I am yet ready to die. I loved living and will do so for as long as I can. I know I have some important work yet to do. It is not finished.” We talked about what it might be and she said she was not sure.
Over the next few years we often spoke of this question of what she thought her work was and whether or not she has doing it the way she had hoped. Then, for a few years, we did not talk about the subject. Probably in late 2006, I asked her again, and she said that she absolutely knew why she had been so willing to struggle to hard to live. Life has been an amazing blessing worth every sickness from chemo and allergic reactions to drugs and every other pain and what appeared to me to be horror of her treatments.
Jude, look what I would have missed if I had died when some first expected it! Nearly every grandchild I have has been born since 1998 and I know each one, and for those already born in 1998 I have had the experience of deepening of my relationships with them as they were only children back then.
She talked of each grandchild and the joy of knowing each well and believing that she had had some good influence in each of their lives. I tried to tape her the next week, asking her to tell me about Jackson, Maddy, then Bella, and Mia and Jessica and Nicholas – all of them. We stopped the taping when she said she could not think straight because of her meds, but I remember she said, “How could I have missed knowing Charlie?”
All of you grandchildren of Bonnie that are here: Do you know how important you were and are to your Nanna? Part of why she wanted to live this long was to know each of you better. She told me sweet and tender stories about every one of you and also about how important it was for her to know you. Also it was very important she said to have the chance of getting to know Mindy and their daughters better.
And she said with passion and enthusiasm that she knew how much deeper and better and how different her relationship with Gerald had become since 1998: more intimate, more mutual, more respectful. This was a very important achievement for Bonnie that she was most grateful for having these last ten years to savor. She mentioned it so often.
I adore him, in ways that I did not tell him enough or show him earlier in our lives. What if I had died before becoming so much closer to Gerald – my very best friend?
When Linda & I had our talk about her funeral wishes in 2007, Bonnie was very clear about what she wanted. She was worried that someone would get her service wrong! She was firm and clear. It must be a celebration of life including, and in fact particularly, a celebration of this last decade. She picked the songs. “You have to sing or lead ‘Amazing Grace,’ Judy. Val Wise must sing ‘How Great Thou Art.’ It says what I feel.
We read the words of this beloved hymn that expressed her feeling that the Lord had given her so much good that she “scarce could take it in.”
This past Wednesday night, my daughter called me with some urgency. She was very close to Bonnie and Gerald. Eliza called and told me to go be with Bonnie right then. Michelle said come over and in this clear way, I knew from all our previous conversations what I was supposed to say and do. Gerald and Michelle said that while Bonnie was unconscious she could hear us. For some reason she was rigidly hanging on and was not giving up. They knew it was time for her to end her fight.
So, while Gerald and Michelle had a bit to eat after two long days at her bedside, I held her and told her that I thought she was terribly worried and that I knew it was my job to figure out what was worrying her so much that she could not pass on in peace. It seemed then so clear to me what was on her mind and weighing on her. I told her what I thought: you are worried that your grandchildren will not remember who you are and not only that you loved them but that you believed in them. You are worried that only you completely understand your beloved Gerald and love him with all of his unique and wonderful ways. People might not surround him with love if she left him. And then I told her that she could quit worrying because what she feared would not happen. Your friends will do what you want them to do, I promised her. It was such an intimate moment that I would not share this in a public place except that I promised her these things in behalf of all of you here. I told her that together your friends will remind your grandchildren about who you were and how much you believed in them. And Gerald will not be abandoned and we will embrace him as fully as you hope we will, and as we always have. I promised this. We know him as you do and we love him deeply and will continue to love him. Then I said, “Bon, whenever I have promised you something, I have tried to do it exactly as you would have me do it.” The best way I had to pledge this was to sing for her two favorite songs. And so, for another half an hour I sang over and over “Amazing Grace” and “How Great Thou Art.”
After that half an hour, I suppose it was, she relaxed in my arms and began to stop breathing. I sang the same songs again. Soon, I knew she had gone. I sang them again. Then I told Gerald and Michelle that she had gone.
It was my greatest honor to have been with her as she passed on and to have sung to her and committed to her to do what any sister should do. So now, will you help me please, and let us all sing, ‘Amazing Grace’ together and join in this promise to Bonnie.
Hey Jude, we will keep it simple when one of us dies. If you die first, I will speak at your funeral and if I die first, you speak at mine.
I felt so vulnerable then. I assumed strong Bonnie would long outlive me. Nevertheless, her comment did plant in me, in a barely conscious way, a decision to be especially observant of Bonnie’s qualities, observations, and her spectacularly sensitive, brave, wise, helpful observations. I did nothing toward writing a funeral talk for Bonnie, you understand, but I became unusually watchful, often taking mental note of the particularly fine things she did and said. I tucked them away somewhere in my heart. That little mental file remains a gift to me and I feel I can always peek into it. I am touched and impressed each time, knowing that it is mine to keep. I thank her.
