I first met Barb back in 1984 when she was hired to teach the new creative writing class the department had added. She was beautiful, with short dark hair, an infectious smile and a ton of talent. She single handedly put that course on the map—starting with one or two sections and growing it to 12 sections at its heyday. She studied her craft—taking classes with the top people in the field. And she was funny. I always said to her that she was going to be the next Erma Bombeck because she could take any household or domestic situation and have everyone in stitches with her funny observations. Barb’s chief target was always herself. When she had to spend a week in the hospital being bombarded with radiation for cancer in her neck she’d say “oh you won’t have trouble finding me in the hallway when I get back, I’ll be the one glowing in the dark.” Or after this latest surgery when her scar ran from hip to hip she said “well, I guess my bikini wearing days may be over!” And always after the self deprecating remark came the hearty laugh. We all are going to miss her wonderful laugh.
Barb was also the best friend anyone could want. If something in your life wasn’t going well, she’d stop and talk, email, call you, send you great cards and at the end she always added “I’ll say a prayer for you tonight.” She was still the good Catholic girl at heart. Her cards were always heartfelt and always signed with love. What a terrific role model she was. She told us every day how much we meant to her. How many of us do that now days? Barb showed us all the true meaning of friendship. What a great legacy she left.
To those who didn’t know her well, she seemed to have everything—a loving husband, a brilliant, handsome and mature son, and a brother who she adored. But Barb endured terrible sadness too. The diagnosis of her diabetes late in her life, the illness and deaths of her parents, her cancer, her foot surgery that never seemed to heal, unkindness at work, and finally the hernia—though all of these things she did her best to keep working, to be a good wife and mother and a wonderful and caring teacher to her students. It was difficult for her, people didn’t give her enough credit for her simple endurance. When I heard that her heart had given way in the end, I thought it’s because Barb gave her heart away to all of us, each and every day—to her family, her friends and her students. In the end, she didn’t have enough of it left for herself. She was like that, always giving, always caring for others, never worrying enough about herself.
Barb had so much to be proud of—she was a wonderful writer. I was lucky enough to read some of her short stories and I can tell you, she was the real deal. Just days before her death, I had almost convinced her to submit some of them to the Tribune’s short story contest. We talked about forming a writer’s group. She told me about a wonderful book she’d just finished by one of her former professors. She was full of plans, full of hope. To her students, she was a “mom”—always there to listen , to give unselfishly of her time, to help someone who was struggling. And she loved great literature—Dickenson, Whitman, Wilder, you name it—Barb could quote you chapter and verse. I know she was a wonderful teacher because she taught both of my children. They both loved Barb and were distraught when they heard of her passing. She was a caring presence in the lives of hundreds of her students. But Barb would have told you that her finest “piece of poetry” was her son, Matt. No child was wanted more, and loved more. Quiet little Barb could become a ferocious mother bear when anything threatened her beloved Mattie. She need not have worried, Matt’s a great kid. All the rest of us were lucky that we all got to share in his growing up whenever we went in Barb’s room. Everywhere you looked, there were his photographs and drawings. He’s all grown up now, and what a fine young man he’s become—smart, handsome, mature, a real “babe magnet” . Barb was so proud of him when I saw her after she had returned home. She showed me his straight “A report card with all the wonderful comments and said “allow me to be the proud momma”. And she was. I know if we were to have had the time to ask Barb one last time “What can we do you you?” She would have said “Take care of my Matthew.” I hope all of us will become surrogate aunts and watch over him.
Barb, you were loved, you were respected and you will be terribly missed. Your life was lived well, with love, with compassion , with kindness and passion. Your life was too short. But you will live on in your family, in your friends and in the lives of your students, and in that you will be immortal in our hearts.
Rest in soft peace, my gentle friend.
Marti G.
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