Yesterday I attended a memorial service for one of the old timers of our 'new people' community. Jane and her husband moved here about the time John and I did and established a pottery in a little cove up a road steeper and rockier than ours. She was an artist in everything she did, from porcelain bowls to jewelry to gardens to an exuberant yellow chicken house painted with twining flowers.
At the service I found myself looking around, realizing how many friends from those early days are no longer with us.
But most have left their mark -- in the form of children, grandchildren, and even -- in Jane's case -- great- grandchildren still living in the area and still embodying the hopeful, creative spirit that we early transplants waved like a banner.
As I listened to folks share their memories of Jane, I remembered being at a friend's house (up that awful rocky road.) "Some new folks just moved in to that awful old house above us at the end of the road. She's pregnant and when I went up to visit, there she was, painting a little room for a nursery and just singing with happiness." That was Jane.
