We signed the papers for "the old Crawley house" in 1994 on St. Patrick's day. We moved in a few days later.
"Be sure to wear green," Roy said, so we did. Roy grew up in this house built by his parents. Later, he and his wife Carol and five children moved in with his mom for a few years before they moved next door.
The day we moved in, Carol showed up with a large sheet cake that said "Welcome to Linger Longer." That's the name of the place, and Carol knew it well. She cooked in that tiny kitchen, started raising her kids here, and lived with her mother-in-law in the sprawling two-story house. I heard stories about those days, and admired her for her tenacity and respect for her husband's mother.
Carol knew the Slabach family, but she didn't really know me. She was secretary at Cluster Springs Elementary, where our kids attended. I felt safe knowing Carol was there; she'd look out for my kids and let me know if anything was awry.
Carol was my neighbor for 32 years. In that time, we became friends. Years ago, Carol baked and decorated cakes - for her pleasure and to sell. Our kids loved when she baked a cake and had a flop or when she had leftover from an animal she cut out of a sheet cake. She'd call the house and tell me to send a kid down. They came back with a large zip-lock bag. All the kids gathered around and consumed the remnants.
One day she called and told me she had a flop. Ben, who'd just gotten his driver's license, hopped in a car to drive to her place. Tim took off running, and Jason hightailed it on his bicycle. Each boy hoped to get there first, because whoever got there first, got to eat the most cake.
Roy and Carol have five children. For a time, their youngest lived the closest, in northern Virginia. Another daughter was in Washington state. She had a daughter in Switzerland, one in Japan, and a son in Hawaii. During that time, we had three foster boys who were typical boys. One summer day, two of them were particularly grumpy. It's true that life had dealt them an unfair blow and I recognized that.
That day, exasperated, I told him, "You need to go visit Roy and Carol. They're living down there and none of their kids live close to them. They are both retired and they could use some boys to come visit them and cheer them up. Roy has cancer and doesn't feel well. Why don't you hit the path to their house and see if you can cheer up their day?"
They hit the trail, walked onto the porch and knocked on the door.
When Roy opened the door, the eight-year-old said, "Are you the lonely, grumpy old man who needs a boy to come cheer him up?"
Roy and Carol had met our boys a few weeks earlier, and invited them in. Carol gave them treats from her stash. The boys kept returning to "cheer up Roy and Carol" - but I think it was more for the treats they received and the love they got. It wasn't until weeks later that Carol told me about the two boys who came to "cheer up the grumpy old man." I was mortified, but they thought it was funny.
When we had "deck parties" at our house, Carol came with not one or two dishes, but five. Never mind that we told her to choose one item; she always came loaded. Everyone loved Carol's cooking.
When Roy passed away in 2013, Carol's life changed. She didn't sit idle. Instead, she volunteered her time in many places. She helped write letters and cards at a monthly event at a local church. She sewed for others and started a weekly quilting group she called "Scrappers". Many of the ladies didn't know how to sew. Yet, they cut patches, matched pieces for quilts, and ironed seams. Carol organized and put the tops together. She donated the finished items to the hospital, hospice, veterans, folks who had a baby, surgery, or cancer. I have one of those quilts, given to me after my mastectomies three years ago. I think of Carol every time I use it in my recliner. When our church started hosting Blood Drives with the American Red Cross, she donated a quilt for door prizes. At our last blood drive this month, there was no quilt from Carol.
Several times she helped me fix meals for Young Life. She went along to serve food and meet the young folks in Young Life. Other times she offered her help when she knew I was fixing food for a family or an event. "Do you need dinner rolls, a vegetable, or a dessert?" she'd ask, and make whatever I needed.
At Christmas, she brought a plate of cookies and candies she'd made. In the summer, she shared extra produce given to her from her friends and neighbors.
"Goodness, no way can I eat all this," she'd say, giving me over half the items in a box. It was her way of helping feed our foster kids.
Carol kept an eye on our place. Once, years ago, she slipped up to my house to turn off my pressure canner because I remembered I'd forgotten to do it before I left the house.
Other times, she called to let us know our cows were out (again). It never bothered her that they left evidence in her yard and driveway. She usually sat on her front porch and waited until Dave got there to round them up. She couldn't do anything to help, but she kept her eyes on the cows so she could tell him which direction they'd gone.
We borrowed items from each other's pantries. I borrowed more than she did, but loved when she'd call and ask me for something. I always said I didn't need more than one crockpot when I had Carol's kitchen next door. I knew which cabinet her crock pots were in, and sometimes I helped myself when she was out of town (with her permission, of course).
Last December, I decided to mix up something late in the evening. I needed 1/2 cup of brown sugar, and I was out. It took me a while to convince myself it was okay to call Carol one more time. I knew those days would soon be over, and it seemed unfair to impose on her.
Yet, I also knew Carol, and I knew she'd love feeling needed. I called. Her daughter told me to send Dave on down. Later she told me how my call made her mom's day. I knew it would. Folks who are dying still need to be needed.
Her monthly visits to my house to get her B12 injection ended in hour-long visits. When I ran to her house to borrow something, it always took me a lot longer to get back.
"Pull up a chair," she'd say. And we'd visit for an hour or more.
She heard secrets and heartaches others knew nothing about, and I knew some of hers. One of her shortest and greatest pieces of advice was, "Give it time."
I told her about grandbabies who were "in the oven" before I was allowed to tell. Carol was a graveyard. She buried things she knew and never put up a stone. I trusted her with anything I told her. She trusted me as well.
When Carol was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer last summer, I knew my world was going to change. I didn't realize how much. We talked about her diagnosis, her prognosis, and what she still wanted to do. It's a journey for which she had a lot of support, but it was still her journey.