After Trish died I felt incapacitated for some time, and Bon came to me with the utmost sensitivity. She knew, she said, that no one could ever “replace” someone else or the special relations that two unique people have with each other. She said she would never presume to replace my sister in my life. However, Bonnie said:
I would like to offer to be something like a sister to you.
She observed that I needed a sister close by and she was willing to do anything she could of the things that sisters often do. We were already close friends and we became closer. I did need a sister and since that tender offer, I have regarded her, and have frequently described her, as “this dearest friend of mine who is more than a friend and is something like a sister.”
The perks to me that went with Bonnie’s new role were these:
• Talk anytime about anything at all.
• Love my children and inquire about each one
• Care about what I told her of my and my children’s lives
Now who does that? Who really cares about and remembers what you tell them about all of your kids and grandkids? Those are sister-gifts. And she talked to me about her children. However, I have come to understand that Bonnie was considerably more discreet in her telling about her children than I was about mine. Many Dushku family secrets have left this mortal life with Bonnie.
Bonnie would freely give advice – often unsolicited. I considered it a blessing. I often did not know what to ask for and what I needed. Her advice covered such things as cooking: how thin to slice mushrooms; how to cut carrots at an angle. She told me how to tie those fabulous “Bonnie Christmas wreath bows” on which Mormons spend so much time. She told me gently but firmly that if I could not tie them right after repeated instruction I had to toss mine into the pile of non-Bonnie-bows. She had her standards. I remember she told me that if I preferred to talk all evening then it might be best if I cut wire. If I was making her kind of bows, I had to improve.
Bonnie also encouraged me to be more optimistic about people. “Jude, remember, they can change,” she would remind me when I felt discouraged or critical of someone; “you might be surprised someday.” She always urged patience and acceptance, rather than giving up on anyone -– very much how she lived her own life.
The most treasured unsolicited advice she gave me was to marry Jim. It changed my life in all good ways. Jim and I had decided, for what we thought were very good reasons, not to marry. He had brought one stepmother into his four daughter’s lives to the enduring dismay of all of them and we both read how difficult it was for a stepfather to come into the lives of teen-aged boys. And I had three. Then there was my prepubescent daughter. We were afraid our marrying would undo her. Instead, we decided to stay close in our miraculously wonderful mid-life romance, but live on opposites of the Charles River.
One weekend we went with Bonnie and Gerald to Martha’s Vineyard, and on arriving back at the car in the Wood’s Hole parking lot, Bonnie explained that she and Jim were riding in the front with Jim driving, and Gerald and I could enjoy conversation in the back seat. All fine. So, while Gerald and I made every effort to focus on what we were saying to one another, Bonnie told Jim all the obvious reasons why our decision not to marry was totally wrong and that he must change his mind or he would be missing a chance for the greatest happiness he could enjoy. Every argument he made in resistance to her unyielding advice, she answered back with steady insistence that he was wrong, wrong, wrong. Gerald tried to stop her, reminding her that Jim was nearly sixty and I was fifty, but Bonnie had no restraint in the matter:
Jim, you must marry Judy – and soon. All of your excuses are bogus.
We dropped Gerald and Bonnie at their home, and I drove Jim to Beacon Hill where he lived and went home to my house after picking up my kids. Soon afterward, Jim and I decided to marry. It was absolutely the wise thing to do. It came from the best authority. And we have been one of those happily-ever-after couples who tell each other so many times each week how blessed we are to have found each other. And after so many expressions of gratitude for this state of happy matrimony, I typically look to the Heavens and say, “Thank you God for our joyful marriage” and then Jim raises his arms to the sky and shouts, “Thank you Bonnie Horne!”
Jim often observed, “Bonnie doesn’t say something unless she really means it. Then she is clear, and I for one will listen!”
Jim and I had spent most of 1998 and 1999 Romania and Ireland when Bon was diagnosed with cancer and had some of her roughest early months. We were in touch only by phone, and I knew times when she was bad. When we came home, I spent a lot of time with Bonnie trying to understand what she had endured while I was away, and trying to understand how she had survived it all with what appeared to be such calm resolve and optimism, at the same time her telling me that she also knew that death was a possibility.
One afternoon we returned to the idea about speaking at her funeral. “You know me really well, Jude,” she said, and I want people to know the truth about who I am.” “Well then” I said, “I have to know if you are or have been afraid to die?” “Absolutely not,” she said firmly. She told me about the tapes she listened to, scriptures she’d read, a series of radio programs with women ministers that, along with conversations with family and friends, had helped her be peacefully prepared for this possibility. “But,” she said, “saying I am ‘not afraid to died’ does not mean I am yet ready to die. I loved living and will do so for as long as I can. I know I have some important work yet to do. It is not finished.” We talked about what it might be and she said she was not sure.
