Barbara Marshall

For Leslie

“Mom, there’s a lady in the bushes,” said my six year old son nonchalantly. He sat fixated in front of the television, mesmerized by the dance moves of his very favorite group “The Wiggles,” icons of the ten-and-under set. The charismatic foursome clad in identical black pants and vividly colored tee shirts, were singing one of their most popular songs, a catchy tune called “Central Park New York.” Ironic I thought, as we had just last week moved from Manhattan to suburban Connecticut. Yes, we were finding that life was different from the city in many ways. A neighbor in the bushes, was just one of them.

I pulled the curtains open to indeed see a figure aside our front door, tiny in stature but clearly spry, admiring the pink hydrangea. Her gray hair was styled in a chic bob and she was handsomely clad in a bright red poncho and navy Ked sneakers. Her face was devoid of makeup emitting a healthy and outdoorsy aura and I guessed her to be around seventy. As our eyes met she smiled broadly then spoke, “Why my dear! I had no idea anyone had moved in. My name is Barbara Marshall and I live right across the street with my husband Ronnie. Welcome! I am so pleased to meet you.”

And so it began, a fast, fun-filled and everlasting friendship.

We shared many similarities. We had both lived and moved from New York City to Connecticut though Barbara was born there, a true and tried New Yorker. She had moved to the suburbs over thirty years ago or rather, as she put it, “was taken kicking and screaming” from her beloved Park Avenue to the wilds of Weston, CT. It was her husband’s doing, she told me. His company was relocating from NYC to Connecticut and there was nothing to be discussed. They were moving. And alike the plot line in the old sitcom, “Green Acres,” with Ronnie playing the role of Eddie Albert, the husband who longed for country life, they shortly thereafter departed.

For as long as I knew her, Barbara never quite considered Connecticut her true home and always longed to return to her beloved New York City. Despite her protests, she and her husband Ronnie, remained in the semi-rural but pleasing town of Weston, CT where she raised her son and daughter, now grown and flown. And as with everything she did, Barbara with her own unique flair, sought out the very best and most interesting that small town life offered.

We saw each other frequently. I was a stay at home mother and Barbara worked part time at Planned Parenthood. We lived directly across the street making it simple, at any opportunity, to seek each other out. And as if sensing I needed a Barbara fix, I would sometimes open my front door to find her standing on my stoop preparing to ring the bell.

She was theatrical, witty, and a master story teller. Our town was ideal for anyone who wished to live anonymously due to its vast open space with two acre zoning and as a result, was home to many a celebrity back in the day: Bette Davis, Robert Redford, Eartha Kitt, Christopher Plummer, Rodney Dangerfield. Barbara always seemed to have a personal anecdote about each and every one.

She told me of the many Weston cocktails party she attended with her husband Ronnie back in the 1960’s and 70’s some of which sounded legendary. A great beauty and conversationalist, Barbara on more than one occasion received invitations from her many admirers for weekends away in exotic locales. Though she never once took them up on their offers I laughed as she candidly shared her sometimes regret in not doing so.

She described how our town was once the backdrop for the award winning movie, “The Swimmer” starring Burt Lancaster and where many of the homes featured in the film were located. And I imagined how effortlessly she would blend in if cast as an extra in the iconic film.

She was fiercely strong minded, ever curious and opinionated, never shying away from voicing her opinions on politics, fashion, family or frankly, any other topics of which she felt passionate. I admired her for that but it could sometimes wreak havoc depending upon the nature of the person with whom she was debating. A common scenario when we were out and about town together was Barbara confiding, “Oh look, there’s Joan Bradley. She was such great fun…when we used to be friends.”

My two young sons adored Barbara and delighted in a story I would often tell them involving the legend of Big Foot which they equally loved. Our back yard abutted a nature preserve with every creature imaginable, lurking morning, noon and night. In my version of the story, Big Foot was not fierce but a shy, amiable and lovable creature who ended up taking residency in the woods behind our house. And who possibly but Barbara, a nature lover herself, would I cast as the main character? The short tale I would tell them at bed time went something like this: while out strolling one evening in our backyard, Barbara suddenly comes face to face with our resident Big Foot. But rather than fainting in fear or being dragged away into the preserve, Barbara and the creature form a deep and everlasting friendship. She teaches him to stand up for himself, be bold and face life’s fears and challenges. Each time I told my boys the story, Barbara and the Big Foot would be embarking on another escapade together, always looking out for each other. I completely envision this story being true to life as Barbara Marshall was a faithful friend to all, both man or beast.

She took great joy and humor in my telephone answering machine’s outgoing message which stated, “We’re not here right now, please leave a message and we will call you when we can…” I had not given the message a second thought but understood her point. It was as if we were saying “don’t expect a call back anytime soon.” Barbara after advising she had called earlier and left a message, never failed to repeat the last line on the machine while laughing delightedly, “We will call you when we can! Oh my dear, I just LOVE that line, “when we can!”

She loved our small town market then known as “Peter’’s” where she would often stop for groceries, a particular favorite being their fresh fish. She knew each and every employee by name and they her, from the butcher to the check out girl and could often be spotted standing in the aisle, deep in conversation with Jim, the general manager. He would be nodding enthusiastically as she expertly instructed on just how the salmon could be better prepared to make it just a touch more flavorful. In addition to her other talents. Barbara was also an outstanding cook.

In warmer weather, she enjoyed nothing more than lying in her backyard in one of those simple metal lawn chairs with the plaid green material. Clad in shorts, bare feet and simple but stylish sunglasses, a tall iced tea at her side, she was in heaven. I loved seeing her lounging there, and can envision Barbara still, the New Yorker magazine on her lap and bright sunshine on her face.

But then one day, I turned around and noticed something quite shocking; we somehow, had both grown older. And as hard as I tried, could not say when or how it happened. But here we were; my two sons away at college and Barbara a grandmother of two possessing her still large but suddenly weaker heart.

Our visits were still a constant and her fascinating and unique stories continued to flow. I could never quite get enough of Barbara’s stories. In springtime she enjoyed strolling the path of our jade green back yard, admiring the plentiful daffodils in full bloom and the chirping of the peepers soon to be full grown frogs. For a city girl, she always loved nature.

As the months ticked on, I began to see her less and less. Frequent hospital visits took my friend from me. She was in her eighties now. A small fact that I never really registered. Although she was old enough to be my mother I always viewed her as a peer; a partner in crime. Our friendship and connection transcended age.

“I’d like to just fly away,” she would say to me in those later years when we talked about death. “Nothing complicated my dear. So very simple. I”ll just fly away.”

The last I saw of my cherished friend was not among the flowers and frogs, but rather in a simple and stark hospital room, its unadorned walls so very much the opposite of the brilliantly bright, colorful canvas that was Barbara Marshall. She had taken a fall two days before and had not regained consciousness. Her husband Ronnie and two children, David and Leslie, close by her side.

She was at last ready to fly away.

And as I sat with her that final day I said a last goodbye, grateful for those joyful years having known her. And then, truly believing she still could hear my words, I leaned in, just a tiny bit closer and made my friend a promise.

“I’ll call you when I can…”