The polka-dot scarf

Posted 8/21/12

Among the many things that remind me of Vera B. Williams is a polka-dot scarf. Light enough to wear in summer, bright blue with orangey-red polka-dots, it sits folded on a shelf at eye level in my …

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The polka-dot scarf

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Among the many things that remind me of Vera B. Williams is a polka-dot scarf. Light enough to wear in summer, bright blue with orangey-red polka-dots, it sits folded on a shelf at eye level in my closet. When I think of wearing it now, it seems too cheerful, and I pick a gauzy gray one instead. The polka-dots could be the pattern in one of Vera’s books, framing a child and her mother in a slightly disheveled but cozy living-room.

We were walking in the West Village one day in early spring and the wind had a kick of winter chill left. Vera and I popped into a favorite boutique on Bleecker Street, where I picked out some earrings to wear to an upcoming wedding. The scarf was an afterthought, but it would keep the chill from my neck. Vera told the clerk to put the scarf on her bill, and gifted it to me. I knew then that I would always think of her when I saw it. Maybe she knew it too. Although she was still healthy, she was already in her 80s.

On the basis of years we were oddly matched, but in every other way we seemed like life-long friends. I think all of her friends must feel that way, and there were many of us. We shared an appreciation of children and writing, of good whiskey and well-made food, the river that ran by both our houses, the little town of Narrowsburg and the island of Manhattan.

Before I knew her, I knew her books. For many summers, my children and I would sit on the floor of our slightly disheveled summer bungalow, wrapped in brightly colored comforters against the mountains’ morning chill, reading “Three Days on a River in a Red Canoe,” imagining ourselves on such a journey. The book was an inspiration for our one and only camping trip to the banks of the Willowemoc. We were better suited to our summer bungalow with its indoor plumbing. I remember thinking what an interesting and courageous woman this Vera B. Williams must be, to have spent three days on a river with children.

When my family upgraded to a year-round house in Narrowsburg, we discovered that she was our neighbor. When we eventually met, she accepted my reverence for her with grace. Soon, reverence eased into friendship.

I loved the way she accepted the limitations of aging without giving up any of the joy of living. When she decided it was time to refrain from driving, she accepted the help of her wide network of friends for trips to and from her Greenwich Village apartment. We were always happy to have her. She was always engaging and her subject matter ranged from the global to the intimate, according to her company. With Vera next to you, a three-hour trip could seem like a grocery store jaunt.

Vera enjoyed her measure of fame. And by that, I mean she really enjoyed it. It suited her. She could hold forth in a crowd of literary folk, but that was not her only persona. She could be emotionally bare with her closest friends, even recognizing her own unpleasant aspects, which only deepened those relationships.

The week she died, she had tried to call me. When I was told that, I felt awful that she couldn’t reach me. Then I thought, what a gift it was that she thought of me. What a gift. What a friend.

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