Remembering Weedle -- by Edie McBride

My first memory of Weedle was before she was born. My heavily pregnant mother had gone to the hospital in Orofino, Idaho for a checkup, and she was huge. The doctor did an x-ray and found TWINS. I was only 3, but remember how amazed my parents were. They already had everything ready for one baby, but two? Both of them were normal sized babies—I think Weedle was just under 7 lbs, and our brother was over 8 lbs!

Orofino was a lovely little idyllic town in North Idaho on the Clearwater River. It was in a deep valley, with hills seeming to go straight up on both sides. Many members of our mother's family lived there or nearby, and there was a warm welcome when the twins were born on June 25^th, 1948.

I remember the first day Weedle walked—some weeks before our brother. She actually sort of trotted, smiling a big smile, both hands up in the air at her sides. She was so delighted with herself. To set the record straight, I gave her the name of "Weedle". Her full name was Donna Louise Montre, and her twin, our brother, was Don Lee Montre. I think some of the family called her "Weezie", and I somehow devolved that to "Weedle", and it stuck.

When the twins were 2 and I was 5, we moved to Topeka to be near my father's family. Also—I remember long monologues by our father about how dangerous it would be for us to drive the "river road" when it was time to go to college at the University at Moscow, Idaho. Talk about planning ahead! I can't remember a time when it wasn't clear to all of us that college, whatever that was, was in our future!! I used to wonder if it was something like a little "cottage", or "cottage cheese", but was too shy to ask.

We arrived in Topeka just after the big 1951 flood, and it was hard to find a place to live. We ended up in a nice older house with big shady trees and a deep porch at 2017 Lane street. Brick sidewalks, brick streets. The Baughman's ice cream wagon would come every day—pulled by a horse!—and our mother let us stand on the curb and wait for it. You could hear the bell from far away, and I remember all 3 of us on the curb, leaning forward as far as possible without toppling over, to spot it.

When we lived in that house, Weedle loved to collect locust shells in her little red wheelbarrow. It was heaping with them, and she would always say, "See how many I have?!" One time Butch, being a boy and full of mischief, dumped them out and she was heart-broken!! I remember Mama consoling her and scolding Butch. It was also in that house that once at dinner, Weedle was trying to be SO polite and grown-up and asked, "Please pass the catshit!"

We had a lot of fun at that house, even though we were only there for 2 years, I think. The yard was deep and shady, there was an alley, lots of foliage, and an old grape arbor—plenty of places for kids to play. When I was 8 and the kids were 5, we bought a new house—in a development of the type that were springing up all over the country, to accommodate veterans and their growing families. It was at 3429 Adams Street, in Highland Crest. It was just an ordinary rectangular box, but we were so excited about it! We would drive out nearly every evening to see how things were coming along. We each had our own room…the yard was a rough and bare former pasture, muddy, no grass, no trees. But we loved it. Weedle's room was pink, mine was blue, and Butch's was sort of gray.

Anyway—it was a wonderful place to live, a neighborhood FULL of kids and dogs, no fences, and a feeling that things could only get better—a time of great optimism. In the summers we roamed the block, playing soft ball, kick the can, hide and seek, statues, and a game our mother taught us called "New Orleans" where you act things out—it was our favorite. Lots of times Weedle and I would work up little "shows" (only for the family), often involving dancing and me swirling her and flinging her about—she was really tiny, and I was tall and strong.

We had a piano in that house—an old upright—and we all took lessons. Our mother played and we would sing sometimes.

We both, Weedle and I, had a lot of good memories of living in that house and neighborhood. We didn't have a dog, but we had LOTS of "friend" dogs—Pootsie and Andy, for two. They practically lived with us, and we loved them.

When the twins started first grade, it was in East Avondale Grade School, a brand-new school a few blocks from home. We were the first kids to go there, and it was new and sparkling, new desks, new everything. It was light and bright. Weedle had a hard time leaving Mama, but got over it…she was always a "homebody", I think. There were lots of activities at the school, and I remember a talent show, sponsored by the PTA. All 3 of us had songs to sing. Butch was called first, and he stood up there on the stage, about 7 years old, and sang all 14 (or however many) verses of "Davy Crocket, King of the Wild Frontier". We had the sheet music at home, and Mama would play it while we sang. When it was Weedle's turn, her selection was—guess what—the same thing! I remember hearing a murmur of adults chuckling, and kind of wondering why.

Our parents often had us "perform" at that age. Every Saturday night, our paternal grandmother, "Gim", as we called her, and her sister, "Aunt Tu", would come over to watch TV. TV was still a new thing, and Mama would prepare snacks. Sometimes we would sing or play piano before the evening of TV began. We watched "Gunsmoke", "Have Gun, Will Travel", "Your Hit Parade", "George Gobel", etc. One evening the adults were wondering why Paladin of "Have Gun, Will Travel" didn't have a first name, and Weedle piped up, "He does!" When asked what it was, she replied, "Wire". Everyone thought that was pretty funny—his business card said, "Have Gun, Will Travel, Wire Paladin, San Francisco".

When the twins were about to enter 6^th grade, our father decided we should move. We bought a house on the west side of Topeka, but it might as well have been in another country. All our friends, the people and places we had grown up with, were gone, and we were in a new unfriendly land. In our "old lives" we were known for being "the smart kids", we were confident and comfortable with our social station, our mother worked at the school as a cook, and was active in PTA, Girl Scouts, etc. Suddenly we were sort of "the poor kids", and no one knew us or treated us very well. Before long, though, the twins were established again as "the smart kids". At the spelling bee at Capper Junior High when they were in 9^th grade, Weedle and Butch were the last two standing on the stage…we could never remember which one of them won!

