Happy Groundhog Day

To some, Groundhog Day is the celebration of the end of winter.  Or the reminder that there's still more winter ahead of us.  To me, it's the celebration of the life of a dear friend.

Carrie loved Groundhog Day.  It was her favorite holiday.

I met Carrie years ago, early in my career in mortgage banking.  Carrie was beautiful, and flawed, and quirky, and we immediately became fast friends.  She was one of those astoundingly attractive women who did not get by on her looks.  As a matter of fact, she was refreshingly unaware of her affect on others.  And as beautiful as she was, her hands were always a mess; she was always working on one project or another.  She'd tackle anything!

I spent a large part of my single, adult life with Carrie.  We only worked together for a short time, but we continued on as friends.  We had common interests; we'd get together to bake, or can and preserve, or taste wine, or antique, or vacation.  Or do other stuff.  Carrie was the godmother to my cats, Ricky and Lucy.  Carrie organized my cat shower, when I decided I'd adopt them.

Cats were one of Carrie's passions.  She always had cats; always rescued cats; always turned those close to her into cat people.  One of my favorites of her cats was Meatloaf, a big, fat grey tabby cat.  And then there was Arlene.  May she rest in peace, Arlene was one of the ugliest cats I've ever seen.  And she had a terrible flatulence problem. Arlene could, and often did, clear rooms.

Carrie met and married John, and still our friendship remained intact.  As a matter of fact, I saw the movie Groundhog Day with John and Carrie.  Their marriage didn't last.  Our friendship did.  For a while.

Carrie always chose quirky living quarters; no simple apartment complex for her.  There was the storefront in Lambertville before she married John, and the three family in the Berg in Trenton with the funky floor plan after.  To this day though, I covet the home she shared with John in downtown Trenton; a brick, center hall colonial complete with a garret and a butler's pantry.

Sadly, I was the one who blew up the friendship. I'd never, ever done before what I did to Carrie.  I let a man, in this case, my husband, come between me and a friend.  That Carrie even came to our wedding, after what I'd done to her, still astounds me.

I was working at yet another mortgage job when Mike called me with the sad news that Carrie had died. She was 43.  She was still unbelievably beautiful.  She had found her next true love, and was living her dream with him.  We had found peace in our friendship.

She had been having stomach pains, he told me, that she'd ignored.  By the time she went to see a doctor about them, the cancer had spread, and it was inoperable.

I never got to tell her how much I loved her.

I never got to tell her goodbye.  Missing you, Carrie.