Linda’s Legacy

It’s funny how bad news hits you in different ways. The news of our beloved neighbor Larry’s death three years ago set me in flight, quickly running from my back door across our backyards to his side for a final goodbye and then to his wife Linda’s side in hopes of offering some comfort. Last Sunday, the news of Linda’s death left me paralyzed, unable to move.

She was the third friend and mentor who had died in a seemingly short period of time. I felt a rock in my foundation shift underneath me.

I don’t remember the first time I met Linda Geck, whether it was at one of her famous neighborhood barbecues or a more informal gathering. She was our backyard neighbor for twenty-two years and her door was always open to us. “Come in!” she would sing cheerfully from her chair when she heard our familiar knock at her back door. She’d scurry to greet us with a loving hug, at times using a cane, and lately with the aid of a walker. Her face lit up with an appreciative smile and twinkling eyes, happy to see friends who dropped in even for a few minutes. We’d come over mostly in the evenings, after she had put in a day’s work.

In the Spring you could find Linda in her greenhouse carefully planting and nurturing the seeds she had chosen that winter. She’d pour over catalogs, carefully reading about each variety and deciding which annuals would perfectly complement the other, or figuring out when each vegetable would come on, in order to time her canning. In the summer, she was in her gardens. Her flowers were stunning, something out of Better Homes and Gardens. Perennials decorated the path along the driveway. Annuals spilled out of pots upon pots in her back yard with glorious displays of color. She spent hours in late summer and early fall preserving her bountiful vegetable harvest.  And in winter, she’d be in her chair knitting or crocheting or at the sewing machine, working on her latest project. In every season, rain or shine, Linda had work to do and she did it with pleasure, proficiency, and pride.

Linda knew how to make beautiful things. She was expert at every kind of needle craft, tatting, Brazilian embroidery, needlepoint, cross stitch.  You name it, she knew how to do it. She quilted quilts, knitted sweaters, crocheted Afghans. She would find a certain item she liked at a bizarre or in a magazine, like a scarf or a placemat or doll or something, improve the design, make a ton of them and then give them all away.  I was often getting her expert advice on my projects. She always had an accessory to add to take it to it the next level.  She helped me make napkins for our son’s wedding. After the wedding was over, we sewed some of the napkins into a quilt. She helped me embroider it and tie it off.  I once crocheted an angel for her. Linda embellished the wings with sparkly yarn. I made a dress for my granddaughter’s babydoll. She added rick rack and made a matching blanket to go with it. Linda worked every day of her life adding sparkle to her surroundings.

With over ninety years filled with truly living, Linda enjoyed sharing some of the pages of her past. Something in our current conversation would remind her of a lesson she had learned or a friend she met or an event in her life and she recounted a lively anecdote as if it had just happened. She’d squeeze her eyes shut, forcing her brain to eek out vivid details from her huge memory bank, the name of the friend’s friend, or the make and model of the car, or the pattern of an article of clothing. We came to love Linda’s stories. Stories of joy and sorrow, of exploits and adventures, of hard times and hard work, of new friends and old. And she told them over and over, embellishing a different detail each time. Visiting with Linda and listening to her stories was like watching reruns of your favorite Waltons or Andy Griffith or Little Rascal episode.  Funny. Poignant. Sometimes with a moral or a lesson. Through laughter and occasionally tears, Linda was a great storyteller.

Linda looked back on her life often but mostly found joy in looking ahead. To the next season, the next barbecue, the next celebration, the next gathering of friends and family. With great anticipation she would plan, combing through her cookbooks, to find old favorite recipes and to try new ones to please the crowd that would gather. Her faithful son, Paul, drove her all over town to buy items for the party and to invite her many friends .For months she would talk about it, the decorations, the guest list, the menu. And for months after she would muse about the good time had by all.

What Linda looked forward to the most, though, was the hope of being reunited with her whole family. She knew she would have to wait for heaven. Yes, she was heartbroken when her husband of sixty-seven years died; but she also carried the pain of losing two of her sons. One to cancer. Another to conflict. She talked about their expected reunion often and with loving, forgiving tears. “Maybe not in this life,” she would say, “but in the next, we will all be together again.” She coveted our times of prayer together for reconciliation.

The Apostle Paul exhorts us to remain “joyful in hope, patient in affliction, and faithful in prayer.” I saw Linda live this way, appreciating everything from her past, working hard in the present moment, and looking forward to eternity. I am so very grateful for her influence in my life.