I think we remained pretty much "outsiders" all the years we lived in that house on West 15^th Street…but we had each other, thank God!! We used to congregate in our brother's room, where he would play records ("Listen to this—just for a minute!"). He loved Ray Charles and so did we. Weedle and I would often dance in front of the full-length mirror on the back of Butch's door. We spent MANY hours debating what was "cool"—white socks (NEVER), madras shirts and skirts (yes), etc. We were sort of fixated on that stuff for a couple of years. Weedle and I wore each others' clothes quite a bit, and would laugh about being the cool "Montre girls". In a way, we thought we were…in another way, we KNEW we weren't! We would lie awake at night (we shared a room) and play "word games" long into the night. Our poor mother, who had to get up very early, would come and ask us to keep it quieter, and we would TRY.

One memorable evening, Weedle and I decided to make "toothpick sculptures". We spent HOURS making very intricate, elaborate structures—we even kept them in our closets for a long time. We ran out of glue, so started using airplane glue—the odor drifted through the house and our brother woke up and had a fit! Mama came into the kitchen, and exclaimed, "Toothpicks! All over the floor!". We looked around and saw maybe two, so that made us laugh even more uproariously!! That phrase, "Toothpicks! All over the floor!", became one of our little "phrases" to use over the years.

I should have mentioned that our father died when the twins were 17 and I was 20. Our family had grown into sort of an armed camp. It was pretty terrible. Our father had been in a bomber shot down over Germany in WWII, and was severely burned—his face and hands, everything not covered by his flight suit. He lost an eye and was extremely disfigured, spent nearly 2 years in an Army hospital getting skin grafts, etc. He only weight 100 lbs. when his camp was liberated, and he had been a tall man, very handsome, black hair and blue eyes. He lost his teeth, and generally starved, nearly to death. His life, of course, was never the same. We, as kids, didn't really comprehend the pressures he was under, going into the public every day, etc. I know now that he also suffered from PTSD. At any rate, as the years passed and as we got older and more independent, things got worse for him, and he sort of turned on us and there came a point of no return. Our parents had separated a few months before he died. A few days before he died I went to see him, and he begged me to intervene and ask our mother to take him back—I of course declined.

Our father's death marked an end to a certain very controlled, rigid way of living, and everything just burst loose that had been so controlled. That summer of 1966, before she left for KU and began her "new life", we just lived wild, and loved it.

I'm not saying anything much about Weedle after she left—she always said her life sort of began when she went to KU…and in many ways it did. But—she used to like to talk with me about the times "before", when we were kids and adolescents. Also, of course, both she and I shared in the ensuing years things like marriage, kids, divorce, deaths of our brother and mother, our thoughts and feelings and triumphs. She was SO HAPPY during these recent years—I am very grateful for that. And she was ALWAYS there for me—I hope I was for her too.

Our mother was in a nursing home in Olympia, WA for just a few weeks before she died of a stroke on February 15, 1997. Weedle came out here while she was still pretty much OK, and Mama asked us to sing for her. Weedle and I both used to have such high, clear soprano voices that blended seamlessly—and in that nursing home room, we sang her every song she requested. I'm so glad we had that time!

And now—I'm the last one left. It reminds me of that "Farmer in the Dell" song, where at the end, "The Cheese Stands Alone". As a child, I can remember always wanting to be "The Cheese", but now that I am, it isn't that much fun. More than ever, I look forward to joining them all.

Share Your Comments, Prayers, Stories, Wishes about Weedle/Donna

Please share whatever you wish here (see sidebar on uploading photos, videos, etc., but you can also comment below). Paul and Weedle on New Year's eve at the home of Ken Lassman & Caryn Goldberg, and some of Weedle's pies. How in the world can we go on without Weedle or her pies?

The Sacrament by Weedle Montre (Caviness)

The bowl--pale yellow outside, smooth white inside. A bowl made so the sun shines through it when I hold it up to the window. A silver spoon for stirring, simple and heavy--made to fit in my hand. A gathering of ingredients on the counter silently beckons to me: Come let the sacrament begin.

Hot, hot water, pebbles of yeast, globs of oil, silken honey, and cool, soft flour fall into the bowl one at a time. And each one works a change in the look, the texture, and the smell of the ordinary mixture. The silver spoon slips through it easily and rings against the sides of the bowl as the common ingredients begin to bond together into a fragile yet powerful union.

Out of the bowl and onto the floured board it falls and as I touch it, I feel again the wonder of this transformation. How glad I am then for strong simple hands and busy fingers who know and love the bread in a way that my mind never can, no matter how eloquently I describe it. Fold, pat, push, fold pat push, make a circle, fold up the edges and push it flat again, over and over. I hear and feel the rhythm of the kneading, and I love to change the shape again and again.

All too soon, there it is--finished--rounded, smooth, and placid on the floured counter, one final hand print on top. I plop it into the buttered bowl, cover it with a warm towel, and set it on the stove. The house is silent, except that the clock ticks, and I love the solitude.

The dough is busy on the warm over. Soon it fills the bowl and pushes the towel up. I get the bread pans ready and divide the dough, a little reluctantly, into three pieces. A few minutes later neatly folded rectangles go into loaf pans, ready for the oven.

Often in the past they all went to the woods for the afternoon and left me, most happily, to bake and cook and welcome them in from the cold to hot bread and melted butter. Sometimes I could hear the busy chain saws in the distance, the thud of logs landing in the truck bed, and the shouts and laughter carried to me on the wind.

Through all the comings and goings of the people in my life, the bread has been a constant thread, connecting me with the ones I have loved. Wiggly babies have grown into curious toddlers, busy thoughtful youngsters; hurrying hungry teenagers, and young men out on their own, all coming home to countless, crusty slices cut from steamy loaves. How I love to remember those shared experiences--Will proudly carrying his very own "little loaf" around the kitchen, Laurel carefully buttering slices "all the way to the edge, Mom", Kelly bringing his friends out to dinner ("Is there any of your bread, Mom?") and Kevin taking his sandwiches to law school every day.

And so it continues: the constant, the consecrated, the celebration, the sacrament.

From Well, Well, Well  Spring 1992  (transcribed by Dan Bentley).  Photo at bottom shows Weedle (Donna) and twin brother, Butch (Don), on one of their joint birthdays.