Over the next few years we often spoke of this question of what she thought her work was and whether or not she has doing it the way she had hoped. Then, for a few years, we did not talk about the subject. Probably in late 2006, I asked her again, and she said that she absolutely knew why she had been so willing to struggle to hard to live. Life has been an amazing blessing worth every sickness from chemo and allergic reactions to drugs and every other pain and what appeared to me to be horror of her treatments.
Jude, look what I would have missed if I had died when some first expected it! Nearly every grandchild I have has been born since 1998 and I know each one, and for those already born in 1998 I have had the experience of deepening of my relationships with them as they were only children back then.
She talked of each grandchild and the joy of knowing each well and believing that she had had some good influence in each of their lives. I tried to tape her the next week, asking her to tell me about Jackson, Maddy, then Bella, and Mia and Jessica and Nicholas – all of them. We stopped the taping when she said she could not think straight because of her meds, but I remember she said, “How could I have missed knowing Charlie?”
All of you grandchildren of Bonnie that are here: Do you know how important you were and are to your Nanna? Part of why she wanted to live this long was to know each of you better. She told me sweet and tender stories about every one of you and also about how important it was for her to know you. Also it was very important she said to have the chance of getting to know Mindy and their daughters better.
And she said with passion and enthusiasm that she knew how much deeper and better and how different her relationship with Gerald had become since 1998: more intimate, more mutual, more respectful. This was a very important achievement for Bonnie that she was most grateful for having these last ten years to savor. She mentioned it so often.
I adore him, in ways that I did not tell him enough or show him earlier in our lives. What if I had died before becoming so much closer to Gerald – my very best friend?
When Linda & I had our talk about her funeral wishes in 2007, Bonnie was very clear about what she wanted. She was worried that someone would get her service wrong! She was firm and clear. It must be a celebration of life including, and in fact particularly, a celebration of this last decade. She picked the songs. “You have to sing or lead ‘Amazing Grace,’ Judy. Val Wise must sing ‘How Great Thou Art.’ It says what I feel.
We read the words of this beloved hymn that expressed her feeling that the Lord had given her so much good that she “scarce could take it in.”
This past Wednesday night, my daughter called me with some urgency. She was very close to Bonnie and Gerald. Eliza called and told me to go be with Bonnie right then. Michelle said come over and in this clear way, I knew from all our previous conversations what I was supposed to say and do. Gerald and Michelle said that while Bonnie was unconscious she could hear us. For some reason she was rigidly hanging on and was not giving up. They knew it was time for her to end her fight.
So, while Gerald and Michelle had a bit to eat after two long days at her bedside, I held her and told her that I thought she was terribly worried and that I knew it was my job to figure out what was worrying her so much that she could not pass on in peace. It seemed then so clear to me what was on her mind and weighing on her. I told her what I thought: you are worried that your grandchildren will not remember who you are and not only that you loved them but that you believed in them. You are worried that only you completely understand your beloved Gerald and love him with all of his unique and wonderful ways. People might not surround him with love if she left him. And then I told her that she could quit worrying because what she feared would not happen. Your friends will do what you want them to do, I promised her. It was such an intimate moment that I would not share this in a public place except that I promised her these things in behalf of all of you here. I told her that together your friends will remind your grandchildren about who you were and how much you believed in them. And Gerald will not be abandoned and we will embrace him as fully as you hope we will, and as we always have. I promised this. We know him as you do and we love him deeply and will continue to love him. Then I said, “Bon, whenever I have promised you something, I have tried to do it exactly as you would have me do it.” The best way I had to pledge this was to sing for her two favorite songs. And so, for another half an hour I sang over and over “Amazing Grace” and “How Great Thou Art.”
After that half an hour, I suppose it was, she relaxed in my arms and began to stop breathing. I sang the same songs again. Soon, I knew she had gone. I sang them again. Then I told Gerald and Michelle that she had gone.
It was my greatest honor to have been with her as she passed on and to have sung to her and committed to her to do what any sister should do. So now, will you help me please, and let us all sing, ‘Amazing Grace’ together and join in this promise to Bonnie.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Deborah Barlow Tribute
I have known Bonnie and Gerald for 30 years. Bonnie and Gerald. Gerald and Bonnie. Those two names have been spoken in tandem in our house so many times that they have become a new word with no spaces in between.
But now we gather because that compound noun is no longer in present tense. We are here to remember and to praise the woman who has been starring in The Bonnie Chronicles, a 10 year running epic tale of a woman who just kept fighting her way past overwhelming medical obstacles and daunting outcomes. Her heroics became so mythic that a lot of us almost believed she would never lose to death.
