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Bob’s Tribute to Barb
May 13, 2007
Barbara, or Barb as I called her, was like her favorite flower, the daisy: petite and unassuming; colorful, sunny and sun-seeking. Simple, but not simplistic. Alluring at the center, but ultimately, inaccessible. A starburst of delicate petals. She brightened my day without my even knowing it.
She was born Barbara Jean Cavett in July of 1943 in Rockford, Illinois. Her father, mother, and sister Ginger (or Virginia)—all of whom preceded her in death—called her Barbie, and sometimes her mother—when she got confused—just called for Ginger-Barbie and waited to see who showed up. Barbie didn’t work for me as a name because it didn’t fit with the essence that was at her center, so I left it to her family.
Barb liked simple things, like a cup of coffee on the deck in the morning, and she didn’t like to draw attention to herself. If she were here now, she would be sitting between Amy and Ali, holding their hands, rolling her eyes, and thinking, “Oh, brother. What is he up to now?” She was steady and even and had an emotional equanimity that she inherited from her father, mother and sister that protected her through many a crisis, including her cancer.
Other than her cancer, I was her challenge—she never knew what I was going to bring home. Another incomprehensible book on the physics of the universe; still another jazz cd; a buzz haircut; multiple scrapes and abrasions from a climbing trip, a six dollar container of organic blueberries—it was always something. To all of this she would just say “Robert” in a mildly scolding tone, shake her head, and let me continue with my silly ways.
She loved to shop. A good day for her was a new pair of shoes in the closet. Once I bought her a pair of Rocket Dogs for Christmas and she summarily returned them for something different despite Ali’s campaign to snag them for herself. I had better luck last Christmas—she liked the shoes I bought her and often wore them to chemo treatments. I liked to shop with her and watch her try on clothes and pick out something she liked. She and my sister had a contest to see who could score the most at Talbot’s in a given year, and Barb always won. She even received yearly Thank Yous from the president of Talbots that left my sister incredulous.
She didn’t like gurgling things like decorative water fountains, or humming things like fans, but she liked streams and brooks and she loved the ocean. She hated windy roads because they made her sick. On our first trip to Maui in 1986 we drove right past the red warning sign on the rental car map that said Warning: do not drive beyond this point because I refused to take her back along the road to Hana.
For Barb, moderation and simplicity were just good common sense rather than a philosophical precept, like they are for me. A cheeseburger, coke, and fries would do. At the movies, she liked a medium coke and a medium bag of popcorn. She could be tempted, though, if Cindy showed up with a box of ribs from Chili’s or Brian proposed a nice Texas steak.
She gave me permission to be who I am: to go on climbing trips, mountain biking trips, and back country ski outings though these things scared her. But she was always with me. My friends knew this—they knew that if they invited me along to Monarch, Moab, or Yosemite, that Barb came too. I was always ready to give up a fresh field of powder, an unridden mountain bike trail, or an unclimbed crack to head for home and be back with her. The summer she was diagnosed with cancer she accompanied me to Yosemite and she slept in a tent for a week. She ate camp food from camp bowls and brushed her teeth and combed her hair in a campground restroom. But we hiked to Vernal Falls, and walked the shore trail of Hetch-Hetchy Reservoir where we soaked our feet in the emerald pools of a waterfall. We ate pizza in Curry Village, drove to the top of Glacier Point and watched from El Cap Meadows for 2 ½ days while our friends Kerry and Monte climbed the Nose.
I only climbed three pitches on that trip, but it was the best climbing trip I ever took because I had her with me.
She had a deviously wicked sense of humor that she loved to wield at unsuspecting moments, and all of us—Amy, Ali, Cindy, and Brian—have felt its zing. I fell head over heels for her immediately in 1969, but it took her over a year and a long separation to come around. Only after we had been married several years did I learn that she was in a serious relationship when we met with a captain at the Air Force Academy, a Frenchman named Pierre. I asked her if she ever wondered about him, and she quipped, “Only why he doesn’t call.”
Her emotional equanimity could be baffling, and provided a challenge for me and Amy. There were emotions at her core that were unreachable. Ali got closest, but when Barb closed the door, no one got in. It took me a long, long time to realize that her love was deep, profound, unequivocal, and all-embracing. She knew these words, but she didn’t know how to use them to describe her emotions. Like the daisy, she was silent. Only her tears betrayed what lay beneath.
Last Sunday, Mother’s Day, I hiked the Incline, and for the first time in 36 years, she was not waiting for me when I returned home. Barb never did the Incline. She had no interest. When I did it the week before Alison’s wedding and sprained my ankle, she was not happy. But she was with me all the way this time as I huffed and puffed my way up and composed this tribute. When I reached the top, I checked my watch like I always do and was pleasantly surprised with my time, given the circumstances. I moseyed over to my favorite boulder, made a few climbing moves to the top, and there she was, sitting in the sunshine.
She was wearing a yellow tank top and her skin was shiny and firm and supple. There was no lymphedema to swell her left arm. Her hair was grown out in that medium length she liked with subtle highlights. She had on a white sun visor, tan shorts, and a pair of new, expensive, high-end trail shoes that particularly caught my eye. Her legs looked great. She always had great legs. She looked at me and smiled that bemused, impish smile she had, and said, “What took you so long?”
She died on May 11th, in the sunshine of her bedroom with her family gathered around her, and as was her style, she went quietly and gracefully. She was only 63. As Shakespeare said, “Death doth lie upon her like an untimely frost upon the fairest flower of all the field.”
Rest in peace my daisy.
Bob
(2009 - 2 1/2 years has reduced my grief but not eliminated it. It's always there and occasionally something summons it to the surface. Otherwise, it just resides in a private place and I go about my business. 4 days after Barb died, I bought an anniversary card (our anniversary is May 15th and she died on the 11th) and wrote in it " 'Til death do us part' does not hold' my love and honor continue." Nothing about that sentiment has changed. )
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