Remembering Barb

Sam Maloof with one of his iconic rocking chairs. Photo from Sam and Alfreda Maloof Foundation for Arts and Crafts.

In the late 1990’s I began writing a weekly column for the Colton City News newspaper. The gig lasted for several years, and I loved every minute of it (except, perhaps, the Sunday evening deadline). I met a handful of my readers along the way because they reached out to me via letters to the paper or by finding my website and emailing me. Barbara Tinsley was my dearest and longest enduring fan. She passed away in March.

I wish I still had Barb’s original email. I don’t know what the subject line said—something about my column, I suppose—but the body of the email was relatively short and to the point. She told me she enjoyed reading my columns, and that she’d been close to canceling her subscription to the paper, but my columns had given her something to look forward to each week in the little “throw-away” paper, so she kept paying for her subscription, and she hoped they were using some of that money to pay me. I assured her they were, and I thanked her for reaching out. Some months later a particular column resonated with her—I don’t remember which one—and I heard from her again. My daughter and her very young children were living with me at the time, and I wrote about our joy-filled chaos quite often. Barb responded by exchanging emails with me about her own children and grandchildren. Like me, she didn’t feel she’d been the best mother in the world, and she hoped to make up for some of that by being a fabulous grandma.

Over the years, our email exchanges became longer and more personal. After 9/11, I began signing all my emails to friends “Love, K.” When I signed off in this way to Barb, she wrote back immediately to let me know she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. She wasn’t raised by parents who said “I love you.” She hadn’t married a man who said it. She felt the words were something people said frivolously or superficially. “We are friends,” she wrote, “but does that mean we love each other? I don’t know.” After that, she began to sign her emails “Fondly, Barb.” So at least she was fond of me.

Barb and I stayed in touch even after the owners of the newspaper stopped paying me so I stopped writing my column. I met her in person for the first time when she came to a book signing for Tainted Legacy. Somewhere around that time, she mentioned wanting to take the tour of Sam Maloof’s home in Alta Loma (aka Rancho Cucamonga). We planned to go together, and my oldest son, also interested in Maloof’s brilliant wood-working, came along. I have many pleasant memories from that day, and no photographs, I’m sorry to say. We enjoyed every minute of our conversation over coffee beforehand, then the tour, then walking in the gardens of the estate. We promised each other we would plan similar outings in the future, my son included. Although Barb and I met for lunch two or three times in the years after, we never did visit any of the places we’d talked about going together.

When Barb moved from the Colton area to Hemet after her husband’s death, I didn’t see her again. My life was busy back then with teaching, writing, book promotion, helping with my grandkids, sorting out my quirky dog, and occasionally finding the time to hike. I just never made time for the long drive out to see her, and she was getting older and was no longer comfortable with driving long distances.

I was hopeful, though, when I moved to Calimesa a couple of years ago. Hemet is 30 minutes away. I shot off an email to Barb to ask if we could meet for lunch, though I hadn’t heard from her in quite some time.

She never answered. Then, finally, just after New Year’s, I received an email from her. The subject line said “I found you.” In the time that I hadn’t heard from her, she’d suffered a series of strokes. “I’m writing this on an iPad my son gave me to keep me occupied,” she told me. “I’m getting better, but I’ve had to re-learn some things.” It was a short email with quite a few errors—something unusual for Barb, but not surprising, given the circumstances. And she signed it, “Love, Barb.”

Over the next weeks, we corresponded, and her writing improved as she explained that, when she came out of the hospital, she needed more care, so her son moved her up to Petaluma, where he lives. Definitely too far for us to meet for lunch. But at least we were exchanging family news again.

I asked Barb for her address, and I sent her a Get Well Right Away card. Two weeks went by, then the card was returned to me. I thought maybe she’d given me the wrong address, so I called the care center to make sure I had it right—and, I’m not going to lie, to see if I could get any information about her. That’s when the very kind woman on the phone let me know they had returned my card because Barb had passed away the week before the card had arrived.

I’m not going to reiterate that sentiment about spending time with people while you have the chance. Good writers show, they don’t tell, and I want to continue to make Barb proud of me when I write.

She had a good life. She married a good man, and they were married for decades. She had children and grandchildren, and she continued to be involved in their lives as long as she could be. She was in her 80’s when she passed away.

Some years ago, when I lived in that sweet cabin in the wilderness, I started writing these blog posts, and I let Barb know how to find them. She was thrilled. And if I didn’t post anything for a while, she sent me a quick email to nudge me. I loved that.

One more thing I have to add is this: Barb and I were very similar in our tastes in reading and writing and art and ethical, appropriate behavior. But we were far, far apart when it came to the political spectrum. Early on, we both acknowledged that fact—and afterward, we never discussed politics, which worked beautifully for our relationship.

Here’s to you, Barbara Tinsley! Cheers and Godspeed and now that you have passed, please feel free to meet up with my mom and dad and have some chats with them about books and art and me, of course. I’ll see you again eventually. I have no doubt of that.