Remembrance of Cindy

When an old friend dies, part of us dies because their memories of us are dead. Part of who we are is gone. Recently my dear old friend Cindy died and with her part of me died. Cindy knew me well, enjoyed my wit, appreciated my strengths, quietly tolerated my shortcomings and, over the 40 years of our friendship, never spoke an unkind word to me. I loved her long.

Cindy was one of the small cadre of women to pass the bar back in the ’70’s; she was the first, and the best, of her kind. Nothing held her back. She was fearless. She could race a car, fly an airplane and navigate a boat. She was quick witted, fun and kind. Then again, in court, she was brutal. Oh yes, and she was a beautiful blonde. I remember a day, in the ’80’s, we three ladies flew to SFO in her newly acquired Cessna, leaving our husbands behind in LA. At the small airport, the controller, unused to speaking with a woman, became quite animated. Jane noticed a couple of traffic controllers standing at the full length window. As we hopped out of the plane: me, with my brunette mane, blonde long legged Cindy, and flame haired Jane, these wide eyed guys, smiling broadly, were staring at their Playboy dream.

We spent a few winters skiing in Aspen. Black diamonds, double diamonds; while I stood behind her, terrified, unsure about my skills, she forged ahead. Spills ensued, but forth we went. She was thin, as was I. There is a pink ski outfit that still hangs in my closet. I fit in the outfit, she did not. It wasn’t much of a ‘besting’ but it was the best I could do.

One summer in Hawaii, I bravely attempted parasailing; Cindy went hang gliding. She was a natural athlete and only needed cursory instructions to get the gist of any sport. Her accomplishments were many; she went scuba diving, while I went snorkeling, but she was so lacking in conceit or pretense that it was impossible to be jealous. She never judged, always encouraged, for which I was grateful.

When she retired, I inherited her fabulous work wardrobe, collected from the small boutiques of Beverly Hills. She never wore a dress again. They moved to a twenty acre ranch in Santa Ynez, just outside of Santa Barbara. Over the years, especially after my divorce, I was a frequent and, thankfully, welcome guest. The sprawling ranch sat atop a ridge. Locks were unnecessary. There was no public lighting. The roads were pitch black. I had to know exactly where I was going in the dark. One busy Friday eve I found myself in bumper to bumper traffic heading to their ranch for a party, but the traffic was so bad that I called and said to go without me. I would try again the next morning. Right after I hung up, the roads cleared so I kept going. By the time I arrived they had left so I helped myself to the food in the icebox, watched a pay-per-view movie and later went to bed. The next morning I marched into the kitchen and scared the wits out of both of them. They did not realize I was in the house.

And when I was ill, she cancelled everything, collected me from the hospital, moved into my home and never left my side for four days and nights. She was fiercely loyal and caring. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend and will remember her always. I hope her last memories of me were equally grand.