35. Donna. Sort Of.
My bestie, Donna Eaton, is many things. Truth be told, every one of us is a mix of a whole bunch of things, but people tend to grab onto something that becomes the first thing used to describe the multi-faceted human beings we are. I suspect the word that comes to mind by most everyone when describing Donna is: strong.
My friend has weathered far too many storms in her life and has shouldered many with and for her family and friends — of which the woman has tons.
When we met, we hit the ground running with our friendship, and we tended to run forward. While I have known her for 30 years I cannot tell you where in Worcester she grew up other than to say she was raised in a house.
A little background: Worcester is known as the City of Seven Hills. I’m going for broke here – I’m going to try to name all 7 – without help. When my mind was working at the top of its game, (before the whole Swiss cheese of cancer), I relied on a well-honed organization of thought. I put A before B before C, and eventually arrived where I wanted to be. I’m going to try that here by alphabetizing the hills, writing them down, and seeing where we land: “Airport Hill, Bancroft Hill, Belmont Hill, Burncoat Hill, College Hill, Deadhorse Hill, Green Hill, and Vernon Hill. Phew! That felt great, I named the 7 hills of Worcester.” Then I counted. “Right off the bat I’m wrong. I named 8 hills.” I counted again because I suck at math and math starts with counting. “Eight.” I thought for a minute, the kind of thinking I would have done back in the day when Trivial Pursuit was all the rage. I would have realized I was close to the correct answer, so I would have pushed in and reasoned it out.
A digression here: The person who I never wanted to compete against in Trivial Pursuit — the person I would beg to be on my team was Donna Rosetti. She and I went to the same high school, though she was a year behind me — apparently, that was the year EVERYTHING was taught to the students of South High.
Donna R. passed away a handful of years ago. I think of her most every day because it was she who introduced me to some of my favorite music — Jackson Browne and Fleetwood Mac are most definitely at the top of the list.
I listen to music ALL OF THE TIME, ergo I think of Donna R., ALL OF THE TIME. I hope to hell we bump into one another in Heaven. I suspect she’ll be in one of the rec rooms whooping some scholar’s ass at the pie game while spinning Jackson’s Late for the Sky album.
One more digression (I doubt it, but whatever): I played a very rewarding game of pie one time — I was on fire and was successfully pulling useless tidbits of random shit from wherever they reside and making it to the center circle in record time. I was going to win a game! I could feel it! I could taste victory!
And. Then. This. Happened.
Question: “What was John F. Kennedy’s biggest mistake while in office as President of the United States?”
I said, “Going to Texas.”
“Nope, the Bay of Pigs.”
I knew the answer, but all things considered, I strongly believed going to Texas was his biggest mistake. I argued the point, suggested we contact the makers of the game for a judgment call — to no avail. I lost the game, but I still say I was right.
Back to my 7 hills riff. I tried talking through the list of 8, pretending this was for a piece of Trivial Pursuit pie. A sweat formed along my brow and upper lip. “Okay. The naming of the hills must date back — A. Long. Ass. Time. — definitely before there were airports, so I must be wrong about Airport Hill — BUT I live on that one.”
Before I finished that thought I remembered Indian Hill and added it to the list, “Great now I have 9.” I called out to Tim who was boiling water for his nightly Lipton, “What are the 7 hills of Worcester?”
“Airport, College, Bancroft, Grafton …….”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all I can think of, but Pakachoag Hill might be one, but I think that’s called College Hill.”
“When I named them, I came up with 9.”
“Can I borrow two?” he asked.
“That’ll still leave you short by 1.”
“So what’d you come up with?” he asked while passing three Figgies my way.
“I named mine alphabetically.”
“Naturally.”
“Airport Hill was first, but I’ve already decided the hills were probably named before there were airplanes and airports, and since Worcester has a rich Native American history, the hills were probably named Nipmuck or Tatnuck.”
“Or Pakachoag?”
“Yeah.” I looked at my list again and tried to use a more historical filter. “Indian Hill – it’s a bit politically incorrect in today’s world, but it might have been the White Man’s way of paying tribute to the Native Americans who lived in Worcester and were asked to vacate their property.”
“Are we about to do a research project on Native Americans?”
“Not yet, but soon. I want to talk about Deadhorse Hill, first.”
