It’s always hard to say goodbye , especially for the last time, especially to someone who has been a part of your life for so long you took it for granted that they would always be there, as long as you are. Norman Bager was my close friend’s husband. Judy and I sang together in the locker room at university (wonderful acoustics!), formed a trio with her closest friend, sang at pep rallies and elsewhere that would have us. We sang for fun not for money. We were colleagues until everyone graduated, except me. I stayed on for an honours degree and an M.A. before I married. Judy married, too, the same year, and that’s when I met Norman. That’s when real life started: the babies, the barbecues, the kids’ birthday parties, normal domestic life that I thought would go on forever, like my diaper pail. Is anyone old enough to remember the diaper pail? It was a permanent fixture in my bathroom for ten years. I used to say, “Today is not forever; it only feels like it.” Do you remember the lyric, “You don’t know what you got till it’s gone” from Joni Mitchell’s classic song? When we left Winnipeg I finally realized what I’d had. What remained was very precious, more and more so over the years and after Bill died.
Other people drifted off but Judy and Norman remained close and closer. Judy met me at the airport, and as I was trying to make a living for me and my children, she and Norman took me in as a house guest more times than I can count. He took us out to dinner and never let me pay for it, though I tried. If we lingered too long over a farewell meal, he always got me to the plane on time. I went to concerts with them. I sat Seder with them. I got “points” for using leftovers. Judy lent me her car if I had to run errands in Winnipeg. Once I had to stay too long. I was in Winnipeg on business and I had to take a plane to Iceland, from Minneapolis (before there was a direct flight from Toronto) and I couldn’t afford to fly home and back again five days later. I was assured that I was family. Family, indeed. I dedicated one of my books to “Judy, my sister.”
Judy was talkative. Norman was not. He had a very literal sense of humour, which I loved, but you had to listen. He listened, too. Once at a barbecue, Judy watched me make my salad and later came out to the patio and told Norman to watch out for the peculiar salad I made. I never buy salad dressing. I use the formula: “A spendthrift with the oil, a miser with the vinegar, a counsellor with the seasoning and a madman to toss it together”). Later during the meal, Norman said, “I’ll have some more of that awful salad, please.” I liked that. It doesn’t sound funny, but it was nice, and typical of the way he listened and paid attention and thanked.
He worked past retirement age. His office was the fourth bedroom and he kept regular hours. He was so popular with his Asian partners that they gave him and Judy a trip to the far east to meet them all. He was the ideal husband and father and he was also a man’s man. He golfed every Saturday. He played cards. (Poker? I don’t know cards.)
I can’t tell you much more. I didn’t live in their city. They were Jewish, very good ones, but they welcomed a shiksa like me whenever I needed them.