Memories of My Brother by Weedle Montre (Caviness)

His bedroom was across the hall and down a bit from mine, but I could see it pretty well from the doorway of my room. It seemed smaller than mine did , maybe because it was full of all of his toys and lots of mine too, because we always played there. In my memory, the floor is still cluttered with the tin western town, the battered metal yellow dump truck, our rubber Donald Duck car, and countless Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys and plastic cowboys and Indians. We played there so many, many hours of our childhood, fashioning elaborate stories filled with unlikely heroes and villains-- our favorite rumpled bear, simply called "Teddy" , the evil "Richard", a saggy, sad-looking panda, "Martha" my tiny plastic nurse doll (really a witch in disguise), and so many other characters of all different sizes and personalities.

His room was drab. I remember even as a little girl gazing at the walls trying to decide just what color they really were - gray, brown, or a combination of both. His bed was pushed into a corner out of the way, a plain dresser beside it, with drawers that always stuck horribly. I was always glad that he had that dresser and not me. The one window in the middle of the west wall looked out into the back yard, with its sloping lawn and the houses of our friends beyond. My room across the hall was light and airy, with pale pink walls, a pretty white bed and dresser and double windows looking out on the road and nearby fields. Still, I loved his room- the coziness of it, the welcoming of it, and I remember it much better than any other room in that house.

We became teenagers, left behind the toy-scattered room, replaced with a desk, shelves, record player and old easy chairs. Our evenings then were filled with homework assignments, made bearable by the likes of Ray Charles, James Brown, Roy Orbison, and eventually the Beatles, all turned up loud enough for us to concentrate on them and our homework at the same time. Our dad always went to bed before we were ready to, and we had to turn the phonograph down so low we could hardly hear it. It seems that's when we really finished our homework.

We did finally grow up and apart, I guess, although we always tried to get together on our birthday. If we were both home, our mother still made two cakes, mine white with white frosting and coconut, and his chocolate with chocolate frosting. We talked by phone every few months, sharing our latest news and sometimes engaging in heated discussions about the state of things in general. He'd grown into a tall, kind looking man with deep-set eyes, and I was always aware of him in my life- companion of my youth, childhood and infancy. It felt good just to know that he was in the world, in my reality.

A bright snowy morning is always linked with the saddest call, that he was dead, suddenly and forever. How completely strange to know that I would never find him again in the world, no matter how far I looked.

I came home on the airplane, and my children greeted me ecstatically, overflowing with clinging touches and close, searching looks. "Will you be different now, Mommy? Will you be different?" Laurel asked, holding my face still to look into my eyes. And memories of life with my brother, all of our days together, swept over me. I knew I would never be quite the same for having lost him. But how fine it was to have known him and to have shared so much of my life with him.

When we were little and got into trouble, our mother routinely sent us to our rooms. We sat cross- legged, exactly even with our doorways (We are in our rooms, Mama!" ), whispering across the polished hallway, waiting to get back to our play. We are in our separate rooms again now, in a way, farther apart than even before we were born. Yet I do still find myself whispering to him across the gulf, and sometimes I hear him whisper excitedly back to me.

Reprinted from Well, Well, Well (transcribed by Debbie Parks)

My Ms. Weedle -- by Debbie Parks

Weedle Caviness is related to me by marriage. I am married to her cousin, Edward Parks. Weedle's mother - Edith Squires Montre and Ed's mother - Tope Squires Parks were sisters. It has always been somewhat of a mystery to me that Weedle and I did not officially meet when my Mother-in-Law was alive. Tope always thought so much of Weedle, and visited her quite often. I rememeber Tope commenting on how very sweet she thought Weedle was, and how much she enjoyed their time together. Weedle returned Tope's visits as well whenever she was in Topeka, so they saw each other frequently. My Mother-in-Law and I had a very close relationship and we did many many things together, but unfortunately 20 years passed before Weedle and I were actually introduced.

Two years ago, our paths finally did cross when the house where the Squires family lived for 20 years and raised their 8 children was totally renovated and put on the market for sale. It is a beautiful huge stone home in North Topeka which dates back to the early 1900's. It features stacked curved bay windows on the upstairs and downstairs levels on 2 sides of the house , giving it much of a Victorian tower effect. Ed called all of his family to make them aware that the house was available for viewing. This we now know was an oppurtunity of a lifetime for the many generations of Squires family members. Weedle was very interested in the history part of the house, and of course Paul being an architect was equally interested in the structure of the house. Weedle and Ed arranged to have our very first meeting at the house to look at the exterior, as no open house was scheduled for the weekend that we could fit getting together into our schedules .

Our planned meeting day finally arrived and Weedle, Paul, Ed, and I were having so much fun we continued on with a little tour of North Topeka sites that were cherished by the Squires family- The Curtis School where both of their grandparents worked and all the children attended - North Topeka Methodist church- where some of the children met their spouses, and Great Overland Park Railroad Station where the hobos got off the train and headed towards the Squires home to be served a meal on the back porch by Grandma Charity. We finished the morning activities with a delicious breakfast at Brad's Country Restaurant. That was the first of many wonderful times ahead. I think that all 4 of us would agree, that the times we have met the last several years are truly cherished times. I have so many great story's about Weedle, it is hard to chose just one. Reminiscing on just a few: The day we met at Ward Meade Park for a picnic and having the park to our whole selves - Fried chicken- home made pickled beets - 24 hour salad and peach pie. Walking through the beautiful gardens there and peering through the windows of the little mini town of historic Topeka buildings that adorn Ward Meade's premises.

Another fond memory was seeing Weedle reuniting with many of her cousins at last years Family Reunion at Garfield Park and Shawnee Lake . Weedle was very active in helping with the history of her family- the Montre's - and trying to help Ed fit the many pieces of the Geneology Puzzle with her reflections of past history of her mother's family- the Squires side.