Like all of us, Bonnie was a person with many dimensions and identities. Each of us today is bearing witness to the Bonnie we knew. I hope the portrait I paint of her rings true for many of you as well.
Bonnie was one of those people who everybody liked. Over the years I have known her, I have never heard anyone say a sour thing about her. She is the universal donor, the one person who could get along with everybody.
But lest you think that means she was just mild mannered and adaptable, I would have to argue emphatically, no. There was nothing doormattish about her. Oh no. Our Bonnie was full of paradoxes and surprises. I call it the Bonnie "and yet" factor.
For example: Bonnie had a softness about her. A calming, peaceful presence that everyone loved. Your edges were smoothed out just to be with her. And yet...she could also be fierce. Tough. Exacting. Like the way she approached her medication regimen. Or the way she made up her mind which, once made, was irrevocable.
She was a consummate listener and right up until the end had a remarkable memory. She could actually recall what you told her the last time you talked. And what's more, she cared. Whenever I was with Bonnie, her interest in me was so genuine that it was easy to believe that I was the most important person in the world. She treated me like I was. And yet...she could do that with every one of her many friends and still not have it come across as insincere or ingratiating because it wasn't insincere or ingratiating. She was genuinely interested in other human beings, of every stripe and size. Even with five children and a burgeoning family of grandchildren, she did not draw a line of demarcation between what is family and what is friends. When you were with Bonnie, you were in her cone of unconditional love for you, with no holding back.
Bonnie could do groups, and do them well. She was a member of the Mormon church. She was part of the team of women who published the journal Exponent II. She was part of the assemblage of people building Jack's Place out in western Vermont. She had her coworkers with Irene at the nursery school. She was part of a group of women friends who gathered together periodically and who, oddly enough, called themselves the Slugs. (I don't know the etymology of that name, but Gerald's guess at its acronymic meaning was memorable: Sexy Ladies Under Great Stress.) And yet...she never over identified with any of those groups. She was inclusive rather than exclusive, never drawing a line that left someone out.
Bonnie was modest and she did not like to draw undue attention to herself. I recently heard a story by way of Andrew Kimball from a few years ago, of her "tumbling from her sled at a church winter outing and gashing her rear end. Someone helping went to find Brother Cornish, a ward member in residency at Mass General, at which news poor Bonnie wept a tear. 'I don't want Devon Cornish to see my bottom.'" So see it he did not.
And yet...there was the famous weekend at Linda Othote's house when a group of us painted our breasts and then pressed them on to paper to make a gallery of breast prints. Bonnie was as winsomely topless and in wild abandon as the rest of us.
Bonnie had an Olympian ability to handle exceptionalism. You know, those extreme, extraordinary, sometimes difficult personalities, the people who come in somewhere way outside the normal distribution curve. Her closest friends included some of the most intellectually gifted, genius-level people I know. And yet... I have also seen her as engaged in meaningful conversation with the hospital phlebotomist or with a fellow cancer patient. She never shunned anyone. Ever. She could enjoy caviar as well as a Fenway frank.
She was a devoted Mormon and loved her religious heritage. And yet... that wasn't the only program she was watching. Her spirituality was ambient and open. She was willing to seek and to find the spirit in all sorts of circumstances--in a stone circle in Ireland where Judy, Sue and I performed a healing ritual for her during her first operation. Thousands of miles away, she saw the circles of light that we sent to her. Or she could find spiritual connection in a painting she loved, or in the meditation tapes she listened to during those painful bouts of chemotherapy. Or in her ancestral homeland of Romania where she traveled with Judy and Linda.
She admired reliability in others and exemplified it in her own life. She knew how to follow instructions and had great respect for protocol. And yet...she was also a rebel. She defied the male leadership of her ward when she and Laurel produced the now legendary Beginner's Boston, a guide book to the city that went on to become a local best seller. One of the last stories she told me a few days ago was about sitting on the back pew during church eating Oreo cookies with Tony Kimball. "I was a kook!" she declared proudly.
And being a "kook" was evidenced by her willingness to climb on board the adventurecraft also known as Gerald Horne. She was there at his side to participate in all of Gerald's improvisational pageants. The Gerald Horne Mystery School if you will. There was that celebration of Judy's 60th birthday, held in the Dushku back yard and carried out with wild pagan dancing, singing and abandon (while surreptitiously being observed by an incredulous Aaron Dushku and his wife Leni from inside the house. I'll never forget their faces which said, "People that old should NOT be having that much fun!")
Then there was the rebirthing ceremony for Cindy Barlow that included, among other things, diving gear for all of us in a local swimming pool, a red carpet walkway made from rose petals, and two doves released at an opportune moment into the wild. Yes, it was a bit awkward when the cops, called by a bewildered neighbor, showed up looking for an explanation.
