Thursday, September 27, 2012

Peas on Earth


















Amy and I met shortly after I arrived in Santa Fe in the late fall of 2001. When we were introduced, I wasn't so sure I was going to like her. The first thing out of her mouth was about how my "accent" sounded like something right out of the movie, "Fargo." I silently took umbrage. I do not sound like a character from "Fargo," but I am from Minn-e-so-ta. Turns out, she was not the only person who would pick up on that. In time, I learned to ameliorate it through a greater awareness - cutting way back on my, "Yeah, you betcha's," - and we became fast friends, though she was sort of a city girl.

Born and bred on the east coast, in a family that had become wealthy but broken, she was still struggling with family issues when we met. They seemed to follow her around, nipping at her heels. We had many conversations about life with her father, otherwise known to her as "The Great Santini." I was invited to lunch with them once, when he was visiting Amy, and I saw things differently. But, perception is everything, I didn't grow up in their house, and Amy's perception seemed locked in around that issue. I only mention this because, well, it all seems tied to Amy's life, and, perhaps, even her passing.

Amy was a sculptress who created beautiful pieces using the theme of pea pods, naming her small company "Peas on Earth." She had an article in "Victoria," a magazine I had liked very much at one time, years before I met her, and she'd built a nice following to her work, often creating commissioned work such as a canopy bed for someone's daughter, or a garden bench for a mutual friend who lived just off Canyon Road. She created a line of jewelry and, to make ends meet, home decor items such as wall sconces, candle holders, and wine decanters. Just prior to her passing, a piece of her sculpture was added to the International Peace Garden on the border between the U.S. and Canada.





Before she arrived in New Mexico, she'd spent most of her adult life in New York City. She got her start by creating jewelry for herself and then for friends who inquired about it. One day, while on an elevator, someone from Cartier spotted her jewelry and she was invited aboard as an apprentice designer. I'll let Amy tell you a little more about that in her own words further on in this story.

At the time, she lived in the same neighborhood as John Gotti, a "family" man you might have heard of, and she mentioned that many times his guys would help her carry her groceries, always very polite and helpful. It was just one of the NYC stories she shared with me and I was all ears. She had some great stories.

We both liked to try a variety of cuisine and Santa Fe has no shortage of that. One day it would be Greek, another day Thai, and yet another day Himalayan or Vietnamese. It was a cornucopia. Because of her, I had my first cup of Turkish coffee. The best cup of coffee I have ever had. It comes in a very small cup and you only drink about 2/3 of it so as to avoid the grounds at the bottom. No sweetener, no cream, and it was absolutely delicious.

She possessed a joie de vivre that constantly amazed me, her sense of style always shining through. She could throw something on and be ready to go in no time at all. And she did it with no fear. Amy didn't keep the most organized house, but she did keep an interesting one. One day, we were getting ready to go someplace, she hadn't selected anything from her wardrobe yet and laundry day was way overdue, so she pulled a colorful vest from the pile, asked, "What do you think?" Then she put it on - backwards. It was perfect.

Her hair had turned silver at a young age, and so she had fun with it, often sporting a slash of pink among the silver. It was a combo that seemed to go with her style and her passion for life. One evening, as we sat at the Saigon Cafe, she handed me a small box. Inside was a brooch and a pair of earrings she had created for me: pea pods, with tendrils curling around them in an elegant earthiness, and an insect, sort of a pea pod praying mantis. I was thrilled and loved wearing them. The purse I'm displaying them on is one from my collection. I bought it at the Tesuque Flea Market, where we loved to go and just look around on the weekends. They once had matching slippers, which have since worn out.




She would haul stuff home from second hand stores or the Habitat for Humanity store and rework it into a great new piece of home decor, a hanging lamp or something. One day, we thought we'd go up to the Santa Rosa Reservoir in the hills above Chimayo. We both had a hankering to be near some water. We decided to take the road through Nambe. As we made the turn, we saw a white cabinet in the middle of the road. We stopped, she jumped out, hauled it in the car, examined it briefly, and then announced it was exactly what she had been looking for, for a project she was working on. See?  I'm not the only one.

She was one of those friends with whom you could share anything and she would listen without judgement or an inordinate amount of questions. We were both adult women and had lived our lives without a whole lot of hesitation. She was working on a screenplay loosely based on her life, and she talked of how we'd enter the world of film-making together, setting the industry on its ears with what we had to say. A lot of talk, but it sure was fun talk.

We talked about our times of loneliness and how we dealt with it, the little ways we'd found to combat it, when it wanted to tap at the edges of our consciousness. She had the practice of leaving the radio on at home, to a much-loved oldies station, and whenever she returned from being out and about, there it was, voices and that familiar, almost always happy music.

