Somehow I got to hear Bev’s voice again today..

SGHolland 2018

This remarkable person was a close friend starting during college. Bev and I were in the same class at Tyler School of Fine Art (Elkins Park Campus- Temple University). We spent some very memorable years rooming in the attic of an old Elkins Park mansion — complete with garrets, as aspiring artists should, and makeshift kitchen that connected up with the wonderful bathroom with clawfoot tub that could be enjoyed for a good soak with the windows wide open to the sounds of the school playground.

We had a third roommate, Jenny, who was coming off a divorce and working in Philadelphia. (She was like Tinker Bell — another story.)

Beverly never aged. The first time I saw her, she looked very much as she did the last time I saw her. I think she looked quite different the last time I talked to her on the phone. Her husband had dialed and said “Hi, Sue. Bev wants to talk to you.”

Bev tried, but she dropped the phone and I heard her say, “Mike, I can’t do this.”
And I never heard from her again. She had been battling cancer for a very long time, suffering a lot of pain with it all.

I had a strong sense that it was not for not wanting to talk to me — it was because she was not wanting to say goodbye. We never did sugar-coat our discussions. What I found in Beverly’s friendship was a huge amount of authenticity. And wisdom. She was born wise, I think. And she knew me well and how much I loved her. Mike never returned my letters after that. He disappeared!

This woman from Passaic, NJ brought to me in living color the essence of her fascinating upbringing in a big Jewish family who were strong and happy! Aunt Selma raised her; her parents had died.

In their heartily participating family — everyone was important. I got to know her relatives by the stories she told. Aunt Selma’s “Headlights”: the jewels she hocked to get through the depression, and later bought back. Beverly’s brother Phil’s deep knowledge and love of classical music including composers I had never heard of. I learned how to love composers I had never heard before: Mussorgsky and Bartok and Shostakovitch, and so many other geniuses through her record collection and rich background knowledge. I never stopped loving the music she brought to me. The flavor of Russian roots and the Jewish migration to America became alive and real.

Beverly had insulin dependent diabetes. (like my own father.) And she must have been full of vitamin B — she always had a vitamin-y fragrance about her. And she would rub her knees as she spoke, in pure enjoyment of the words and the excitement of whatever subject she was sharing. Her serene face and sparkling eyes could have been the countenance of any natural story teller. The way her voice would rise up until it disappeared and come back down in a chuckle or a laugh. She had a wicked smile and a delight in the ironic details of her stories and recollections. I learned to love Russian literature because of her.

She took care of her diabetic needs nearly invisibly — and she watched her diet without making a fuss about it. I forget how much of the cooking she did for us three in our makeshift kitchen. I think the meals were not remarkable — just sufficient.

Over the years after graduation we kept in touch and arranged visits to catch up on each other as we married and went our ways. It was always just the same when we got together. A crescendo of truth telling and laughing at the ups and downs of raising children and dealing with life. It was as if we never stopped being close, even though she was in the mid-west US by then, and I in the northeast US.

The house she and Mike built in Peoria was like nothing I had seen before. It was like a theater! Huge rooms with space to move around and entertain. Art on the walls everywhere. She never stopped making her big, bold semi-abstract designs. She had so much to teach me about the current trends in “modern art” — trends not yet well integrated into our studies at college, which taught a truly classic curriculum of fine art history and techniques. To visit her in her home was to embark on an adventure! All the rooms were places of creative activity. Mike and Bev built up and managed Tepper’s Pharmacy for years. It was a grand success with all kinds of unusual gift items (Bev’s part) along with the usual drug store supplies.

She was someone with a somehow built-in positive outlook on things. She believed that what one believed would happen, would happen. She came to visit me in Issaquah Washington one year with Mike. It was so easy and wonderful to be with her. We laughed and compared photos, and reminisced, and got stories straight from the past.

Later we would talk maybe once a year “long distance”. And send letters with photos through the mail.

Bev was someone sent to me to keep my head screwed on, I believe. She was like the wisest sort of counselor who could listen and wonder along with me about my struggles and puzzlements. She would say,”Oh, yes…that could certainly be a problem, Susan. But it will probably work out, and maybe pretty soon, I think.” And then she would tell a family story, or relate a funny incident that was appropriate. Or some adage Aunt Selma would “always say.”

Today I was just sitting at the desk playing computer solitaire while thinking of I don’t know what…and whoosh!…I had this very strong wish to be with Beverly. I wanted her warmth and her acceptance and her sense of humor. And you know, I could hear her voice. In my head. Like music. And feel her energy, like a hug. And could feel that she loved and valued me back. She was expecting the best to happen next.

What a treasure was Beverly. What a treasure she still is!!

It is so good that she can still share herself through the shimmering ether, no matter that she has been away these eight years.

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