“What about it?”
“When I was a kid, someone told me it was called that because horses would die trying to get to the top of the hill.”
“Oh, God.”
“First question — how many horses do you think needed to perish before a hill was named in honor of the deceased beasts?”
“Could have been just one horse.”
“No way! It had to be lots of horses. If it was only one, the hill would be named after that horse, like Trigger Hill, or maybe after the equine’s breed, like Appaloosa Hill or Palomino Hill. Nope not palomino. I don’t think that’s a breed, I think it’s a color and the breed might be the American Paint, so the hill would have been American Paint Hill. Kinda a mouthful, though.”
Mr. Wonderful sipped his tea and offered a shake of his head, “When was the last time you took your pills?”
“When you were napping. Hope you enjoyed the four hour snooze fest.”
“Yeah. I must have needed it. Did you sleep?”
“Yeup. I woke up ten minutes before you, that’s when I took my pills.”
He laughed and headed to the kitchen, “Want anything?”
“Yeah, I want to whittle my 9 hills down to 7 and I want them to be the correct seven.”
“Tell me what you came up with?”
“Airport Hill, Bancroft Hill, Belmont Hill, Burncoat Hill, College Hill, Deadhorse Hill, Green Hill, Vernon Hill, and Indian Hill — that was a last-minute add on.”
“Wow, you did good.”
“Well. I did well. Thirty-five years, Tim. Adjectives. Adverbs.”
“Shut up.”
“I have cancer.”
“I heard.”
We laughed. I took a minute to ponder the ‘did well – did good’ debate that was suddenly raging in my head, and how we got here — not the cancer ‘here,’ but the conversation ‘here.’
Tim checked the clock. “You wanted to watch a movie at eight, so you’d better figure this shit out.”
I moaned loudly. “I really need to figure this out — it’s good for me to push in when I forget things.”
“Then go for it. You’re probably close. Push in to the contemporary names ‘cause you and I aren’t gonna know the Indian names for the hills.”
“Native American names.”
“Shut. Up.”
I laughed my response, “So let’s whittle down my list. I read it again. “Airport, Bancroft, Belmont, Burncoat, College, Deadhorse, Green, Vernon, and Indian Hill.”
Tim started whittling. “We live on Airport Hill so let’s keep that one. And Bancroft Hill and Belmont Hill sound right, but I don’t think Burncoat is a hill.”
I don’t know why, but I suddenly began mimicking that British game show host, “Burncoat Hill — you are the weakest link, Goodbye.”
Tim groaned.
I laughed and started (delete: in) on the list, again. “Okay, so we’re keeping Airport, Bancroft, and Belmont, and we should keep College Hill, cause it’s a big-ass hill, and Vernon Hill, cause it’s another big-ass hill — that brings us to 5.”
“So what’s left?”
“Deadhorse, Green, and Indian.”
“Indian Hill is a lake — take that one off.”
“Should we flip a coin on the last two?”
“Deadhorse or Green? Let’s go with Green Hill. So what’s our list?”
“Airport, Bancroft, Belmont, College, Green, Vernon.”
“That’s only 6.”
“You suck.”
“Put Deadhorse back on the list and look this shit up on the internet.”
“That’s cheating.”
“Who cares? The movie starts in five minutes.”
I reluctantly searched the web and read the real list. “1) Pakachoag Hill is where the largest number of Nipmuck Indians lived. Good for you Tim, you got one. 2) Sagatabscot Hill aka Union Hill. Ooo, we forgot about that effing hill. I think that’s where Jackie McTigue works.”
“I thought she worked at City View.”
“And that school’s on a hill, I wonder which one.”
“Just continue reading the list — please!”
“Okay, 3) Hancock Hill was once owned by John Hancock. Ooo that reminds me, did you pay our life insurance bill — cause you know, you’ll be needing the money.”
“All set. You’ve got two minutes.”
“Before I die?”
He laughed. “Maybe. You’ve got two minutes before the movie.”
“Oh, okay. 4) Chandler Hill aka Belmosy Hill near East Park. So that must be Belmont Hill. 5) Green Hill named after the Green Family. I wonder if Helena is a relative?”
“One minute, let’s go.”
