I think because we recently watched the entire nine seasons Waltons series, all three sequel movies, all three reunion movies, the pilot movie, and Spencer’s Mountain, I have been thinking about writing. And just now I started thinking about the novelette I wrote. I didn't read it again; maybe I will soon. But I was turning over in my mind what the redeeming quality or lesson would be. It's such a tragedy. I’d already identified her sense of humor, love for cats, and artistic talent as her best qualities. I asked myself the question, “was she a good friend?” I think she wasn't, and eventually I wasn't a good friend to her either. 

I tried to remember times when I would have called her a good friend. When we were kids, don't remember whether it was in high school when she lived with us, or if it was later, when I was in college and she was living there without me most of the time, she organized the secretary. I remember she left  notes to me in there after she straightened it up. I thought it was nice of her. I had one of my usual messes going on in the desk, and I wasn't annoyed, but I did think while nice, it maybe was an overstep. She tended to use cleaning as a way of showing affection, or as an apology, or perhaps she felt fearful and believed it would prevent something negative, like an argument or direct questions, the kind of stuff that was routine in her family. 

Much later, when I got my Master's Degree and invited everyone over for a party, she agreed to be here to meet the caterer. She went to my small graduation ceremony the day before at the downtown campus rather than the big one at the Knickerbocker Arena. Being here to meet the caterer was a very nice thing she did. But then it was ruined afterwards by her behavior once everyone was here. She pulled me outside in the yard and confided through tears that she felt trapped, like she was in a box. I was distracted, preoccupied by having all of my and Bob's families inside. I am reminded with this story of Anne's wedding eve nightmare. A similarity. She wanted to be the center of attention whenever I had something else important going on, I guess to validate my affection for her?

She shoplifted gifts for me when she worked in Woodstock. I'm not sure whether that was nice. I guess it was, in a screwed-up way. She gave me a favorite mug of mine. It says something about preferring to be sleeping. 

That's about all I can come up with under the heading “good friend.” Still a tragedy…