Remembering Liz

I opened the paper this morning and as I glanced through the obituaries noticed that a former coworker of mine had passed away earlier this year. I hadn't seen the original notice, but today would have been her 56th birthday, and her family wanted to honor her.

Memories came to mind about how I met Liz, when I worked at Usaa and had just been assigned as a telephone operator. I remember that I had never handled multiple lines before, and felt nervous about doing so for the first time. The manager in charge asked if someone would train me, and Liz flashed me a smile, and said, "Come sit with me, honey. I'll show you how it works." I admitted to her that I was a bit apprehensive, and she comforted me by saying, "Oh, it's no big deal once you get the hang of it. It just takes a bit of practice." I watched how at ease she was with the customers, and how she spoke to them as if they were a friend. I was able to train with her for a couple of days before I actually had to take calls, and so gradually I got to know a bit about this sassy blond with the blue eyes and witty personality, who reminded me somewhat of the legendary Mae West. Liz didn't seem to be afraid of anything, and was sure to make her feelings known if necessary. I remember that she was around 5'10, and I questioned her as to why she sat so low in her chair. She glanced over at our supervisor and said, "Oh, I just don't like anyone thinking that they have to keep an eye on me. I could see how Liz's bubbly personality might clash with the somewhat stiff composure of the woman who was in charge of our unit. Liz told me that it seemed our supervisor was hoping to catch her doing something wrong, and Liz wasn't going to make it any easier for her to do so. She simply wanted to be free to be herself, and since she was polite and helpful to our customers, it seemed to be to be a reasonable request.

Liz was a larger woman, and it struck me how my smaller size didn't seem to intimidate her at all. I had grown used to the occasional snubs of people who seemed to feel that my smaller stature caused them to feel even larger than they already were. Not that I haven't had my own weight issues, but when people get into comparisons, one can sense the glaring eye of envy, and it can be a bit disconcerting, even if I have learned to ignore it for the most part. But Liz treated me the same way she treated anyone, and would occasionally offer me a hug or a smile, right when I needed it sometimes. I would occasionally glance at at her blond hair and blue eyes and ponder at just how beautiful she was, especially when she mentioned her husband. Liz was married to an older man, who obviously adored her. He had health problems, and so stayed at home while Liz worked. You could see that she was happy to do so, and in return he would find little ways to show her his love. He would make her a delicious lunch, give her flowers, and call occasionally to talk with her, and her smile would be bright when he did. Her face would glow, and Liz would say, "I love him so much. And I'm so thankful that he loves me too."

Liz sent me an email once when she was celebrating a milestone birthday. It was entitled, "An Older Woman", and it made me laugh as I read it. The part I loved best was where it said, "An older woman won't wake you up in the middle of the night to ask you how you feel about something. An older woman doesn't care how you feel..." That was amusing to me because sometimes I tended to care too much about how other people felt, and so it encouraged me to believe in myself a bit more and not feel so concerned about anyone who didn't.

Once Liz and I were delivering mail on the 3rd floor of our building. There was an insurance agent on the floor who had been requesting a missing file for the past several weeks, and Liz had offered to search for it. She had looked everywhere, on every floor, and the file seemed to have simply disappeared. On this particular day she noticed the same agent who had been requesting the file with her feet propped up on a box. Liz asked her, "Can I see that box?" It was a box of files, and it just so happened to contain the one the agent had been asking for repeatedly. I was impressed at how Liz retained her composure about the entire thing, even though the agent never even apologized.

The day came when Liz's beloved husband, Burt, passed away, and our unit was invited to attend his memorial. I think Liz's heart must have broke, that her best friend was no longer going to be a part of her life. She later retired and we eventually lost touch with one another.

When I saw the tribute to her this morning, with the sassy smile she gave as she posed for the picture, I recalled just how much this lady meant to me. Edite "Liz" Holly, thank you for caring enough to calm the fears of a coworker that you had never even met, and for confirming me as a friend from the start. Your confidant personality enabled me to determine that I wanted that same confidence in my own life. May you forever rest in peace. I know that you touched hearts while you were on this earth, as you most certainly have touched mine.