There was also the day that 20 family members decided to attend Apple Festival in Topeka. I could never do her performance in the one room school house justice by description. Many of us got to see a different side of Weedle that day, as she acted out the role of school teacher and had us all hysterical with her theatrical expressions. The kids adored her when she got her problem pupil - cousin Ed - to come to the front of the class, for a scolding - sweet Weedle style and a punishment of wearing a very long pointed dunce hat in front of her pretend classroom full of various ages of Squires Pupils. My most special memory was the day our family met an got to tour the inside of what we lovingly refer to as the old stone house. The tears, the laughter, the extreme emotion that we all shared being in our mother's bedrooms, and wondering what they would think if they only knew. We marveled at the gorgeous rose carvings on the very exquisite bannister and stairway that led to the upstairs. Imagining what it was like in their days of no electricity and running water. Weedle was so overcome that she called her sister Edie who lives in Washington, sharing every detail of that special moment, and then representing Edie's presence by holding up her cell phone in all the pictures. The heartfelt gratefulness she extended to new owner Tim Buser, for sharing the house he so dearly loves with us.

My one Special Memory that I would like to share about my MS. Weedle is one that I will forever hold very near and dear to my heart. It is a Pie Story- Just one I am sure of the many about Weedle and her pie baking talent. At this time I was not aware that pies were Weedle's signature trademark.

It was the day of the Squires family reunion -2007-. Edie and Weedle were coming to the family reunion for the first first time. It was one of those times when all family members united and agreed that this would be the year we will all try really extra hard to be there, doubling the usual yearly attendance. Weedle and I were enjoying our newly found friendship. I had never met Edie but had developed a friendship with her via E mail. Edie and I were so excited to get to meet in person. Weedle was equally excited to see other family members that she hadn't seen in years, and meet their family's . For our covered dish family reunion dinner Weedle brought 4 pies. It was immediately quite obvious to me that she had learned pie baking skills to perfection. Her pies looked like masterpieces. She cleverly had cut out crust into letters and spelled out Squires reunion 2007 on each pie. All the letters were perfectly matched and spaced. I remember my mouth dropping open and making a huge fuss over her pies, and Weedle making very lightly of the huge audience her pies by then had attracted.

After a wonderful day of family sharing and fellowship, we packed up to go to the hotel and spend more family time together during the evening Weedle had one whole pie left - a cherry pie- My FAVORITE- . Being somewhat of a thrifty person she had wrapped it in an empty hamburger bun bag and left it on the counter as she went and said her good byes to the family that wouldn't be attending the reunion the next day at the lake.

I was gathering my belongings and I remember my exact thoughts thoughts as I came across Weedle's pie . TREASURED GOLD wrapped up in an old used hamburger bun sack. My next thought hit me like a ton of bricks. My mother was also an avid pie baker, and much like Weedle had very unique ways of decorating her pies. My mother used a toothpick and dotted peoples names in the top crust. These she always gave as gifts to people that she wanted to show her appreciation too or make feel special for birthdays or anniversaries. My mother was well known in the community for this sweet act of kindness, but my dad did not think much of the whole community walking out the door with one of my mother's delicious pies. I'm sure he would have liked to have kept them for himself. About the same time I met Weedle, my parents had chose to make a move to the nursing home due to their failing health., As I looked down at Weddle's left over pie, I then just realized I would never again eat a piece of pie made by mother. I just couldn't seem to help myself, so I STOLE Weedle's pie.

By then several days had passed and Ed and I had invited Edie and her friend Linda and Weedle and Paul to our house for dinner, before Edie's farewell return to Washington. Weedle suggested that I grill hamburgers and she would bring all the rest of the fixings. I guess by then I must have been feeling somewhat guilty about stealing Weedle's pie, because when she arrived I told her that I had a confession to make. Giving me that puzzled ''Weedle look" she commented that she wasn't quite sure she wanted to hear my confession by the way it sounded. After telling her my story of my mother, and my confession as to why I stole her pie, in her very kind Weedle gentle style , she kinda muttered under her breath but loud enough for everyone to hear, that I would have to answer to God about my horrible sin. "

We all chuckled, but Weedle understood the depth of what a mother's love meant , and the little things that mothers do that get taken for granted until they are no more. From then on it, was a very special bond between us. One of which we embraced and wrapped our love and hearts around. Everytime we got together after that, Weedle always made sure I had pie to take home and as she bear hugged Ed goodbye, at the same time she also threatened him with the fact that he was not even allowed a crumb of my pie. In true Weedle style , she always knew it meant more to me than just eating a piece of pie. As I savored every bite, I always referred to the pie she sent home with me as "Weedle Love." I am so honored as blessed for the great times we shared and MY Ms. Weedle will "forever" hold a very special and dear place in my heart.

Photos: Top photo shows Weedle's cousins -- Vivian Kochanowski, Sylvia French, Ed and Deb Parks -- and her sister, Edie MCBride, and Weddle; 2nd photo: Squires house in the past; 3rd photo: Squires house more recently with in-set photo of Squires family; 4th photo: Some of Weedle's pies for the event; 5th photo: Edie McBride, Ed "Red Hot" Parks, and Weedle. Thanks to Debbie Parks for these and many other photos.

Remembering Donna by Holly Robertson

I met Donna in 1982 in an English class in Wescoe Hall at K.U. Neither of us really liked the professor as we studied the "shoat storeh". Donna scribbled that on a piece of paper and it made me laugh. That little scrap made it into my scrapbook and it's still there today. We were an unlikely pair, she a 34 year-old mother of four and me an 18 year-old coed. But something clicked with us and we became fast friends. We went through the School of Education together, started teaching and our career paths took different turns, until in the last two years we both returned to public schools. We were both thrilled to be back in a school again. We talked about how we just loved schools - the kids, the course of the year, celebrating the holidays, bulletin boards, the smell of the hallways, and the summers in between.

During the last 20 years Donna and I would meet every few months, since she lived in Vinland and I lived in Topeka. We usually met in Lawrence, would have lunch at one of our favorite restaurants and then usually stop in at Stitch-On, our favorite shop. We always found some little treasure there. We loved to look at the fabrics and the cross-stitch patterns. Sometimes we'd walk around downtown for awhile and many times we'd stop for ice cream somewhere. Then there would always be a hug goodbye and we knew there would be another time we'd see each other soon when we could catch up yet again.