And then there was the personal ritual to release our dear friend Sue from a painful past so she could begin her new life in Ireland. This performance, probably Gerald's piece de resistance, featured aboriginal costumes, a miniature version of Sue's Lexington house large enough for her to emerge from, a stone altar and a cauldron with fiery flames leaping above us, all of this assembled and conducted in the center of my painting studio in South Boston. These were some of Gerald's finest moments. And Bonnie, self-declared kook that she was, was right there at his side loving every minute of our collective mayhem.
Bonnie was unpretentious. She was a champion for the simple, and she found elegance in what was authentic. And yet... she was also a woman with a finely developed aesthetic sense. She took painting classes and her sense of color was extremely sophisticated. She filled her home with beautiful objects. Her gifts were always a reflection of that heightened visual sense. Her eye was sure and very sharp.
Bonnie respected a person's privacy. She listened rather than probed, and was very good at giving all of her friends the space they needed. And yet...I can't count the times she and Gerald showed up unannounced at our doorstep at the perfect moment, when we desperately needed the comfort of their companionship and love. She trusted her intuition to know when to cross that line.
Bonnie was a beautiful woman, and often on the way to the hospital she would struggle in her handbag to find her lipstick. Looking her best even when she was in excruciating discomfort was second nature to her. And yet...she was not vain. As her body failed her, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and shrugged with disbelief. At some point she accepted that you have to surrender to forces larger than your looks.
She admired efficiency, and until her illness forced her to step out of the logistical management of life, she was a paragon of how to get the job done. Mormonism is full of opportunities to test how quickly a person can pull together a lovely meal for 200, complete with table settings and flower arrangements. Oh, and did I mention, there's no budget for any of it. When I first arrived in Massachusetts from New York, Bonnie was the go-to gal. She was a fabulous cook but we know that quality alone could not carry the day. Her powers of organization, her calm under pressure, her ability to enlist the help of others and her mastery of making silk out of a sow's ear made her the perfect Commander in Chief for Event Planning in the Cambridge Ward.
And yet...she wasn't a tyrant, one of those people whose obsessive need for perfection drives everyone else away. She learned how to live with incompleteness, with less than perfect. This is life, she would tell me. It never ever is the way you want it to be, so accept it. It is over too quickly to miss out enjoying it "as is."
That is the kind of advice I craved from her. She was a few years older than me, so I watched her carefully and wanted to learn how she managed the complexity of her life. And it was complex. The list of learnings from her is a long one, but here are a few that mean the most to me.
• You can have exacting personal standards for yourself, but that doesn't allow you to judge others.
• You can strive for the high bar in your aesthetic and moral sensibilities, but keep the doorway tall and wide for the humans in your life.
• Being powerful does not mean being the noisiest person in the room.
• Your presence is your medicine, your gift to others.
• Listen to the spirit within you.
• Hold others' lives with sacredness and respect.
• Avoid the tendency to speak when you are emotionally overwrought. Err on the side of saying less, not more.
But the most memorable learning from Bonnie was that white hot, nearly blinding tenacity to hold on to life. I've never known anyone who battled with more courage and bravery than she did. She wanted to be here. She wanted another season with her beautiful grandchildren. She wanted to be in the rich, textured complexity of this river flow we call life.
Now that she is gone, we can all carry inside what we loved most about her. For me it is her driving will. When I face difficult challenges, it is Bonnie who I envision next to me. We all need a friend like that. We have that friend in her, and we always will.
But now we gather because that compound noun is no longer in present tense. We are here to remember and to praise the woman who has been starring in The Bonnie Chronicles, a 10 year running epic tale of a woman who just kept fighting her way past overwhelming medical obstacles and daunting outcomes. Her heroics became so mythic that a lot of us almost believed she would never lose to death.
Like all of us, Bonnie was a person with many dimensions and identities. Each of us today is bearing witness to the Bonnie we knew. I hope the portrait I paint of her rings true for many of you as well.
Bonnie was one of those people who everybody liked. Over the years I have known her, I have never heard anyone say a sour thing about her. She is the universal donor, the one person who could get along with everybody.
But lest you think that means she was just mild mannered and adaptable, I would have to argue emphatically, no. There was nothing doormattish about her. Oh no. Our Bonnie was full of paradoxes and surprises. I call it the Bonnie "and yet" factor.
For example: Bonnie had a softness about her. A calming, peaceful presence that everyone loved. Your edges were smoothed out just to be with her. And yet...she could also be fierce. Tough. Exacting. Like the way she approached her medication regimen. Or the way she made up her mind which, once made, was irrevocable.
