Rose Who Called Me Bob

My dear friend, Rose, dead all these years . . . could it possibly be almost 15? First friend I lost to death – still think about calling her when something funny happens. Southwest side, Irish-Catholic, even more politically incorrect than Bill, but a total barrel of laughs, mostly. Called me Bob because my hair was short – “Bob Bender,” she said, “Got a nice ring to it.” Called her husband “Large,” because every piece of his clothing had a “Large” tag. Called other people names I can’t repeat, but, hey, Rose, if you’re listening, “Blue Skirt Waltz” is even more insane – considerably more – than when we worked with her, if you can imagine.

Rose’s beloved “Large” was a Chicago copper who was crushed between two cars during a traffic stop. First, they said he wouldn’t make it; then they said he’d never walk again. Well, he did make it and he did walk and he went back to work and I met him only once. Two days later, he died from a blood clot that moved from his injured legs to his heart. Rose cried when I ran to the house after hearing – “Bob, what breaks my heart is that after the party Saturday, Large told me how much he liked you and now you’ll never get to be friends.”

I met Cliff. Invited to barbecue at Rose’s. Asked if I could bring Cliff. “God, no,” said my friend, Rose. “I can’t have a (insert “N” word) at my barbecue; the neighbors would run me out of the neighborhood.” Okay. Then I won’t come either. “Suit yourself,” said my friend, Rose. Then, a few months later, she met Cliff and fell in love with him. “Oh, my God, Bob. I am so sorry. He’s wonderful. And wouldn’t he and Large have been great friends? Can you ever forgive me?” Of course, said I. Well, Rose was a money-where-your-mouth is kind of woman. After that, we were invited to every single picnic, party, barbecue, celebration and get-together at her house and, with her Southwest side Irish-Catholic friends looking askance, she would throw her arm around Cliff’s shoulder upon our arrival, announce that this is “my good friend, Cliff,” and ask what she could get him to drink. And, Cliff loved her – much to his credit, say I.

Rose died suddenly one night, only three days after she had hugged and kissed me good-bye after I had been at her house for an evening gab session. Thought it was a little strange – we definitely weren’t huggy-kissy women. Did she know it was the last time? I’ll never know. Kneeling by the casket at the wake, I sobbed as I tried to comprehend that she was gone – Cliff nudged me and said, “Damn, Debra, the old broad looks better dead than she ever did alive.” Sobs turned to guffaws as I thought how hard Rose would have laughed.

Rose who called me Bob. I think of her often – and was reminded of her while reading Elizabeth Edwards’ book, “Saving Graces.” Keeping the memories bright, says Elizabeth, helps with the empty hole in your life. Maybe so. But I still miss Rose.