We shared a friendship just shy of three years, but we packed a lot into that time. Cancer seemed to come and go and just when we thought she had it licked, it reared its ugly head again. About the time I thought she was finally past it, I found out she was just keeping quiet about it. Maybe she wanted to protect me from the worst of it, or she just wanted to proceed on her own. One day, in the fall of 2005, her mother came to visit, told her it was time for her to come home to Saratoga Springs, in New York, and within a few days Amy had given away most of her things, made arrangements to move back east, and that's the last time I saw her.

We stayed in touch through letters and phone calls for a few months. She sent photographs of a lake in upstate New York she thought I'd like, with islands for camping, and encouraged me to visit as soon as possible. That was around Christmas time in 2005. A few weeks went by and I hadn't heard from her, so I called her number only to find it was no longer in service. I found her mother's number and called. Amy was already gone. She had passed in late January and her mother, not knowing me at all, had not contacted me. It was probably almost impossible news to deliver and I do understand.

After hearing the news, I found myself driving over to Second Street, where she had lived, walked down to her loft, thought about the day before she'd left, how I had walked away from her place with the sun shining so bright and warm, and yet knowing, on some very deep level, I would never see her again. That day, I barely held it together on my way to the car. When I returned to her place, after hearing of her passing, I sat in my car again and wept. Bitterly. It seemed unfair and it seemed unnecessary, and I had to take some time to adjust, learn to accept it.

It's taken me some time, but I think I have come to accept it, as much as one can accept the loss of a friend who brought so much to one's life. It's why I can write about her today. I have come to appreciate more and more the struggle she faced, how she fought to maintain a sense of normalcy, her deep love of life, and her ability to live each moment fully for whatever time remained. Her courage encourages me still. I'm even thinking of replacing those worn out velvet slippers with a brand new pair.


And now, I'd better pull myself together, because Buddy isn't used to seeing me cry and it's time to get on with this day. Maybe I'll wear my pea pod earrings and brooch around the house for a while and think of Amy. I can see her now: she's riding in a convertible through the streets of Paris, a man who loves her is by her side, just like all those years ago. She's happy, the sun is shining, and the wind is blowing through her beautiful pink and silver hair.


Here, in Amy's own words, from her brochure (please click to enlarge):





Postscript: As I was going through the memorabilia and brochures for this piece on Amy, I decided to look again at that last card she sent me, about five weeks before her passing. I hadn't looked at it for years, nor could I remember anything about it. Imagine my surprise when this is what I found. 



Yes, I believe she is telling me something. For those who might not remember this post, from March of last year, "Everything Lives Inside Us."

teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/2011/10/everything-lives-inside-us.html







37 comments:

  1. Thank you for sharing Amy with us. Easy to see why you miss her, and easy to se ethat her memories are in cherishing hands. Wish you a day of happy memories and a smile each time yu see those earrigs in the mirror.

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    1. Thank you, Ashling. It felt like the right time to honor our friendship.

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  2. What a ride of life you are on Teresa Evangeline. A very special friendship and learning experience for anyone who reads this.

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    1. Thank you so much, OF.I appreciate that you take the time to read and comment.

      Give Stretch a scratch for me.

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    1. Hello Very Funny Person. Thanks for visiting.

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  4. What a lovely description of your friend. I wish I had a friend like that! You are very lucky since she is still at least in your head...
    Jeanne K.

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    1. Why is it so hard to find friendships like this? You would think they would happen more frequently, but it certainly has not been the case in my own life, that unconditional acceptance. I suppose that's what makes them so precious. Thank you, Jeanne. I wish for you a friendship just like this, with a happier outcome. Although, yes, she is right here, no doubt.

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  5. You made me cry. A lot. It was a good cry. A cry for all those "lost." All those I hope we'll someday find again.

    I hope your cry was a good one as well, my beautiful friend.

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    1. t, I must say, I'm glad for your reaction to these important feelings. When they're just under the surface as they surely must be for you at this time, it's important to honor them, and crying is a good (I typed god )way to do so - a catharis, and an opening to life again.

      My cry was a good one, too. Thank you, dear man.

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  6. Isn't it remarkable how these special people can just vanish? Thanks for an excellent post.

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    1. It seems so. I beat myself up for a long time that I didn't try to reach her during those five weeks, but somehow I think I knew that was what she wanted and what was best for our friendship. Not easy to accept, until now.

      Thanks, Linda.

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  7. It was so sad, and I have cried too. What a lovely and exciting friend and personality she was. My first thought was that it was not fair that she had to die - but we have learned that life is not about fairness, haven't we. Yet it is still difficult to understand, and it is so sad to lose a friend.

    I think you are right Teresa. She wanted to to protect you. What a great friend.

    You should get those velvet slippers. ´)

    Grethe ´)

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    1. Grethe, You are so dear to me, and such a good friend, with no distance at all between us, not really. No, it doesn't seem fair, but it seems to be inextricably linked with life as we know it.It's going on seven years and it's just now something I can talk about. The dream helped me get to this place.

      I think so, too, Grethe. And I plan to replace those slippers soon. Thanks for the encouragement. :)

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  8. A beautiful, sad, story of friendship and love. People cross our paths for many reasons. Thank you for sharing...