Once in awhile we met in Overbrook at a little shop we'd discovered there. We'd browse for awhile and then go to a little bar on Main Street and have a Diet Pepsi. Our last get-together was in the fall. The shop is in an old Victorian house. It has two floors and there was always a little discussion as to whether Donna would go upstairs or not. Her knees were bothering her and she wasn't always up to it. We'd joke a little bit about it, she'd ask me to give her a piggy back ride up there or make me go first so she wouldn't fall on me in the event that she'd slip! On that trip upstairs we spied a wonderful stuffed rabbit dressed as a little man complete with shirt, tie, woolen jacket, and pocket watch. She picked him up first and we both cooed over him.

We both wanted him, but since she picked him up first she got him. She convinced me to get the woman rabbit even though she wasn't nearly as cute. I decided I would snip her clothes off her and transgender her into a man rabbit. At Christmas I received a box in the mail from her. It was a surprise as we didn't regularly exchange gifts. Once in awhile we would surprise each other with something we'd seen that made us think of each other. I was so curious as I tore away the wrappings - I couldn't imagine what she might be sending me. Imagine my surprise as I opened the box and found the little man rabbit! I was overjoyed and at the same time dismayed because I knew how much she loved him. I called her right away and screamed with delight. I told her I'd consider him on-loan while I just copied his clothing. I had already bought the fabric for the jacket and ordered a pocket watch on-line. But she insisted I keep him. She said she had tried him in various spots around the house and he just didn't seem to fit anywhere. I don't know if I believed her because it certainly seemed like the sort of thing that would fit at her house somewhere. Maybe it was her plan to give him to me all along.

I just can't tell you what a huge hole there is in my heart that she's gone. She was truly one of my dearest friends and I can't believe we're not going to have our Lawrence get-togethers anymore. I told her things that I have not told another soul on this earth. Donna's been my wise counsel and friend through so many life changes. Through the years we shared laughter and tears. I loved her wit and wisdom, her intellect, and her kind and gentle nature. I loved hearing about her family, pets, school, and other friends. My solace is that someday I'll get to see her again and we'll talk for hours in one of heaven's gardens.

Holly Robertson

Remembering Donna by Kelly Sime

I didn’t choose to be Donna’s friend. She chose me. In fact, I remember not liking her the first time I met her. It was at a library training session, something I’d been forced to go to. And Donna’s sarcastic sing-song-y voice grated on me. I did not like this lady. But I figured I’d never see her again. Donna doesn’t remember me. Who would with fifty people in the room? I certainly did when she was again at a meeting I went to. I wasn’t too thrilled to be sitting beside her. I’d kind of seen her around since now we were working for the same library system, but I certainly wasn’t going to make any overtures to be her friend. That day at the meeting she declared, “You’re different. I like you. Let’s be friends.” Oh, boy. I tried to brush her off. Well, if you know Donna, when she sets her mind to it, she’ll make it happen.

I tried to remember yesterday how long I’d been friends with Donna. Hasn’t it been forever? She had to be the most social lady I know. If she hadn’t heard from me in a couple of weeks, she’d most certainly call me at work, out of the blue, telling me how she was sitting on the bench in Central Park with her daughter, Laurel. I felt so special that Donna wanted to share that magical moment with me. She wanted everyone to know how happy she was. I remember the day I found out her nickname. It was like I’d joined The Donna Club. We had eaten breakfast in Lawrence. Walking out onto Mass. St., someone yelled, “Hey, Weedle”. Donna waved back. Donna made me feel special. She knew everyone, but chose to spend her time with me.

Donna was an excellent storyteller. Many times I’d ask her to tell the same story over and over again. I delighted in watching others have the same reaction I did when she told the story. I’d beg Donna to please bring more of her book. I wanted to read more, more, more. It was highly personal to her. I knew that her allowing me to read it was another sign of how special I was to Donna. Ever since I was a teenager, I’d fantasized about being a hippie. Too bad I was born in the wrong era. But here was Donna, a true hippie. I wanted to know all about it. All about her.

One of the last times I saw her, we went out to eat at a “fancy” restaurant. That was so much fun—inviting unpredictable Donna to a place where you knew she would break all the rules. The rest of the group giggled as she asked for Diet Pepsi, not wine, and complained about the extravagance of the place settings. That’s Donna. She likes it simple. And when she’s happy, everyone’s happy. She taught me to not take things seriously. Really, what is the point of all the extraneousness?

The funniest story I have about Donna is when she came with me to the strip club for my bachelorette party. This was just three years ago. When we got to the door, Donna didn’t have her ID. The bouncer wouldn’t let her in. Clearly, she was over 21, but the gentleman was insistent that no one could come in without his or her ID. Donna put out a call to Paul to please bring her the ID. We were north of the river in Kansas City, at least an hour’s drive from Donna’s house. Paul to the rescue! This is the only time I’d ever seen Donna drink. She didn’t even know what to order. I’m pretty sure she didn’t even finish half of the strawberry daiquiri. The funniest part of this story is Donna’s reaction to the strip club. All of us young gals were curious about what she thought since she’d never been to a strip club. Donna, in the sweetest voice, said, “It was just like the circus.” Yes, it was quite a show.

Donna was, and Paul is, very special to my husband, Scott, and me. In all the times we spent together, I couldn’t help but look at those two and hope that Scott and I would be so crazy in love when we’re their age. I’m Donna and Paul is Scott. I’ve always felt that Scott is my perfect compliment. I saw the same with Paul and Donna. Donna was boisterous, loud and unpredictable—qualities I see in myself. Paul is quiet, contemplative, and doting—just like Scott.

Paul, my heart goes out to you. It is terrible for me to think about life without Donna, but life without my Scott would be tragic. Please use all of us as your support system. We love you just as much as we loved Donna.

And, Donna, your accident and death are so shocking because of the unfairness of the situation. Life seems much more fragile, knowing that someone so special can be taken away so quickly. The world will not easily forget you. Nor would we want to.

