My classmates and I are beginning to see each other on a regular basis again, often—sadly, at our parents’ and their friends’ memorials. At our age (60 somethings) they are not often weepy affairs. The recent passing of Sylvia Curry was one such. A grand event for a grande dame. Sylvia, Syl, or “Mrs. Curry” as some still call her, was one of those “hip” moms of Hampton.

• She was a working mom (like mine) of which there were few, then.
• She was a domestic goddess (as in, she could do ANYTHING waaaay before Martha Stewart).
• She was the first to have a Diane von Furstenberg “Wrap Dress”. We were in awe.
• She could stop us dead with a look (and an eyebrow higher than John Belushi’s—you know what I mean).
• She was smart and saavy and wasn’t afraid to tell people what she thought. No holds barred.
• “She didn’t take crap”. (from her grandson Josh’s eulogizing.
• She loved her family and community fiercely.

Syl adored the home she and Fred built to raise their wild and wonderful “boys”. It seemed like we were in and out of each other’s houses a lot, and there was definitely a conspiracy between my mother, Syl, and Sunny Peterson as to where we were, where we might be going next or what trouble we might be up to. We were welcome any time in their house on upper Main Street, after college, and moving into our grown up lives.
“What are you doing now?” she would query with that look. And she was really interested. And really listened. Maybe not agreeing with everything, but honoring who you were in that moment.

One day, while visiting from Vermont, I stopped by for a chat. We sat in the kitchen. Syl mentioned she was frustrated with the small space and wanted to do something different. Looking at the wall with cabinets on the north side, I casually suggested a window facing her garden. Again, she gave me that look.

The next time I visited she pulled me into the kitchen to show me the new view of her garden. She was so tickled with her new window. It was, she realized, where she stood in the quiet of every morning: to think, to pray, ponder the next creative dinner, rapt in wonder at her garden, to have her own moment.

We’re missing the moments with you already, Syl; Godspeed.

Mary Oliver