A eulogy for my friend Jane
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One of my best friends died a few weeks ago. Since many of you may have seen or met her I wanted to share with you the eulogy that I wrote for her memorial service on August 26th. When I first heard of Jane Mill's death, I was relieved that her suffering was over and happy that she had lived such a full good life into her 83rd year. I was grateful that they could control her pain and grateful that her fall and broken pelvis hastened her death and moved her through what could have been a slow painful death from the cancer. But I was sad that, even though I had told her the last time I saw her that I loved her and she told me she loved me, I wouldn’t be able to tell her again. I’m still very sad but I’m also very grateful that Jane was my good friend.
I first met Jane 15 1/2 years ago when I moved into the train station to live with my 
daughter Jesse and to have a bookstore downstairs. I had recently stepped down from being a school principal because the job just didn’t fit me. My wife and I had just divorced. I was adrift but I had a wild dream to open a bookstore. I had lived in the neighborhood for a few years and, in the year spent getting the lease from SEPTA for the station to open the bookstore, I had met lots of neighbors who signed petitions and worked in other ways on my behalf, but I hadn't met Jane.
daughter Jesse and to have a bookstore downstairs. I had recently stepped down from being a school principal because the job just didn’t fit me. My wife and I had just divorced. I was adrift but I had a wild dream to open a bookstore. I had lived in the neighborhood for a few years and, in the year spent getting the lease from SEPTA for the station to open the bookstore, I had met lots of neighbors who signed petitions and worked in other ways on my behalf, but I hadn't met Jane.I had lots of work to do to open the store. The train station had been vacant for several years and the roof had leaked and animals had lived in the building. The ceilings and the walls and the floors and the steps all needed lots of work. So one day I was up on a ladder and this woman, Jane, walked in and said, "Hi, I'm Jane Mills and I live across the street. Can I help? "
At the time I was in my late 40's and Jane was in her late 60's and I may have had some doubts about Jane's help. I’m pretty much a “I can do it myself kind of guy” . I don’t accept help all that easily. But then I looked more carefully at Jane. She had an aura not only of authority and confidence and capability but also of kindness and humor and adventure - an interesting combination for someone "her age." I also didn’t get a sense that Jane was looking for anything in return. I took her up on her offer and thus began a wonderful 15 year friendship. In retrospect, I realize that Jane's simple act of kindness carried huge impact for me. For some reason that we never even discussed, Jane had decided that my venture was worthy of her support. I had asked for help from lots of people to get the lease for the station. I had asked for financial help from my mom. But here was someone I didn’t know who thought opening a bookstore in the neighborhood was a good idea and she was going to put some sweat equity into it, without knowing me or being asked to help!. I was surprised and delighted by this vote of confidence, by this generous support. But that was Jane’s way.
So we sanded and painted and plastered and talked. Jane was a great talker. She wasn't a blowhard and she wasn't a "conversationalist". But she was curious and open and smart and thoughtful and vulnerable. She talked to figure out what she thought. She talked to find out what I thought. She talked to figure out life and it was a great education for me for the next fifteen years to have someone like Jane to talk to. I learned much about her in relatively short order and I was inspired to tell her much about myself. It had been quite a few years since I had such a good trusting friendship and I blossomed within Jane’s friendship. The topics were wide ranging and interesting. We agreed on much but not everything. For example she was an atheist, I a Christian. We talked about that over the years but not because we wanted to convert the other but because we wanted to understand the other. For Jane, that kind of tolerance and respect were unspoken groundrules.
Jane was also a damn good craftsman . She was a good and careful painter and a hard worker. Of course, we took breaks – for Jane to smoke. This was another sign that Jane was a different kind of “old person.” Not only did she love to smoke, but she was also a damn good swearer (I loved hearing her cuss) and she liked her bourbon. She, like I, went to a therapist and we talked about it. She told pretty racy tales of life in New York City. She lived life fully.
Now that I am pretty close to the age Jane was when we first met, I realize that Jane, over those 16 years, taught me how to age. As she aged, Jane held on to her passions and her pleasures as long as she could. She played piano as long as she could. She talked about music and sang classical music to herself. She went to concerts and listened to recordings with her friend Bob. I loved hearing her sing a particular passage to me and then talk about it with her conservatory background. She gardened as long as she could and helped me make my garden at the shop.
Jane remained unflinchingly honest. For many years after Andy died, Jane would tell me how much she missed him. But she was just talking about her feelings, not asking me to fix her grief. That kind of honesty and vulnerability is unusual and it’s something I try to emulate. One of the feelings was fear and she talked about her fears pretty openly and struggled with being alone in the house.
She fixed that fear and avoided becoming isolated by inviting boarders to live with her. And as was her wont, she found interesting people to live with her – students from China and Czechoslovakia and Africa and she was interested in learning about the cultures of these friends. I was one of the lucky recipients of her interest in having roommates. My second marriage was faltering and my daughter Jesse and I needed to get out of the house while things got sorted out. I was at a loss and anxious and Jane, out of the blue said, “come live with me.” And we did and Jesse and I had a couple of great months living with Jane. Jane was the perfect hostess- didn’t pry into things unless I opened the door – supportive of me and Jesse but didn’t villianize my wife. I am so grateful for Jane’s generosity, again.