-- Kelly Sime

Weedle -- by Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg

When Paul called my little cell phone that evening, I was immediately taken by the very still tone in his voice. “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said. I wondered if Weedle had a heart attack or a minor accident, but before I could spin out a scenario that ended with everyone intact, he said, “Weedle was killed in a car accident.”

Paul. Weedle. The friends we knew well before they found each other. Paul, who used to live in an upstairs apartment of a small alleyway home, the hermit of Old West Lawrence with his books, architectural drawings, sharp mind and beautiful heart. Weedle, who lived for years in an old farm house in Vinland, where she majored in meat loaf, child-rearing, a weary-but-knock-you-over humor, piles of books, insane genius in any word-focused board game, and the very best pies in the cosmos. Weedle was what you would get if you cross-pollinated Mary Englebreit with Rosanne Barr (the Rosanne before she just had one name) – and by the way, she loved both Mary and Rosanne.

I first connected with Weedle in a large car with her then-husband Walt, friends Dan and Kat, and my not-yet-husband Ken. We drove around Kansas City, laughing uproariously, switching lanes fast on our way home from a Joni Mitchell concert at the Starlight Theater. The night smelled like roses, honeysuckle, car fumes, popcorn, and darkness. Weedle demanded we stop at a quick shop so she could get her mandatory diet Pepsi.

At the time, most of us subscribed to walking the carob road, eating little or no white sugar, chocolate, dairy, meat, and generally consuming a whole lot of tofu, granola, and those awful carob brownies. But Weedle never followed convention in such ways.

Weedle had an intellect of immense sharpness and wit, a heart as big as all the pies (and we’re talking thousands here) she ever baked lined up across Kansas, and God help you if you ever crossed her. Weedle loved her friends, family, and especially Paul and her children like nobody’s business, with a fierceness that rivaled a pack of Grizzlies. She collected quirky and moving tales from the lives of her children that showed just how much she loved watching them grow up, try new things and new places. The thrill of her day was when the cell phone rang with a call from Laurel, Will, Kevin or Kelly. She also adored all their spouses and sweethearts, she was over the moon about her grandchildren – Katie, Allison and Joshua.

She was also the funniest person I ever met.

At a party at our house last year, people were hanging close to the kitchen table, covered with beads of all kinds for making jewelry. Food overflowed the kitchen counters nearby, and there were about 30 of us reaching over each other for a piece of turquoise or another slice of Weedle’s cherry pie. Weedle herself was on the phone, trying to reach Paul to find out when he would be here, but the phone was continuously busy.

“I can’t reach him. He must be downloading porn,” she announced before taking another sip of her diet Pepsi. Now for anyone who knew Paul, imagining him downloading porn was analogous to George W. Bush revealing that he was a gay, vegan, meditating Pacifist with the IQ of Einstein. The next hour, she kept juggling the joke about Paul downloading porn, to the point that when he arrived, a bunch of bead-bearing women immediately called out, “You done downloading porn?”

Weedle cooked up more than jokes. She was the diva of the kitchen in the grand tradition of comfort foods. Nobody made spaghetti and meatballs, meatloaf, fried chicken, chocolate chip cookies, mashed potatoes, gravy and especially bread like her. When I was walking gingerly from the car to my bed after my hysterectomy, Weedle was already on her way with an industrial-sized tray of her chicken pot pie.

Of course it was her pie-making ability that trumped all. She could not only make the best-tasting pie (winner of grand prizes in the very competitive pie division of the Vinland Fair, and deemed by my mother-in-law, a fellow pie competitor, to be the best ever), but she did it at the speed of light. I once timed her making a cherry pie from scratch (although the cherries came from a can) to oven: 6 minutes. Really, I’m not making this up. Her hands knew dough.

Her heart knew love. When Weedle met Paul over 15 years ago (at my backroom prompts of, “Weedle, Paul likes you,” and “Paul, Weedle likes you”), she met her match in mind and heart. While Paul is relatively quiet and internal, he fit around her like an exquisite home-made quilt. “You were the love of her life,” I reminded Paul the night she died as we sat in the kitchen, dishes Weedle washed in the drying rack behind us, and to our left, the open oven to warm the room. “She was the love of my life,” he answered.

She found in Paul someone who also brought home piles of library books to read on everything from the Black Sea to Harry Potter. They went to farmer’s market together. They walked their pony-sized Great Pyranees down country roads. They took trips to Chicago, New York, and other outposts. They played with their granddaughters. And they sat with us and our friends Courtney and Denise playing board games, mostly “Taboo,” a game where you have to make your partner guess the word on a card without saying the obvious thing. “It’s like a….” Weedle began. “Dishwasher,” I yelled, and we were right, again in a kind of telepathic word-game connection neither of us understood. Together, we prided ourselves on wiping our opponents into the ground, and we never lost when we played as a team.

Weedle was a whiz at any game that had to do with speed, words, imagination, and no wonder: As a long-time librarian after being an excellent elementary school teacher, and a writer, she was always a storyteller. When the kids were little, when the kids were grown, when the grandkids were born, when she took a road trip, when she stayed home.

The first Weedle story I fell in love with concerned her taking Will, who was just a little kid at the time, to see Bambi. When Bambi’s mother died, little kids throughout the theatre raised an intense collective crying chorus. After they were finally soothed quiet by their mothers, the movie’s final scene revealed a pastoral twilight expanse, with smoke from a campfire in the distance. “Is that where they’re cooking Bambi’s mother?” Will yelled out, tilting all the kids in the theatre into hysteria again.

Weedle loved that story for its irreverence and freshness, for its perspective, too, all three of which were ample in Weedle’s surprisingly-tender, full-voiced, fierce and imaginative writing. From her short essays for an old Lawrence publication, Well, Well, Well, to the brilliant memoir she was writing of late, Weedle’s writing brought to the page all you saw of her and so many more layers. The writing was gorgeously funny and poignant, just like the writer. It was one of Weedle’s great dreams to have more of her writing published.