She was a consummate listener and right up until the end had a remarkable memory. She could actually recall what you told her the last time you talked. And what's more, she cared. Whenever I was with Bonnie, her interest in me was so genuine that it was easy to believe that I was the most important person in the world. She treated me like I was. And yet...she could do that with every one of her many friends and still not have it come across as insincere or ingratiating because it wasn't insincere or ingratiating. She was genuinely interested in other human beings, of every stripe and size. Even with five children and a burgeoning family of grandchildren, she did not draw a line of demarcation between what is family and what is friends. When you were with Bonnie, you were in her cone of unconditional love for you, with no holding back.
Bonnie could do groups, and do them well. She was a member of the Mormon church. She was part of the team of women who published the journal Exponent II. She was part of the assemblage of people building Jack's Place out in western Vermont. She had her coworkers with Irene at the nursery school. She was part of a group of women friends who gathered together periodically and who, oddly enough, called themselves the Slugs. (I don't know the etymology of that name, but Gerald's guess at its acronymic meaning was memorable: Sexy Ladies Under Great Stress.) And yet...she never over identified with any of those groups. She was inclusive rather than exclusive, never drawing a line that left someone out.
Bonnie was modest and she did not like to draw undue attention to herself. I recently heard a story by way of Andrew Kimball from a few years ago, of her "tumbling from her sled at a church winter outing and gashing her rear end. Someone helping went to find Brother Cornish, a ward member in residency at Mass General, at which news poor Bonnie wept a tear. 'I don't want Devon Cornish to see my bottom.'" So see it he did not.
And yet...there was the famous weekend at Linda Othote's house when a group of us painted our breasts and then pressed them on to paper to make a gallery of breast prints. Bonnie was as winsomely topless and in wild abandon as the rest of us.
Bonnie had an Olympian ability to handle exceptionalism. You know, those extreme, extraordinary, sometimes difficult personalities, the people who come in somewhere way outside the normal distribution curve. Her closest friends included some of the most intellectually gifted, genius-level people I know. And yet... I have also seen her as engaged in meaningful conversation with the hospital phlebotomist or with a fellow cancer patient. She never shunned anyone. Ever. She could enjoy caviar as well as a Fenway frank.
She was a devoted Mormon and loved her religious heritage. And yet... that wasn't the only program she was watching. Her spirituality was ambient and open. She was willing to seek and to find the spirit in all sorts of circumstances--in a stone circle in Ireland where Judy, Sue and I performed a healing ritual for her during her first operation. Thousands of miles away, she saw the circles of light that we sent to her. Or she could find spiritual connection in a painting she loved, or in the meditation tapes she listened to during those painful bouts of chemotherapy. Or in her ancestral homeland of Romania where she traveled with Judy and Linda.
She admired reliability in others and exemplified it in her own life. She knew how to follow instructions and had great respect for protocol. And yet...she was also a rebel. She defied the male leadership of her ward when she and Laurel produced the now legendary Beginner's Boston, a guide book to the city that went on to become a local best seller. One of the last stories she told me a few days ago was about sitting on the back pew during church eating Oreo cookies with Tony Kimball. "I was a kook!" she declared proudly.
And being a "kook" was evidenced by her willingness to climb on board the adventurecraft also known as Gerald Horne. She was there at his side to participate in all of Gerald's improvisational pageants. The Gerald Horne Mystery School if you will. There was that celebration of Judy's 60th birthday, held in the Dushku back yard and carried out with wild pagan dancing, singing and abandon (while surreptitiously being observed by an incredulous Aaron Dushku and his wife Leni from inside the house. I'll never forget their faces which said, "People that old should NOT be having that much fun!")
Then there was the rebirthing ceremony for Cindy Barlow that included, among other things, diving gear for all of us in a local swimming pool, a red carpet walkway made from rose petals, and two doves released at an opportune moment into the wild. Yes, it was a bit awkward when the cops, called by a bewildered neighbor, showed up looking for an explanation.
And then there was the personal ritual to release our dear friend Sue from a painful past so she could begin her new life in Ireland. This performance, probably Gerald's piece de resistance, featured aboriginal costumes, a miniature version of Sue's Lexington house large enough for her to emerge from, a stone altar and a cauldron with fiery flames leaping above us, all of this assembled and conducted in the center of my painting studio in South Boston. These were some of Gerald's finest moments. And Bonnie, self-declared kook that she was, was right there at his side loving every minute of our collective mayhem.
Bonnie was unpretentious. She was a champion for the simple, and she found elegance in what was authentic. And yet... she was also a woman with a finely developed aesthetic sense. She took painting classes and her sense of color was extremely sophisticated. She filled her home with beautiful objects. Her gifts were always a reflection of that heightened visual sense. Her eye was sure and very sharp.