And Jane read, and she read, and she read some more. She was a reading junkie. As our friendship grew, Jane was the only person other than my daughter Jesse and my partner Cynthia who ever have had “library privileges” in the bookstore. A common opener, when Jane visited, was “Greg, I need a good book to read.” We both loved mysteries and she read a lot of them. But over time, she found that I was giving her books she already read and she didn’t realize it until she was part way through. So she started writing a capital J on the first page of a book after she read it and then bringing it back to the shop. I look forward to the treat of finding unexpected reminders of Jane as I go through my books over the years and there’s a J on the front page. How considerate of her to leave those little reminders.
And then there was the meatiest of the bonds between Jane and me-doing the Sunday New York Times Crossword Puzzle. I don’t really remember when we started –it seems 
like we always did them for those 15 years. When Jane was healthiest, doing the puzzle was pretty much a daily ritual with us. We weren’t expert solvers, we didn’t do it in ink like I suspect some of you do. We didn’t do it in an hour or three hours or by the end of Sunday. Jane usually started it on Sunday and then she’d come over most days of the week and we’d plug away at it, and we’d talk, and Jane would smoke (and for a few years when I fell off the wagon-I’d smoke with her. Jane was a wonderful smoking partner. I always enjoyed cigarettes more when I was smoking with Jane.) Some weeks we’d get stumped and only get half of the puzzle done, some weeks we’d solve the whole thing by Wednesday and have to resort to those wimpy daily puzzles in the Inquirer- boring. Clearly we were devoted puzzle snobs.
like we always did them for those 15 years. When Jane was healthiest, doing the puzzle was pretty much a daily ritual with us. We weren’t expert solvers, we didn’t do it in ink like I suspect some of you do. We didn’t do it in an hour or three hours or by the end of Sunday. Jane usually started it on Sunday and then she’d come over most days of the week and we’d plug away at it, and we’d talk, and Jane would smoke (and for a few years when I fell off the wagon-I’d smoke with her. Jane was a wonderful smoking partner. I always enjoyed cigarettes more when I was smoking with Jane.) Some weeks we’d get stumped and only get half of the puzzle done, some weeks we’d solve the whole thing by Wednesday and have to resort to those wimpy daily puzzles in the Inquirer- boring. Clearly we were devoted puzzle snobs.There were two overstuffed wing chairs that stood right outside the shop door. Those were our solving chairs. Heaven forbid if I had stacked books in them or worse yet, if someone else was sitting in them. When it was puzzling time, it was puzzling time. If I was really busy, I could beg off but I better not do it two days in a row. Also heaven help anyone who came and wanted my attention, whether it was for business, like the sin of buying a book during puzzle time, or for some other reason. If I did have to attend to someone, Jane would do the puzzle by herself but her body language spoke volumes. Eventually, she’d speak up, “Ok, give me another clue.” If the interloped didn’t get the hint, Jane could be more direct. It was ok if these visitors joined in the puzzling-in fact we loved those kind of interlopers. But other interactions should wait for other times.
And we’d generally puzzle outside even in bad weather. Jane would wear her signature moccassins and long down coat even when it was in the 30’s. After all, we couldn’t puzzle inside where she couldn’t smoke. Eventually the wing chairs were torn and the batting started falling. I couldn’t figure out why someone maliciously cut up our chairs. Was it an offended interloper who didn’t take kindly to playing second fiddle to the NY Times and Jane and me? One day, the mystery was solved when I looked out and saw a squirrel hopping away from the chair with it’s mouth full of batting that was headed for the nest. In spite of the deteriorating condition of the chairs. which even I knew looked extremely tacky, Jane would not let me get rid of them for some time. Eventually, I had to throw them out on the sly and replace them with two other chairs without consulting her. At first, she was not happy with this interruption to our ritual, but she did settle in to the new plusher red wing chair which still remains – now we can call it Jane’s chair.
One of the ways I knew Jane was aging was when I started doing more and more of the solving. Before that, if I knew the answer first and held my tongue, Jane would get it. But eventually, it became clear that she wasn’t going to get a lot of answers and that was hard on her. She hated the part of aging where she forgot and over time she forgot more and more. Near the end, I saw that she had forgotten so many people that I feared she would forget who I was too. If she did, she was kind enough to cover right up to the end. I’m grateful for that.
Two broken hips were really tough on Jane but she tried to fight back each time. But the second recovery was slower and harder and I wasn’t surprised to hear that they discovered cancer and that it wasn’t really treatable. Jane didn’t want to talk about her dying. She didn’t complain much. She would fall asleep when I visited her. She was clearly running out of gas. I’m grateful she got to visit Vermont at the end and I’m also grateful that she fell and then died pretty quickly. I was hoping she wouldn’t suffer much and I hear that she didn’t.
For a long time, I thought of Jane not only as a good friend but also as a surrogate mother. I wondered if other of her “younger” friends felt the same way about her. She may have given us things our mothers didn’t and we all hope to have those kinds of relationships to help us become more human. This week I’ve been thinking more about that and I know she taught me lots of things – how to play more, how to say I love you more openly and freely, how to accept generosity, how to more fully figure out who I am by talking with a close friend, how to age, and probably how to die. But she didn’t really mother me in the traditional way – she loved me and believed in me but with no judgement, no parental disapproval or direction. So now I’m thinking that maybe she was Wendy to my crazy ass let’s open a bookstore Peter Pan fantasy.
I miss Jane a lot. I’m so glad she was in my life. Jane, I know you know it but I need to say it again. I love you.
