Mary

There's a moving truck in the middle of Abbey Place right now. As I write I am listening to the sounds of furniture being lifted and shifted, of boxes being slid along the aluminum floor of the U-Haul. And no, Angela and I are not moving. But Mary is.

Mary has lived on Abbey Place longer than I've been alive. She's lived in the duplex she bought for herself, after what had been and continues to be a truly been an amazing life, over forty years ago. I know because I've spent the last three years helping to edit her autobiography. She's almost ninety years old and what she's experienced, what she's endured, it truly astounds me. But that is her story to tell, and hopefully one day soon you'll be able to read it for yourself. I'll be promoting the publication of her book, not to worry.

But today Mary is leaving us. She's in her late eighties and two years ago she thought it might be time to sell her house so no one would have to deal with it later on. So pragmatic, our Mary. She remodeled and then sold and was able to stay in the house for almost a year after the sale. But today it's time to go.

She's just moving to Santa Monica. To the beach. To an apartment with a swimming pool (she says she might venture in even though she never learned to swim back in West Virginia). To be closer to Santa Monica Community College because she loves taking classes. To be in better proximity to her sister who lives south of us. To be in a smaller, more manageable space.

Yesterday she came over and brought flowers. We gave her a copy of a photo we'd taken a few weeks back, of her and Betty. We chattered about the week and school and politics and the weather. Normal stuff. But we all knew that this would be the last time she'd just pop by. Or call and ask a favor, usually having to do with her computer, that would just take a second...

Yesterday morning early, as I laid in bed reading, I heard a rustling at the front door that has become familiar on Sundays. After a few moments I went out and checked, and yes, there was a Noah's bag hanging from the doorknob. See most Sunday mornings Mary drives our next door neighbors Bill and Betty to the farmer's market in the Larchmont neighborhood and they return with two blueberry bagels that they hang on the door for us. This has been going on for years now. It's always such a welcome treat and such a familiar gesture that it's just become a part of our month when it happens. And yet, yesterday that came to an end too. There may be Sundays when we give the neighbors a ride the mile over to the market but it just won't be the same, for them or for us. Those bagels were extra sweet yesterday.

Betty, Angela & Mary

This morning as I was arriving home after my walk, Betty and Bill stopped me on the corner of our street as they headed out on their walk. Betty commented that it was a sad day. I agreed and we stood there quietly for a moment. Then we talked about how it's obviously best for Mary. And how Angela and I will drive them over to have lunch with her in Santa Monica one day soon. And we hope Mary will still visit Abbey Place from time to time. But it will never be exactly how it has been.

For eight years I've noted that her powder blue car is in the driveway at night to make sure she's gotten home safely before dark. I've listened for the sound of her backing up, slowly, and deliberately, and have known she's off to volunteer or take a writing class or see a movie or attend the symphony. Mary's social calendar rivals most in this city. We've watched her house when she's been away and she's kept an eye on ours. We've celebrated holidays and worked to keep our neighborhood safer and just enjoyed being near one another, in community with one another.

Mary leaves us but this isn't goodbye. Last summer when I spent time helping with a rather unruly internet issue I had to phone several companies for her. Eventually I just started telling them that I was her granddaughtter to simplify matters and when I hung up from one lengthy call Mary said she liked the sounds of that, me being her granddaughter. I told her I needed another grandmother as well. At Christmas her card was slipped in our mailbox and addressed to "my two granddaughters".

Some days Los Angeles still feels like a foreign land. One I have not yet figured out and doubt I ever will. But some days, like yesterday, make Los Angeles seem just a little more like home. And it's because of the people. It's because of the people like Mary.

Abbey Place will miss her. We all will. But now we all have a reason to walk along the ocean, together.