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  9. I am so grateful to read about your and Amy's friendship, Teresa, and will admit to a few tears just now. Friendship can be both fragile and everlasting at the same time. You honor her with this. I hope you know that. You honor her and you honor your friendship, as much as the loss hurts.

    I'm sure I've seen Amy's jewelry, probably in Victoria.

    Thank you, dear Teresa, for sharing such a tender remembrance.

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    1. Thank you, Penny. "Fragile and everlasting," is a wonderful way to describe it.

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  10. What a wonderful friendship: you were both blessed.

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    1. Thank you, Montucky. A friend and I were just drooling over your latest image. What a view!

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  11. Teresa, My heart almost stopped beating when I saw the first photo and recognized after reading just a few lines that you and I both knew Amy G. I still have earrings and a mirror she made and visited with her off and on during vacations when I was still teaching. Even worked her booth at the Santa Fe flea market a few times while on vacation. Her mother and I have known one another since the mid-80's when we were both attending a wonderful workshop at St. John's College. Went skiing at her Dad's place in Aspen with Amy and her mother...many many years ago. Met some of her cousins and an aunt on Long Island ...also many years ago. Her mother and I talk about once a month and correspond with some regularity. Still visit with mutual friends we all had in Santa Fe. Her mother was and still is devastated by Amy's death. Am still stunned about the coincidence!

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    1. Oh, Kate, another morning of tears. I had a feeling someone might know her and respond, I had no idea it would be you, but I'm not surprised and so pleased! I hope I have done no disservice to her family. Her mother is a lovely woman and I can easily imagine her continued sense of loss. Let's exchange emails, shall we?

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    2. For those who might be interested: Kate and I have corresponded, sharing some sweet remembrances of Amy, and Kate has sent a photo of a beautiful wall sculpture Amy did. A beautiful small world it is!

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  12. Such a beautiful story about a beautiful person. Thank you for sharing her with me. I was very moved by both your writing about her, and about the person she was who shines through them.

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    1. Thank you, Jan. Your response makes me feel as though what I was trying to do in honoring her came through. I'm so glad!

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  13. Dear Teresa, like DJan, I was very moved by your story about Amy and your friendship and her death. Thank you for the link to your October posting on the Japanese woodcutter. I noted that much of the art showed a bridge or road going somewhere, just as the last card Amy send you does. I wonder if she thought that she was walking over that bridge to something or someone. As you tell us about her, I recognize such an adventurous spirit in her. Someone open to and joyous about new possibilities. The deep friendship you shared must have been--is--a blessing in both your lives. Peace.

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    1. Yes, exactly my thought, too. The bridge represents so much. We are always crossing new bridges in life, "death" being only one of them. She had an absolute conviction of the continuity of Life, as do I, and so that alleviates some of my pain at her passing.

      "Joyous...new possibilities, now and always!

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  14. Your writing shows just how much she meant to you, she left too soon. What a lovely card she sent you...I think she was easing you into realization that she had bridges to cross ahead. How hard it is for us left behind.
    I bet Buddy is a great comfort isn't he?

    Sending you hugs dear Teresa, your friend truly was a shining person.
    Jane x

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    1. "Bridge Across Forever," as Richard Bach referred to it. It was a fine message she left me and leaves me now. Yes, too soon, it seems, but she ventured forth to the next possibility and I cheer her on.

      Buddy is my angel in fur. :)

      Hugs to you, dear Jane. Thank you for seeing what I saw.

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  15. i have come back and read this twice. Amazing.

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    1. See why I love your praying mantis photographs so much? They are beautiful in their own rigtt and the colors absolutely sing, but this adds another dimension, shall we say.... )

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  16. Hi Teresa,

    This was so sad to read, but it was also beautiful. Really close friendships like this don't happen nearly as often as we would like. We are lucky to experience them when they do. You wrote about your relationship with her beautifully. I'm sad that you lost your friend.

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    1. Thank you, Ray, for your kind thoughts. These types of friendships are real blessings. I'm glad I finally was able to write about her, and honor our friendship.

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  17. Over 20 years ago, I bought one of Amy's Peas on Earth necklaces, a wire with cascading peas, at a small shop in Conifer, CO. Always one of my favorite things, I've had too many compliments to count on it. Imagine my surprise when vacationing in Taos, years later, I stumbled upon her shop across the parking lot of the St. Francis Mission. I met Amy, and was able to tell her about how many people loved her necklace. I was also able to add more pea jewelry. I looked for her shop on subsequent visits, to no avail. I am so sorry to hear of her passing and your loss of a wonderful friend. I was just struck by the thought of trying the internet to locate her shop when I saw your post. Amy was an inspired artist and the world has lost a bright light.

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    1. I cannot express what this means to me right now. I'm so pleased to hear from someone who knew of her artistry. Yes, she was a bright light. And such a dear good friend. I still miss her... Thank you so much for this kindness.

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