MARCIA

"Marcia , (MAR-see-ah), NOT Marsha", she said, when she introduced herself back in the early sixties. A stout lady with orthopedic shoes and legs stripped of the varicose veins years early, was old than me by twenty years.

She was a mother of five living in a cottage like house on a tree lined street in Lawrence. To walk into her home was like walking into a gift shop which had just stocked up for the holidays. There was not a square corner in any room because, as I have become, a collector of what nots. She was the bread winner while her husband went to barber school; a new profession for him after an injury with the light company.

Marcia sewed doll clothes--better said--she designed and sewed doll clothes. The Barbie doll craze of 1959 continued and Marcia was designing clothes for her that would put Mattel to shame. The only problem was, the sewing machine was located near a furnace vent and the furnace was emitting fumes which made her very sick. She would say, "I am okay in the summer!" I am happy to report the leak was fixed and she went on to sew clothes not only for Barbie but other dolls as well.

One of those dolls was my own daughter. The few outfits she made for Rachel were for the summer. Imagine my surprise to learn she had enough fabric to make a simple A line dress and panty like shorts to match. The fabric, of course, was picked out by my daughter. Although she was paid for her time the agreement was she got the scraps.

Along with sewing and designing, Marcia liked to paint. She also liked to tell people about Macy's on the Kaw. I cannot tell you where it is, except it is on the Kansas River. She drew us a map on how to get to this huge junk-like yard. We spent the day rutting through the rubble looking for treasures. And, yes, I did try to Google it.

She would do child care for Rachel when Rachel was little. She was good with kids and smelled of fresh bread, had a great giggle, and loved to read to her. Something happened, and she was no longer available.

The last time I saw her, she stopped by the house on 21st Street with her station wagon outfitted for sleeping. She was either on her way to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico or on her way back.

Think about the amount of courage it took for her to pack up and move away from her family at near fifty. How could she do that? She was a survivor with a gift to make a friend or a pet out of anyone at any time. When I needed to go to the doctor and I didn't have a car, Marcia was there in her old Ford to take us. I traded a ride for a bottle of Swipe.

I have learned of Marcia's death via the Internet while reading the Lawrence Journal World. Although I have not seen or heard from her in three decades or more, I can still see her laughing and slapping her knee.

Odd, isn't it, how people crawl inside of you, teach you something, give part of themselves to you, then seem to disappear only to be recalled in the most precious of moments?

"Marcia , (MAR-see-ah), NOT Marsha". Isn't she cute!?

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