“6) Bancroft Hill named after the well-known historian, George Bancroft. I’m thinking old George should have written this shit in a history book, then maybe we’d know it.”
Tim turned on the television.
“Okay. Okay. 7) Newton Hill. It says it used to be farmland and is now a public park. I wonder which one?”
The movie music started, so I put my computer aside and tuned in with the hubby. An hour later he asked THE QUESTION.
“Why were you interested in the 7 hills?”
“I’m writing a blog about Donna, and I don’t know where she grew up, and I sort of went down a rabbit hole.”
“And dragged my ass down with you. And by the way, Donna grew up on College Hill.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
“Shhhhh, the movie’s back on.”
We watched the movie, mostly in silence, although I got onto a tangent when the main characters began talking about ice wine.
“Ooo, I researched ice wine when I was writing Her Scream. I bet this movie is set in Upstate New York.”
I gloated when we learned it was.
At 10 PM he tucked me in — at 4 AM I opened my eyes — and this Word doc and got back to the blog about Donna.
Donna is a very strong woman. She’s gone through things that would bring most people to their knees, and keep them there. She has an enormous capacity for love, and a very strong moral compass. She’s a straight-shooter, and rarely misses her mark. And as soon as she’s fired off her round, drawn blood, and holstered her six-shooter, she’s all open-arms waiting to shoulder your pain.
But.
I can count on one hand the number of times I saw my bestie cry. I’ve seen her eyes well on countless occasions, but she always manages to push her tears back and swallow them hard. So, when I answered the phone a few days ago and heard her sputtering words between anguished sobs, I quickly read caller ID to make sure it was Donna, then I immediately thought the worst, “Oh My God, what happened?”
“You’re dying. And I read your blog. And I’m gonna miss you. And you’re so brave. And I don’t know how you’re doing this. And what will I do when you’re gone. And how are you feeling? And you can call me in the night if you’re sad.”
She took a long racking breath and I pushed in. “Looks like I chose the right person to deliver my eulogy.”
We both cracked up before she started in. “And I’m fucking pissed!”
“About the eulogy crack?”
“No. I’m pissed that you’re dying! I mean seriously, what the fuck!”
“Ah. Finally, something I can work with. A pissed off Donna.”
When my bestie is faced with the option of crying or bitching, she always heads toward the B word — or the F word. Her proclivity for the F-bomb is one of the reasons we’re such good friends. Unlike me, though, when some tragedy befalls an individual or thousands of individuals, Donna immediately dives headfirst into the deep end of the angry pool while I head to the stairs at the shallow end, shaking with fear or anguish as I toe into the water.
Examples.
“Princess Diana is dead,” I said, already sobbing.
“Fuckin’ drunk driver.”
“The World Trade Centers are collapsing,” I said from the corner of my living room where I’d curled myself into the fetal position.
“Fuckin’ terrorists.”
“Betty White died.”
“Two weeks before her 100th birthday – what the fuck is that about?”
Diversion: When I heard the news about Betty White, I called upstairs to Jessica to tell her. I am a HUGE Golden Girls fan, so my daughters grew up with the show on the television nearly around the clock. They know everything about the characters and about the actresses who played them.
I heard about Betty’s passing from Hannah, who called in tears to tell me. It’s difficult to bring my older daughter to tears, although she’s become a bit of a weeper since hearing my news. (delete: and was a full-out bawler at news of Betty.)
Anyway, “Hey, Jessica,” I hollered from my perch.”
She came halfway down the stairs and poked her head over the banister, “What?”
“Betty White died”
“Oh, no! How old was she?”
“Ninety-nine.”
“How’d she die?”
“Skydiving accident.”
“Really?”
SILENCE. LOTS AND LOTS OF SILENCE.
The. Penny. Dropped.
We cracked up laughing and in walked Hannah. “What’s so funny?”
“Betty White died,” Jessica answered.
Hannah turned and left with a few choice words on her tongue.
Anyway, back to Donna and that phone call. I listened to my bestie’s anguish and it broke my heart.
And then it dawned on her that I am the one who’s dying. “I’m sorry,” she moaned.
“Yeah, me too.”
“I can do your eulogy.”
“I know.”
The reason I know Donna will do a really good job delivering my eulogy is because my bestie is strong.