There is something weird about my brain that allows me to remember almost nothing important, but I can remember with great accuracy the birthdays of any friend I made in my teens and 20's. For instance, I totally missed Anna's birthday, which according to my calendar was the 10th this month. (Sorry Anna!!) But I remembered that my old high school crush Jim Kraywinkel's birthday was on the 15th, and Paula's boyfriend Scott McCurdy's birthday is tomorrow.
My friend Sprouse would have been 53 years old today if things had been different.
I met her where I meet almost all of my friends, in choir. We were all in Skyline college choir together - it is where the Schleptet (except for Bill, who came from Cañada college) had its origin. Linda had a beautiful soprano voice (she'd probably say mezzo, but Lord, could she hit those high notes!), and she could sing anything. She could also do anything.
She loved all sports, played a mean softball game, cussed and drank like a sailor. She loved cars - my only girlfriend who could speak "car" - and drove this scary Plymouth land-yacht at what we shall call excessive speeds, with questionable brakes. (One of the scariest rides I ever had was in that car. All the way up to Novato she drove like a bat out of hell, and then stepped out of the car in Elizabethan costume and sang madrigals like an angel.) She loved the Matterhorn and Space Mountain at Disneyland, and no one could spin a teacup - or enjoy it more - than she could. She was a master of sarcasm, with a razor-sharp wit. She had questionable (very) taste in movies. She loved her family and her friends furiously. She called my babies "rug rats" and "ankle biters", pretended to loathe children, and loved them with abandon.
She was only 26 when we learned that she was sick. It was serious, but she approached her illness (I am certain, with the tremendous support of her family) with the same tough attitude she used on everything in her life. She found her way to some excellent doctors. She found a way to avoid dialysis for years. She did not let her illness define her: she went back to school and earned her master's degree in voice. She found meaningful work as music director at her church. When she found her beloved Shadow, (a giant black dog with a pedigree I cannot now recall) they went to work together as Shadow trained to be a therapy dog.
Sprouse was a powerhouse, but did not do this alone. There were hundreds of things that a normal human would not have survived, but by her side for every surgery, every painful procedure, every new diagnosis was her mother Jean. They were a dynamic duo, and if Linda was around, Jean was not far behind - simultaneously cracking the proverbial whip and watching protectively over her daughter. It was Jean's death five years ago that provided an exit for Linda. She lived just five days after her mother. I suspect they were both relieved by then, but we are the poorer for their loss.
I miss her. I miss the look of mischief in her eye when she is about to take a song at a ridiculous tempo. I miss her cackle. I miss the sarcastic "and have a great day" at the end of their answering machine message. I miss... her.
At their memorial service, Linda's old choir from the Methodist church and her new choir in the Presbyterian church combined to sing together. It was a mighty group. Her Schleptet companions - Bill, Todd, Paul, Dave and I - sat together in the pews, too stunned with grief to sing. (Rob, Jolie and Carolyn, who all live out of state, sent their parents to represent.) Before the service, I pulled out my 1985 tape that we made one night in Bill's living room after Christmas caroling for hours in the cold. We all listened to Sprouse's glorious solo in "Mary Had A Baby". Thus, she sang at her own memorial - I am certain she would have approved.
Rest in peace, my dear friend.
My friend Sprouse would have been 53 years old today if things had been different.
I met her where I meet almost all of my friends, in choir. We were all in Skyline college choir together - it is where the Schleptet (except for Bill, who came from Cañada college) had its origin. Linda had a beautiful soprano voice (she'd probably say mezzo, but Lord, could she hit those high notes!), and she could sing anything. She could also do anything.
She loved all sports, played a mean softball game, cussed and drank like a sailor. She loved cars - my only girlfriend who could speak "car" - and drove this scary Plymouth land-yacht at what we shall call excessive speeds, with questionable brakes. (One of the scariest rides I ever had was in that car. All the way up to Novato she drove like a bat out of hell, and then stepped out of the car in Elizabethan costume and sang madrigals like an angel.) She loved the Matterhorn and Space Mountain at Disneyland, and no one could spin a teacup - or enjoy it more - than she could. She was a master of sarcasm, with a razor-sharp wit. She had questionable (very) taste in movies. She loved her family and her friends furiously. She called my babies "rug rats" and "ankle biters", pretended to loathe children, and loved them with abandon.
She was only 26 when we learned that she was sick. It was serious, but she approached her illness (I am certain, with the tremendous support of her family) with the same tough attitude she used on everything in her life. She found her way to some excellent doctors. She found a way to avoid dialysis for years. She did not let her illness define her: she went back to school and earned her master's degree in voice. She found meaningful work as music director at her church. When she found her beloved Shadow, (a giant black dog with a pedigree I cannot now recall) they went to work together as Shadow trained to be a therapy dog.
Sprouse was a powerhouse, but did not do this alone. There were hundreds of things that a normal human would not have survived, but by her side for every surgery, every painful procedure, every new diagnosis was her mother Jean. They were a dynamic duo, and if Linda was around, Jean was not far behind - simultaneously cracking the proverbial whip and watching protectively over her daughter. It was Jean's death five years ago that provided an exit for Linda. She lived just five days after her mother. I suspect they were both relieved by then, but we are the poorer for their loss.
I miss her. I miss the look of mischief in her eye when she is about to take a song at a ridiculous tempo. I miss her cackle. I miss the sarcastic "and have a great day" at the end of their answering machine message. I miss... her.
At their memorial service, Linda's old choir from the Methodist church and her new choir in the Presbyterian church combined to sing together. It was a mighty group. Her Schleptet companions - Bill, Todd, Paul, Dave and I - sat together in the pews, too stunned with grief to sing. (Rob, Jolie and Carolyn, who all live out of state, sent their parents to represent.) Before the service, I pulled out my 1985 tape that we made one night in Bill's living room after Christmas caroling for hours in the cold. We all listened to Sprouse's glorious solo in "Mary Had A Baby". Thus, she sang at her own memorial - I am certain she would have approved.
Rest in peace, my dear friend.
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