Bonnie respected a person's privacy. She listened rather than probed, and was very good at giving all of her friends the space they needed. And yet...I can't count the times she and Gerald showed up unannounced at our doorstep at the perfect moment, when we desperately needed the comfort of their companionship and love. She trusted her intuition to know when to cross that line.
Bonnie was a beautiful woman, and often on the way to the hospital she would struggle in her handbag to find her lipstick. Looking her best even when she was in excruciating discomfort was second nature to her. And yet...she was not vain. As her body failed her, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and shrugged with disbelief. At some point she accepted that you have to surrender to forces larger than your looks.
She admired efficiency, and until her illness forced her to step out of the logistical management of life, she was a paragon of how to get the job done. Mormonism is full of opportunities to test how quickly a person can pull together a lovely meal for 200, complete with table settings and flower arrangements. Oh, and did I mention, there's no budget for any of it. When I first arrived in Massachusetts from New York, Bonnie was the go-to gal. She was a fabulous cook but we know that quality alone could not carry the day. Her powers of organization, her calm under pressure, her ability to enlist the help of others and her mastery of making silk out of a sow's ear made her the perfect Commander in Chief for Event Planning in the Cambridge Ward.
And yet...she wasn't a tyrant, one of those people whose obsessive need for perfection drives everyone else away. She learned how to live with incompleteness, with less than perfect. This is life, she would tell me. It never ever is the way you want it to be, so accept it. It is over too quickly to miss out enjoying it "as is."
That is the kind of advice I craved from her. She was a few years older than me, so I watched her carefully and wanted to learn how she managed the complexity of her life. And it was complex. The list of learnings from her is a long one, but here are a few that mean the most to me.
• You can have exacting personal standards for yourself, but that doesn't allow you to judge others.
• You can strive for the high bar in your aesthetic and moral sensibilities, but keep the doorway tall and wide for the humans in your life.
• Being powerful does not mean being the noisiest person in the room.
• Your presence is your medicine, your gift to others.
• Listen to the spirit within you.
• Hold others' lives with sacredness and respect.
• Avoid the tendency to speak when you are emotionally overwrought. Err on the side of saying less, not more.
But the most memorable learning from Bonnie was that white hot, nearly blinding tenacity to hold on to life. I've never known anyone who battled with more courage and bravery than she did. She wanted to be here. She wanted another season with her beautiful grandchildren. She wanted to be in the rich, textured complexity of this river flow we call life.
Now that she is gone, we can all carry inside what we loved most about her. For me it is her driving will. When I face difficult challenges, it is Bonnie who I envision next to me. We all need a friend like that. We have that friend in her, and we always will.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Laurel Ulrich Tribute
">Bonnie didn’t want a funeral. She wanted a celebration. So that is what we are going to have today, even though it is hard not to shed a few tears. I am going to celebrate Bonnie’s life with her own words. A few weeks ago I spent a wonderful day listening to her tell stories she wanted to share with her children and grandchildren. Some of what I am going to tell you today comes from that interview. The rest comes from an interview Clayton Christenson did with her in July 1999.
Bonnie knew I was coming with a recorder, and she knew exactly what she wanted to say. Here is how she began: “We are going to talk about the life of Bonnie and Gerald Horne. They were married in June 1959 on a sunny day in
I think it is significant that she started her life story with her marriage. For most of us here it is hard to imagine Bonnie without Gerry. They were—and are—a team.
Bonnie’s stories about her early marriage and the years she and Gerry spent raising their five children are filled with funny stories about would-be disasters that turned out to be a lot more fun in memory than they probably were when they happened. She told me about their romantic honeymoon at Lake Tahoe when she broke out with the measles, and about the summer they spent in a “sweet little cottage” in Salt Lake City where she nearly starved Gerry by serving him beautiful salads, and not much else, for dinner. Finally he said he wanted something more—maybe meat and potatoes along with the salad. At the end of the summer, they headed for
Here is how she remembered that transition:
“That summer he had a job selling encyclopedias down in southern Utah, so I really didn’t see very much of him, so when we left for New York I was looking for new and exciting things to happen, and when we got to New York—we had packed our car tight, and had a little apartment that Gerald had already found for us, or that Jack had found. When we got there in the evening , we decided not to unpack our car. But in the morning when we went down to unpack our car, somebody had already unpacked our car for us, an everything--every single thing-- had been taken from us. So…we didn’t have anything left. So we had to do a little bit of shopping. It was kind of sad because it was a lot of our wedding gifts and a lot of our clothing. We had a cute little apt, a one bedroom, with a tiny, tiny kitchen. It was a half a block away from Central Park, big windows that we could open and look out on below, and if we stuck our heads way out the window we could see
With her marriage Bonnie had changed her name from Pentelute to Horne. With the move to
