A new year has arrived and a half-ragged one lies behind, reduced now to memories.
It seemed, at times, I couldn’t enjoy the wonderful things popping around because of such bone-deep sorrow brought on by the home-going of loved ones.
It was death that had brought Sue Holliman and I together, bonding us into a steadfast friendship for the last 30 years. Sue’s son, Jay, was one of my best friends in college. He was remarkably quick-witted and laughed about everything. Even the “F” he got in English for the review of a book he never read.
“It’s all very simple to fix. Next time, I’ll just read the book,” he laughed heartily.
The last time I saw Jay, he was standing in front of the guesthouse he rented behind an Atlanta mansion, grinning widely, waving good-bye. It really was good-bye. A blood clot broke loose and carried him away.
Sue and I clung to each other after that, sharing happiness and sorrows. It was one of the most wonderful friendships of my life. It was around 8:30 on a Friday night. Tink heard my cellphone ringing and looked to see Sue’s name. He grabbed it and brought it to me.
“Baby, it’s Sue Holliman.”
My eyes widened in alarm. “Something’s wrong,” I said.
At first, all I heard was the sobbing on the other end of the line. Then, after several seconds, I heard, through the tears, “Ronda, it’s Lucy.”
Sue’s daughter. “No, no, no,” I said. “No. Please, don’t tell me.”
Sue had died, unexpectedly, in the night. “Would you speak at the funeral?”
It was in a tiny country church but her casket was carried majestically in a horse-drawn carriage to the church and then to the cemetery.
It’s not often that strangers, brought together by death, could share another tragedy. It’s the kind of story that, if you wrote and turned it into a book editor or a television executive, they would fling it back at you, saying, “No one will ever believe that.”
Yet, it happened.
As a young sports writer, I met a race car driver from Milwaukee named Alan Kulwicki. He was running a series that ran in the Midwest. For the next four years, we dated off and on. More off than on. We were such different people. He was serious, intellectual, and never saw humor in anything. He decided to sell all he had in Milwaukee and move to Charlotte — to run in NASCAR’s top series. I, by that time, was working full-time in the sport.
One night in Michigan, Alan was really down because he had blown his best engine in practice. Over dinner, I listened to his woes then said, “Alan, why don’t you go back to Milwaukee? You were making good money there.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I will not give up.”
There were a couple of years that were incredibly hard. But, he persevered and in his fifth season, won the prestigious championship. In New York, in December, he accepted the big trophy, grinning ear to ear with pure joy.
Four months later, on April 1, 1993, the private plane that Alan was traveling in, crashed going into Bristol, Tennessee. It was a horrific crash that no one survived.
On board, also, was Mark Brooks, Sue’s first cousin’s son. We had in common, two great tragedies. The last time I talked to Sue was on April 1, the 30th anniversary of the plane crash.
I called her and she said, “I’m glad you called. I’ve been thinking of you all day.”
Sue’s passing came too close on the heels of losing my precious Anne Hodnett. A few months after Sue’s death, my new book was released, skyrocketing to bestseller status.
It was the first book release I’d ever had when Sue was not one of the first in line.
Join me in believing that better days are ahead in 2024.
[Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of “St. Simons Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.” Sign up for her free newsletter at www.rondarich.com.]