As the news lands, I remember the long after-dinner walks we took from her house to the road alongside the elementary school, watching the sunset through fields of coming twilight. I see her turning to my children – from the time they were babies through their teen years – to hand them cookies, videos to watch, and roll her eyes at wry asides. I think about the last time we were together, New Year’s Eve, with Paul, Ken Denise, Courtney, Marek, Daniel, Natalie and Forest to eat vast quantities of miniature eggrolls and toast the New Year with sparkling grape juice at 8:30 p.m.. We played a game we had come to love because it often made all of us laugh ourselves into falling-over crying.

It’s called, “Moods,” and for this game, there are eight moods, each on a card, displayed at any given time. When it’s your turn, you draw a card with a statement like “It’s getting bigger” or “Would you like fries with that?” and shake the dice in a little cup, look inside, and see which number mood you have to bring into how you say this statement. Everyone else has to guess which mood you’re conveying in your voice.

Life is giving us all a new card to draw here, and the moods on the table, for me this week, are numbness, irritability, fear, grief, despair, spacey-ness, love, and sadness. I know Weedle is on the other side of the table even though I can no longer see her, and my heart is breaking at how far away she is. Yet at home, on the shelf in our refrigerator door, are a few cans of diet Pepsi she brought for herself for New Year’s Eve. I think I’ll keep them there as a fitting and well-placed memorial of someone I can never forget.

Photo is of Weedle in a magical moment from her childhood.

Vinland Magic by Weedle Montre (Caviness)

The late summer sun glows against the old stone garage at the end of the driveway. If I'm lucky and I happen to be standing on my tired front porch at the right moment, I look with respect at those living stones, who have felt that strong warm light on their faces many more evenings than I have. Maybe the soft squares have a light inside, a kindred spirit that recognizes that strong soft glow and moves through the stone to meet it.

A small window is set into that wall, and sometimes our brown-and-yellow kitty curls up there on the window ledge. I've thought many times about walking over there myself to touch the wall and feel the golden warmth of the stones. But I never quite seem to make it. It may be that I am too busy with laundry or kids or baking. Maybe I'm just too tired or lazy to walk across the grass, through the gate and up to it. But I don't think so. To me, the wall of stones is something magical and if I walk there, the color will fade a little with each step I take until it's just plain brown when I reach up to touch it. So I stay where I am and the light stays within the stones. It's kind of an agreement between us.

The best magic happens, I think, when a plain thing is transformed into something extraordinary and yet stays itself too, at the same time. So it is with the stone garage and also every summer with the Vinland Fair. For three days in August, plain white buildings, bumpy dirt arena, square concrete stage play host to the entire community. The big doors of the fair building slide open and the inside gradually fills up with fresh produce, harvest grains and prize winning pies still warm from last minute baking. Vases filled with bright flowers stand proudly on a shelf along one wall and needlework entries line another. Old glass cases house all kinds of baked goods on one side and odd "collections" on the other. The pop stand across the way has Vinland Fair T-shirts, aprons, and buttons for sale, along with candy bars and soda. The food stand next to it is busy all day. People in line ask for gooseberry or blueberry pie, fried chicken or barbecued beef dinners, or maybe just a hamburger, while folks working inside call out orders to each other down the length of the long building, open to the sun and air on all four sides. For those few days, we are under the spell of a different time and place. Even little kids run free in the still dusk, while grownups finally have a chance to catch up with each other's news.

The most magical thing about it though,is that nothing really happens. Oh, there's the tractor pull, and the talent show and the bicycle races, that's true. But there are no carnival rides, games, or booths. It's mostly just folks hanging around with old friends, and maybe making some new ones. It's the only place I know that I can hear the murmur of many different conversations blended into a sort of pleasant rumble.

And during those three days, while we're all busy talking or working or playing, summer slips quietly into fall. It may still be hot, the trees are still green, but something is different. The air's a little crisp in the mornings, the sun's rays shine at a different angle, voices sound different in the distance, and my soul teaks on that comforting melancholy I love. The fair is an end of summer ritual of sorts, and sometimes I wonder, would autumn arrive if the fair didn't gently lead us to it?

In my life the most ordinary objects and simple events are the ones I contemplate. To me, they have a special magic, quiet but powerful. I believe it is spirit. The little garage with its sandstone blocks and dirt floor is quite ordinary looking, maybe even a little dilapidated. The old faded wooden door is broken in places, and has a terrible time staying on the metal track when we slide it open or shut. When I step inside, it's always dark for a minute until I get used to the dim light filtering in through the half obstructed windows. It's cluttered and smells of man things-gasoline and oil and machines-and it's really pretty dirty. There are other things happening here, if I take the time to notice.

The occasional acorn bouncing and tumbling along the slanted metal roof, the persistent trumpet vine taking advantage of the tiniest opening so it can come grow inside! And the mysterious "F.W.," who carved his initials in the soft stone over 60 years ago. The corner where we brought the pale green moth in out of the wind one breezy summer night, and it sat on our hands, calmly opening and closing its wings. And of course, all of the very odd assortment of nuts and bolts and screws in coffee cans, boxes of nails, and grungy black pieces of machinery, each of them important at some time to someone. In the different seasons of the year I have occasion to walk out the gate over to the garage and into its shadowed shelter. But never on those summer evenings, when the light makes the stones so golden brown. If I were to walk over there and look closely at them, touch their roughness, look to find the sun and note the angle of its rays, I might have to admit that it is simply the summer sun that makes the stones do that, no magic spell, no enchantment, no soul of structure.

Throughout the seasons I walk along the dirt road past the fair grounds, too. The white buildings are so quiet there, standing silently on the yellowing grass. Cows graze near the stage sometimes and bright leaves blow across the fair yard. The magic is still there, I can feel it as I walk near: deep, strong, alive, and forever. I stop there by the gate and just watch those buildings, moving through their own time, drifting through their own space, and tugging me along with them.

From Well, Well, Well (transcribed by Laurie Ward)

Reflections on Friends by Weedle Montre (Caviness)

The trees reflect in the flashing chrome strip outside my window. The clouds are there too, but they're gray layers today, and they don't hold my attention like the red and brown trees do. The car is big and heavy all around me and as I travel in it, I feel safe, protected. Like a child, I'm still fascinated by the windows buttons, the little square lights in the dash above the radio, the window wipers with all the different speeds. But mostly I'm fascinated at how you seem to be here in the car, too. I'm not inclined to wonder why I feel you here; I am blessed with the tendency to accept this sort of phenomenon at face value.

