Barbara Davenport Scott, someone I’ve known since childhood, has transitioned. I found out via Facebook, how harsh. Not the usual transmission lines, or a note from the family. The first clue that she was no longer with us, was her old French blue velvet davenport couch by the side of the road across from my old alma mater, Lagunitas School, now the SGV Art Center. When the round poker table with its peeling oak veneer showed up by the side of the road too, I had a sinking feeling. All the funky furniture she wanted me to have—by the side of the road—did not bode well. Barb didn’t like being alone at night—I was ordered to stay overnight up to ten nights a month, and she thoroughly chastised and upbraided me if I neglected my duties and didn’t use up my monthly allocation. The times when I couldn’t visit, my cousin dropped in on Barb, took up the flagship. It was never a chore, it was like spending time with an aunt—it was a deep, abiding familial bond. She was also a part of our childhood, part of our past. We got to hang out with Barb, and to cook dinners for her. We had marathon scanning sessions, movie nights, paint nights, giggle nights. We took her on outings, went on hikes. She had never been to the Nicasio Reservoir. I was gobsmacked, and vowed to take her on more outings. We entered her art into the Vitrual Spring Art Show. She had never been in an art show. We remedied that.
We got her a new iPad, wrangled a replacement iPhone via a grandson, so she could keep in contact with her family, we helped her sort out her technology. Getting her to use Messenger was an interesting challenge. She kept saying, I’m a little old lady, I don’t do technology, but she could text, and watch Netflix just fine. She wanted to get her artwork onto the internet to share with the world, so I scanned her archives of poetry and art and created a blog for her. We helped her to sort her earthly possessions, label them for her family. Though she was waiting to transition, when she went down for the count, we kept her going, we kept her in the game, and she’d rally around to her old self. We loved spending quality time with an elder, running errands, fixing things, getting her large print books to read, making conversation and art. We were the lucky ones who got to hang out with Barb, offer meaningful companionship. She wouldn’t let us buy her anything, always insisted on paying us back, so we fabricated stories, said we found the books, the dishes, the pots by the side of the road. It was a little harder to explain the found catfood and found paint. She was not one to change her ways, nor to ask for help. We helped her anyway. But we had some concerns about her welfare as my cousin and I are both licensed care providers. When Covid came along, only Chicken Bill was looking in on her, taking care of her most basic needs during her year+ of isolation. We were happy to clean her house (ugh, the bathroom), mend things, cook meals, run errands, feed the cat. I had to sneak vacuum the house when she went down to the Two Bird Cafe to write. She had plans to paint the kitchen and bathroom, we got paint, brushes, and got to work cleaning, and doing the gruntwork. She wanted me to move into her trailer, take care of the cat, and to carry on her legacy after she was gone. Alas, it was not to be. At the end of May, we were asked to to cool it, not to come around, or stay over by a family member and landlord—citing both eviction and the drought. We were floored. Barb was devastated. We sneaked in a few visits last month, kissed her cheek, told her we loved her, we said our goodbyes, and left her playing a good hand of solitaire in the back bedroom. Yesterday, Andy Giddings posted on Facebook, last week Barb was feeling unwell, she quit eating and drinking for five days—and now she’s gone. Turned her face to the wall and quietly left us. She was done, ready to go, and left on her own terms. May the galactic forces watch over this dear feisty, determined lady who lived life on her own terms, who graced this earth for 85 years, who believed our Galactic Friends were waiting in the wings with The Big Plan. She said, Don’t use the word death, say reincarnated. Say transitioned. I’m trying. The world will be emptier place without her.
How to move a piano, a Facebook prose piece I wrote at the end of December, 2020. Barb loved it, had me reread it to her several times. I also posted it in my blog.
I will be adding more art to Barbara Davenport Scott’s blog.
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