Scofield | Farewell, Florence, an ordinary, extroardinary person

Florence LeMaster left a hole in the fabric of life when she died recently. No, she wasn't one of those celebrities you read about in the "Passages" section of People magazine. She was an ordinary person with an extraordinary heart, and she left a soft and gentle impression wherever she moved.

We met Florence and her husband, Glen, many years ago. Their son died of AIDS not long after our oldest boy suffered that illness and death. We worked in the same support group, helping those who struggled with AIDS. Sometimes we talked to parents going through the same experience, but most often we helped with the physical needs of those who often had no place else to turn.

At first I thought perhaps Florence was too good to be true. You know, the kind of person who makes you wonder what outrageous thing you'd have to say or do to shatter that sweet exterior and get to the ordinary meanie inside. But soon I realized it wasn't a sugar coating; it was the genuine, true Florence. She really did care that deeply about people who had been strangers to her last week.

Not that she was a goody two-shoes. Far from it. She had a bubbly laugh and a twinkle in her eye that hinted at her ability to see the humor in dire situations. But when some of the fellows' jokes got a little rowdy at our volunteer meetings, Florence had a way of quietly clearing her throat that brought them quickly back in line. At those times, it was easy to visualize the kind of mother she had been.

One of the young men we helped was estranged from his family. When he was hospitalized, the Carebearers, as we called ourselves, visited him. Florence brought roses from her garden or treats from her oven. In between bouts in the hospital he lived in a drab motel room. We carried him meals and stayed in touch with the health department outreach workers who had brought him to our attention.

Art was no dummy. He told our fellow volunteers that he wasn't able to decide who made the best hamburger gravy and mashed potatoes, his favorite dish. Donna's was delicious, but Florence's was out of this world; he just couldn't decide. He'd have to try each one a few more times.

Florence and I had a good laugh about Art thinking he was manipulating us so easily. But to be honest, I felt a little guilty. I probably would have kept on adding more butter to the potatoes and special seasoning to the gravy from a competitive nature, but I knew that wasn't Florence's case. She would have continued making the dish the very best she could because it gave Art pleasure when it was in short supply for him.

The LeMasters were a cohesive team. They gave each other the kind of support a marriage is supposed to provide. Florence cooked the mashed potatoes and gravy; Glen wrapped the dish to keep it hot, and, with Florence, delivered it to the crummy motel room. In their presence, you could sense that the teenage romance that brought them together hadn't died. Instead it had matured and grown, giving them the strength to help each other through what has to be one of parenthood's saddest experiences.

Glen and Florence had the consolation that their son left this world knowing he was loved and cherished by his family. So did our son, and the sons of many of the volunteers we worked with. Some of the young men we helped didn't have that blessing. Florence made room in her warm heart for them.

That original group of volunteers and health care workers has kept in touch over the years. We get together each summer for dinner, updates and memories. Florence always brought the famous peach cobbler that nobody else could duplicate. Glen carried it in, wrapped in a dish towel to stay warm. Each year they were a little more frail, reminding all of us of our own mortality. Their daughter and son-in-law who live locally, Beth and Kim, always helped plan the event, and unobtrusively saw to it that the couple were comfortable and lacked for nothing. When Glen became ill, then Florence, the help of the younger couple was invaluable. It's hard to imagine Glen without Florence, but he'll have the support of family.

We all have to make an exit sometime. I hope Florence didn't have to suffer a lot of pain; she was so good at easing other's that it wouldn't seem fair if she did. But she died surrounded by her loving family, which was no less than she deserved, after giving love so freely.

Goodbye, Florence. And tell Art it's OK that he liked your hamburger gravy and mashed potatoes best. I don't mind. He was a good judge of mom material.

* Donna Scofield's email is RDDLScofield@aol.com.