For the last three years, my day has ended with an email to Connie Waterman. Nothing long or complicated. A word or two about my day. A question about hers. Some weather observations. And always, always a valediction of love. I treasured her responses—crafted similarly—though periodically rich in details drawn from her memory. Her words and friendship brought my day to a peaceful close.
I learned to know Connie five or six years ago when my friends, Jackie and Peter Lenmark, invited me to join them in taking Sunday evening dinner out to Connie. “Out” because Connie lived in a historic farmhouse on the edge of Canyon Ferry Lake, about 20 miles east of Helena, at the foot of the Big Belts.
The Lenmarks had known Connie and her husband Norm for years—the friendship borne of shared community engagement, the legal world, Montana adventures. After Norm died a decade ago, the friendship deepened with those Sunday evening dinners and Peter’s skilled attention to Connie’s lawn and water system.
There were many Connies whom I didn’t know. Or knew about only in the skinniest outline: young girl in a New York orphanage; college student; teacher; social worker who moved to Colorado; single fearless young woman; mom; wife; juvenile probation officer.
I knew the Connie who was the sum of those histories and adventures. Who rebelled against being in her 80s and the related debilities. The Connie who also wouldn’t give up. Who—as through her life—saw and loved life’s ridiculous moments, had the kindest heart, and still didn’t suffer fools or manipulators gladly.
I knew the Connie who played mean hands of bridge. Who spent serious money on a stray cat. The Connie who loved all birds. Who nurtured especially her neighborhood flock of hummingbirds. Who could get down and weed her extensive flower garden. Who dressed stylishly. Who treasured a quick draw or two on a cigarette several times a day—apologetically and resolutely. And came to share an attentive, thoughtful daily-practiced friendship with me.
With just the slightest prompting, Connie loved to regale us with the hijinks that she and Norm got up to. She laughed at her own foibles: an absence of any sense of direction; her attempts to drive a stick shift and gas up her vehicle at the county pumps. She described characters whose eccentricities amused or bugged her.
But she was in deadly earnest when she talked about her philosophy of granting young people—including her probationers—her respect and encouragement. She had no patience for administrators who relied on punishment more than fair play. She reveled in telling us about her refusal to put her tall, beefy teenage charges in handcuffs as police had—despite her own diminutive stature. And she had no qualms about letting her juvenile charges provide directions to their homes. More than once, in those evening emails—as she considered her own life—she’d tell me that she thought—she hoped—that she’d made a difference in the world.
That first Covid year was difficult. Our Sunday evening dinners didn’t seem safe. We tried Zoom. Connie played some bridge online. We managed some gatherings outdoors on my porch or hers. Peter did yeoman’s duty in working on her yard and house. That’s when we began our evening emails. And a steady diet of jigsaw puzzles. But Connie was still more isolated than she’d been.
Early in 2021, after her dishwasher broke and damaged her kitchen floor, Connie asked Peter to take her to Bozeman to visit her daughter and son-in-law for the weekend. Cathy and Andy Grace are both physicians. They welcomed her to their extraordinary home at the edge of the Gallatin Valley, but quickly realized that Connie wasn’t just tired. She couldn’t get enough air.
Following a hospital stay, Connie returned to her daughter’s house, on a steady flow of oxygen and hospice care. Connie died this past week—almost two years later—still writing those evening emails within a couple weeks of her death.
Early on in her stay at Cathy and Andy’s, Connie remarked how strange it was to receive no real mail addressed just to her. Cathy had taken over bill paying and other business correspondence. I know the joy of real mail. So Connie’s comment galvanized me to begin a mail campaign. Sending ready-made cards at first. And then evolving to ones that I made for her—poaching pictures from second-hand art and history, photography and natural resource books for one side and writing notes or adding quotations on the other.
I loved this small dab of creating and the imperative to get out of the house to the post office. The correspondence deepened our friendship. Connie would comment on artists that she loved; historic photos prompted memories of her house parents and routines at the orphanage. She remembered what I wrote about my grandkids and mentioned that in her emails. I found a books of classic paintings in which the faces of famous people had been replaced with cat photos. Those were Connie’s favorite cards!
For several years, we exchanged very proper, small Christmas presents. But the holiday before Connie headed to Bozeman, she called one afternoon while I was running errands. She was waiting, she said, in front of my condo and would continue to do so if I’d be home soon. I hurried but still kept her waiting before we could meet on the porch for her to hand me a big wrapped Christmas present. She didn’t ask me to unwrap it then—but hoped I’d do so soon. I know that I waited longer than she wanted. In a burst of wonderful whimsy, she gave me a cat toy, a “Fling A MA String.” She was so eager to see if my resident cat, Simon, would love it. Truth be told, he ignored it. But with enough small treats, I could lure him to its proximity and send Connie the photo. My new kittens, however, need no extra encouragement.
Cathy and Andrew’s living room faced south and west—floor to ceiling glass delivered every sunset into their home. And Connie always always savored the beauty of those. She’d often describe the colors in them to me in her evening emails. And wished that I could see them—knowing that my predominant view is to east. She’d remark on her extraordinary luck to be where her day ended with such beauty. From September 10:
Hi Marcella,
As always, it was a splendid sunset with the sun going down as a fiery red ball and the western horizon in all shades of pink and mauve. Every sunset I revel in how lucky I am to be surrounded by such a magnificent panorama of pink, purple, and mauve in all shades.
Love, Connie
And on the evening of October 8—less than a month before her death—Connie sent this email. For me, Connie lives in these words of celebration and in “her” incredible sunsets.
Hi Marcella,
Hope all is well with you and your kitties. I have just watched a beautiful evening sunset–fiery reds to all shades of pink, mauve and purple. I like to believe, perhaps naively, that if everyone could experience the quiet beauty of such sunsets, the world would experience less animosity and stress.
Take care and sleep well.
Love, Connie ©
