Oil on canvas, 16x20
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Ginger Blanchette died on Saturday, and it was a quiet loss to this world of ours.
Most of you didn't know her, but all of you would have loved her.
Ginger was the mother of Jill Blanchette, a dear friend of mine. Ginger was best friends with Marie, my husband's mother. They were neighbors for most of their adult lives, and they loved each other.
Long before I knew Peter, he spent many hours at Ginger's house. He and his friends used to hang out there, talking with Ginger, watching TV, doing who knows what with Jill's brothers. Peter and his friends were wild, and Ginger loved them. After Peter and I were married, we visited Ginger pretty often, and Ginger welcomed me as if I'd grown up in the neighborhood.
She was a remarkable woman, one of those rare people who always saw the bright side of things. She always had a smile and a laugh, and a good thought about something or someone. She was happy to believe the best about you, no matter what circumstances might seem to imply. She was glad to welcome you, and even more glad to know what you'd been up to.
Jill read a few words at Ginger's service. She read a story about a friend who'd visited Ginger often. Sometimes he and Ginger talked animatedly. Sometimes he said almost nothing. Often, he fell asleep on the couch.
For Ginger, Jill said, that was the highest praise, knowing that someone could feel at home enough in her house to fall asleep.