So in marrying Gerry, she lost her surname but recovered her given name. More dramatic changes followed:
In
Bonnie Michelle was born on Gerald’s graduation day. “Gerald’s parents came back and my mother came back. My mother came back to take care of me, and Gerald’s parents came for the graduation. Early that morning, the pains started coming, and I said ‘I’m going to Gerald’s graduation.’ Gerald said he thought not. I said, ‘I think I’m going.”’But as the pains got worse, he said he was taking me to hospital, and I agreed. He left my mother with me, and he took his parents on to graduation Cute Michelle was born, and when he got back from graduation, there she was. The nurses had curled her hair and put a pink bow in. (
That fall the Hornes moved to
“I can just remember the Franklins, the Ulrichs, Zabriskies—I’m trying to think who else was in that group of children that ran wild! Going to Bernardston and gathering and the kids running through the woods and having a good time, blocking off the stream, building damns, painting the house. I think some of the kids enjoyed that—some did, some didn’t. But for the most part, I think most of the kids enjoyed that. Going over to the old covered bridge. Oh, the Kohlers, the Kohlers! Susan and Brian. Kind of the sixties attitude. . . . Nobody wants to mention those days. The long hair, the braided hair. . . . [
And, of course, many of those good times also involved construction work—times when the men pitched in to demolish a wall, lay a floor, renovate a bathroom, build a house, while the kids hauled brush, carried boards, scrubbed walls—or ran wild. In 1999, Bonnie told Clayton Christensen that her children sometimes “complain now that we worked them to death. We had them do a lot of work around the house. It [was like having] a lot of children on the farm. We had the big yard that had to be taken care of. You just had to get so many hours of working around the house, and then I said I’ll give so many hours to you in playing, which we did. I always felt that they had to be very responsible. They’re all good workers to this day. They do know how to work, which I would say a lot of their friends don’t know how to.”
The work parties extended beyond the family to the Church. Lots of you have heard about Beginner’s Boston, the guidebook that the Cambridge Ward Relief Society published in the 1960s. There are many versions of how that happened, but I’m here to tell you that it happened on Bonnie’s watch. She was the Relief Society President who spearheaded that project. One of her most important contributions was pulling Gerry into the project as Art Director and Lay-out Manager. So men were involved, too. But the women were in charge, and that was important. We sent the first edition off the printer and before we got the books, they sent us a preview copy. Bonnie looked at it and said, “We’re taking this to the Globe.” I said, “What? Do you really think they would be interested.” She said, “Yes, I’m going to call up and make an appointment and we’re going to take it in to show them.” So she and I went to see then-columnist Diane White who wrote a rave review. We sold our first 1000 copies before they had arrived from the printer. I think that in successive editions, we published about 20,000 more.
As Bonnie recalled, “The friendships that you started to make through doing these projects together have been friendships that have lasted up until now. It has amazed me that my very, very good friends come from the Church and come from this period of time that started with Beginner’s Boston.”
But it wasn’t just the famous projects that built those friendships. It was all the little things people did together. Bonnie remembered “doing some fairly silly things such as seeing Gretha Petersen, Betty Mandarino, and I out being cheerleaders for our children’s basketball teams.” When Bonnie was part of the group, everybody felt important and everybody had fun!
[I didn’t take time to read this part, but thought I would add it here, from Clayton’s interview, Bonnie’s comment on Girls’ Camp: “I cooked most of the time that my girls went to girls camp. I was in the kitchen. I loved that. I loved girls camp. It was choice. Then Irene and I were co-directors for a couple of years. They like that support from one another. That’s how I see it. Plus, it isn’t all geared toward earning merit badges or whatever. You get a variety of things going. And the food is great. It really is. Let’s face it, they like to eat, and so do the counselors. That was a positive thing about girls camp. I think the people that went really, at least during the time I was there, enjoyed it. It wasn’t something they dreaded doing. They liked it.”]
And of course, there were the famous clambakes! Here is Bonnie’s account of one of those almost disasters that have provided so much amusement in retrospect: “We were talking about the clambake. It was very different from what the clambake is now. In fact, Judy Dushku was telling a story the other night of us following Gerald in a truck that he bought for a dollar. He had retread tires on it. It was loaded with the food. The tables, grates, and cinderblocks were going down to
Here is Bonnie’s seemingly paradoxical comment about those years: “I remember those as very good times. It was a very spiritual time.” A very good time. A spiritual time. That is a comment worth contemplating.
A few months ago, Bonnie was talking to me about how her illness had deepened her spirituality and her love for the scriptures. She said, “I was always active in the Church, but I don’t think I really got it. I was there for the social life.” I have no doubt but what her approach to religion changed over the years, but in my view her ability to invest in people—what she called “social life”—was to the end the core of her spirituality. And among spiritual gifts, isn’t love the greatest?
I am grateful that my life was touched by the love that Bonnie gave so freely to us all.
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