I pull into the driveway and park in your spot and purposefully turn off the radio, one of those odd, old-fashioned things you always do. Favorite days of my life are still spent here in this house, and I am often alone and content, but with the promise of your homecoming carried in my heart. And in the midst of baking bread, hanging up laundry, sweeping floors, I feel you move next to me, funny and quiet and strong. You walk in the door at night, your coat over your arm, your blue eyes shining, eager, and a bit amused. My soul knows you and greets you and holds you before our hands and arms and lips ever touch.

I wear pink and black this afternoon-pink because I like it next to my face, black because it's how I feel: dark, still, total. No stars glitter among the night-color folds of my skirt; it is flat, soft and comforting in its simplicity. The colors of me today contrast so much with the colors of the day-green-brown grass, pale gray skies, yellow and red trees. Fall is here, and the earth is sleepy, drowsing in the cloudlight, warm and alive beneath the leaves. I am like this on a day alone-immersed in fuzzy, blurred solitude, yet sharply awake to some half-hidden sense of my soul's voice.

Now this day this voice speaks quietly and clearly to me of you, dear fellow-bumpy gray sweater, patient clever hands, steady eyes full of wit and blue depth, and a shining soul that welcomes and pulls me in close and safe. I have thought for some long time about friends, what it really means to have one, how to keep one. It seems to me the most cherished offering I can make to a friend is to welcome him completely into my reality, truly believing that he is as real as I am, that when he looks out at the day, he sees what I see, and knows that I look at all of life with him/ in/ me. So in the day and in the night, you are with me close-kind, accepting, loving. And I go out into the world fearless, light, young, healed and whole.

From Well, Well, Well (transcribed by Laurie Ward)

A Place In My House by Weedle Montre (Caviness)

Ah, there it is again-still and again and always, my favorite, most cherished and welcome sight. As I drive over the crest of the hill, it immediately disappears from view behind trees and hills, so I'm just able to have a quick glance, and yet the world seems to stop then for a moment. And more and more it seems, I have time to purposefully turn my head slowly and slightly to the side and direct all of myself out through my eyes down to the spot in the world where my house lives.

This house...it's taken care of me for so long, it's one of my best friends. Before I go up to my bedroom at night, I tell the downstairs goodbye. I always leave on one little lamp, and it softly lights up the living room. For a minute I stand there and just look around the room-the worn recliners, "Ben's" couch, the old Victrola against the wall, and the battered wood stove over in the corner.

Upstairs is different-light and open, with a space at the top of the stairs for Laurel and Will and their friends. An old television sits across from the big couch, and video games, comics and books are scattered around the room. We really don't spend much time up here, and neither do our dog and cat friends, except for Poto, who doesn't count because she doesn't know she's a cat. And then there's Wooly, who off and on for months stood at the foot of the stairs gazing forlornly up to the top, her ears pricking slightly at the sound of Laurel and Will's voices, but never once attempting even the first step. Finally one afternoon we all coaxed her up, just a couple of steps at a time, and much petting and half-carrying Wooly followed. She has since gone back to long, mournful looks from the safety of the downstairs.

Our bedroom is upstairs, a simple square room with windows in three walls and a door in the other. I like the fairness of that; no wall needs to feel left out-this for those of us who simply must endow inanimate objects with human feelings. A small closet is tucked in the corner, and Poto absolutely must try each night to gain access to it. This despite the fact that it actually closes now, after all these years, thanks to Paul's shoe box full of ancient doorknobs and latches, carefully saved, I think, just for these doors. Amazing. sometimes open and shut it just to hear the satisfying click of the latch.

This room is full, with dressers and a little cedar chest along the walls, beside and beneath the windows. And our bed, coming out from one wall, takes up space in the middle. It's covered with a bright and colorful patchwork quilt and pillows, and our red and black blanket is folded neatly at the foot. When I run upstairs during the day I always want to lie down on the bed for a minute, this "home within a home," where we pass our nighttime lives of sleep and dreams, love and passion, talk and laughter.

The walls are just plain white, and they provide a perfect background for our pictures. They are an odd assortment, but each one is special to us, whether it be my father's sketches, Paul's newly framed watercolor of yellow flowers, or our Monet print, fuzzy and pastel and comforting.

Each window offers a different view of the world. The east one to the sun in the morning, rising mysteriously from slightly different locations throughout the year. I enjoy that mystery, and don't know, don't want to know, why it changes. I just like looking for it. It has woken me too early some mornings, I think, but I do love that view, my first one of the day.

A most refreshing breeze blows over us from the south window, beginning in spring and continuing all through summer into the fall. There's not much to see here except the porch roof, but just the other day I spotted two purple and black birds fluttering and crowding up under the roof, looking for a good nesting spot.

The north window must have been put there for long, thoughtful gazes at the garden, and beyond to the cemetery and the creek in the distance. I can lie in my bed and watch the morning sunlight slip slowly over the sleepy garden, and feel a bit dizzy knowing that I myself am slowly rolling backwards towards the sun, in my bed, my room, my house.

The door on the west opening to the world beyond our room brings the sounds of activity from all over the house. In the late afternoon, sunlight streams across the hall from the sleeping porch into our doorway and lights up our room, reflecting off mirrors and doorways and filling the space.

A tree stands in our front yard by the gate, with a sturdy round trunk leading up to graceful branches. In years past, it has been one of Laurel's favorite spots, whether in a game of hide and seek ("Did you know where I was, Mommy?") or just a spot to watch the world go by for awhile without being all the way in it.

I think of my house and my room in this same way-a safe and protected spot in the world; a space from which I venture forth each day, but one that I hold close in my mind's eye, until I come over the crest of that hill, and let my soul go ahead of me, unable to wait any longer as the car makes its way home.

From Well, Well, Well (transcribed by Laurie Ward)