When two of my sisters were diagnosed with cancer shortly after her, she was more concerned about them (and me) than herself. Every time I came home from Maryland and dropped in to check on her, she always asked about them first before she mentioned herself. How were my sisters doing? How as chemo going? What all did we do while I was in Maryland?
Carol was a private person. She was also stubborn. She didn't need anyone checking up on her, she thought. She'd call if she needed someone, she said. In the past, she dealt with pulmonary hypertension and heart issues. Her family, neighbors, and friends had a right to be concerned about her when she didn't pick up her phone. Early on, it was not uncommon for one of her kids or church members to call and ask me to check on her. They'd called and called with no answer. One neighbor knocked on her door and didn't get a response, so she called me.
I'd slip down, unlock the door and walk in, calling her name so she knew it was me. Usually, she'd left her phone in the other room, or had the radio or TV going and didn't hear it. Sometimes she was just charging it.
"I don't need that thing stuck to me," she'd say. It wasn't until much later that she finally acquiesced to keeping her phone at her side.
Carol also didn't think her grown, adult kids in other states needed to know if she made a trip to the ER. "I'll call them when I know something," she told me emphatically.
One afternoon I sat in the ER with her and picked up my phone to text Dave to tell him why I wasn't home.
"Are you texting my kids?!" she asked, upset.
"No," I replied. "I'm texting Dave to let him know why I won't be home when he gets there. It's a shame he knows where you are and your kids don't. You really need to tell them."
"I'll call them when I know something," she said. "Kara is closing on a house today and I'm not bothering her with this now, especially if I'm going home soon."
It was a catch-22. It was her call, but she was their mom. I was the neighbor who knew, but wasn't supposed to tell.
Another time I didn't notify her kids and waited for her to call them. When they found out I'd transported her to the ER and not told them, I was (rightfully) chided. Oh, I begged her to call them or let me. "No," she said emphatically. "It can wait until we know something."
"I've got a choice," I told her offspring. "I can either have you or Carol mad at me. She's my neighbor, and I might need to borrow sugar from her again one day."
After that, I found ways to let them know without "telling them". I could truthfully answer "No" when she asked if I'd called her kids. I just helped them find out on their own.
One late Saturday evening I felt an urge to check on Carol. "I think I should call Carol," I told Dave. "I can't stop thinking about her."
"You think she's even up?" he asked, eyeing the hands on the clock that said 11 PM.
"She'll be up," I answered.
I could tell when she answered the phone that she wasn't well. We took her to the ER that night during COVID. Carol sat in front with Dave and I was behind her. She couldn't see me pick up my phone and text her kid that she'd already told me not to call.
"I've asked and I'm not allowed to call you; but you might want to call your mom in a bit." I was so upset I couldn't stay with her, but the hospital had its policy. After four hours, she called and we went back and picked her up.
Another time Carol asked me to come check her blood pressure. I knew if she called, she was not well. Dave and I slipped down to her house.
After checking her vitals, I told her, "You need to go to the hospital."
"Oh, I'll be alright," she said, but didn't sound as stubborn as usual. "I'll just sit here and rest a while."
"You're going to the hospital," I said. "Do you want me to call the rescue squad or do you want us to take you?" I asked.
She chose us, as I knew she would.
It's true that we looked after Carol as our friend and neighbor. Yet, she gave so much more. When I needed something mended, I stopped in to see Carol. Her sewing machine was already set up and it took her minutes to do what would take me half an hour. She altered numerous bridesmaids dresses for our daughter, repaired a crocheted afghan for another child, and helped me make decisions about situations in our lives. She listened with a mother's heart.
Carol embodied hospitality. Many times at family events there were stragglers who weren't "family". Carol knew her neighbors and church folks and made sure folks had a place to be on holidays so they would not be alone. Her grandkids brought cousins from the other side when they visited. Carol loved kids, and all were welcome.
My grandkids were special to her. She wanted to hear about my kids and their children. When they came home to visit, she enjoyed visits from them and their offspring. To hear her talk about my grandkids to others, you'd have thought they belonged to her. In a way, they did. We owe her so much.
Our older grandkids loved riding the lawn-mower-driven train down to her place where she sat on her front porch, ready with snacks. They think that's a part of cousin camp. This year, Carol won't be waiting on the porch, and we will all be sad.
There are so many times in the month since she's gone that I've wanted to call Carol to give her news or let her know how a project went for me. I've wished to call for recipe advice, and a few times, I remembered how easy it used to be to borrow a cup of sugar from a neighbor. There are days when I'm coming home from town and I almost slow down to drive in her lane to check on her, and then remember she's not there.
Over the past months, I got used to seeing other vehicles go in and out her lane. Her kids changed schedules and set aside time to stay with her (much to her chagrin). Most of them now live closer than they did when I sent my foster boys to visit Carol and Roy. Though none of them are local, they rearranged their lives to care for their mother.
Carol spent time planning what she wanted her memorial service to be. She didn't discuss it with anyone; it was written down where folks knew to find it. The songs she chose show her faith and trust in God. She didn't want folks coming in dark clothing.
"Wear bright colors," she told her kids to tell everyone. "No black." Those kids honored her request and spread the word.
I learned a new song that day: Hymn of Promise, written by Natalie Sleeth in 1985. If you don't know it, look it up. I've listened to it many times since Carol left its message behind. The evening after her memorial service, I came across another new song. It was just what I needed. I've listened to it many times as well. Written and sung by Sarah Hession, this song helps me "let her go."
Sometimes a friendship grows on you. You don't realize it is going to happen, don't see that it's happening, and then you wake up and realize the influence in your life because of one person. Carol was my neighbor. She was my comrade. She was also my confidant and my friend. I miss her; I always will.
