“Leaving On A Jet Plane”

It was another dripping hot and humid 4th of July party at Albie’s and either Hall & Oates or John Legend had just gotten doused with rain on the Parkway for the Welcome America show. I slinked around the tortilla chips and spotted her through a fiery glow of an LED torch light. She had shortish blonde hair, a radiant smile, and honest eyes. I was enticed, so I approached her for conversation. She looked to be about 55, although I suspected that she may have been older. Over gin and tonics, we chatted for what seemed like hours about Scandinavian design, Frida Kahlo, and disaster movies from the ‘70s. She had an unending supply of charisma and a genuine interest in performance art, which I shared.
Somewhere along the way, I asked her about her memories of the ‘60s. She seemed taken with the turn in conversation so I boldly asked, “What was it like to be a feminist during the ‘60s?” I was fully prepared for a scathing retort at my rather presumptuous question. Her response? “Darling, I have no idea what it was like to be a feminist. I was too busy being a communist.” And a big guffaw ensued. An instant friendship was made and was deepened over these 9 years as we traversed the often icy terrain of winters and sweet smiles of summers. If only to gaze into those honest eyes once more. RIP, Dear Marjorie.