I knew her longer that about anyone still living except her
mother, my sister. My first meeting with her was through a glass panel covering
a metal container where they laid newborn babies out to be ogled by happy
family and friends. For her, one had to ease in through a crowd. People who had
come to see other babies drifted over to see this one who displayed that
something that just drew attention.
She was always something special. First grandchildren often
are.
Two nephews and two nieces have blessed my life and they
were all wonderful. Candy and I formed a special bond, though, since I grew
from part-time babysitter to employer in the course of some 20 short years. I
was managing a branch office of an engineering, architecture, and planning firm
in the mid-1980s when Candy was pursuing a degree at our local university.
She’d been working part-time at an ice cream parlor and sought something more
preparatory for a professional life. I offered her work as an after-school
helper.
In those days in particular, firms depended upon grants to
create the projects requiring the services we offered. The grant application
process was demanding and the grant administration process both exhausting and
intricate. We had five people involved in this segment of our work. The part
timer in this group was Candy. One day, I did some analysis and discovered that
something like 80 percent of the output from the group was coming from 20
percent of the input.
That 20 percent was Candy, just finishing her degree.
Being only a bit slow on the uptake, I fired four of the
five and brought Candy on full time as the sole producer. Output increased, and
the quality of the output improved.
She never looked back. She did that form of work as a
professional for more than 30 years, as an employee of a consulting firm, as
owner of her own firm, and as a public employee. At the end of her career, she
was, without argument, the best at her work in the state of Arkansas. Then fate
fell upon her. None of life’s adversities had ever slowed her, but cancer did.
She left us. As I sit alone and think of this remarkable
life, I can’t help wondering how many nights she spent in a lonely church
building in the Arkansas Delta, the only white face in the crowd, holding a
public hearing to listen to the needs of those the Galilean loved as much as
she did.
I can’t help wondering how tired she must have been
returning on those nights with a film of bugs on her windshield while we sat in
comfortable rooms with full stomachs.
I can’t help wondering how many mornings she arose before
all of us and put those needs in a form so that someone, maybe someone, would
offer solace to those whom fortune passes by in its race to reward the greedy
and selfish.
I can’t help wondering how many families in our state tonight
have safe drinking water, or indoor plumbing facilities for their children because
of the time she spent away from her family.
We saw one another, she and I, at both family and
professional gatherings. The smile was always the same. She bragged on my being
her uncle. I bragged on her being my niece. She led a blameless life. I was,
well, just me. At any rate, folks claimed to see a family resemblance, and that
made me feel awfully proud. As close as we were, I never knew, or asked, about
her politics or religion. She didn’t have to ask about mine. I’ve always worn
them on my sleeve. I could have learned more from her.
And yes, dealing with old-time male politicians in a southern
state, she encountered her share of improper overtures. It wasn’t her style to
brood for years over them and then get even one day by ruining a person’s life.
She handled such things on the spot with a “Now you just cut that out right
now. If you do, (or say) that again, I’ll tell Miss [wife’s first name] and
she’ll know how to handle you.” I never knew her to dwell upon such things or
have extended problems.
She was one of a kind, my niece, friend, and colleague. If
one believes in a Heaven after this life, it is a livelier place today. The
world, not so, but richer still for having once held her in its arms.
I miss her and always will.
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| Practicing her "Now cut that out," look. |
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