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Roberta

I knew her only as Roberta. I knew she lived somewhere in Canada and that she used to visit Arizona in the winter months. I knew that she had been married twice and that the love of her life, her beloved Vincent, passed away seven or eight years ago. And that she missed him.

She lived alone, but told me she was never lonely. Her three grown children periodically kept in touch -- except for Stan. Stan was always a little bit different. And distant. But as her youngest, she felt a special connection with him, though that unique bond was something she kept to herself. She never shared her feelings with Stan.

In her youth, Roberta played piano, sang in her church choir, and on weekends picked up a few extra dollars playing in a “honky-tonk” -- as she described it -- a piano bar in a neighboring community. Her “honky-tonk” life was a closely guarded secret. When she played, she played fearing that anybody in her home town would ever find out. If they knew of her activities, it would not go over well with the church crowd. Not in those days.

I first “met” Roberta six years ago when she sent an email to ask me a question about her computer. Her whimsical sense of humor was evident from the start, and after a few messages were exchanged, her computer problem was resolved. The conversation continued, however, and a friendship blossomed.

Occasionally, weeks would go by without any communication, and then Roberta would appear in my email box to say hello -- sometimes with a computer question, sometimes just to ask how I was doing or to share the latest adventure of her little dog, Abby.

Early in her career she had been a hospital administrator, then she managed a medical office. Her grammar and spelling were flawless and her ability to communicate easily via email was readily apparent.

She was shy and not inclined to talk about herself unless asked. During the course of one conversation, she told me that she used to write poetry and short stories. I asked if she would be comfortable sharing any of her writings with me. After some good-natured protestations, “Oh, I just couldn’t; I’m not very good at writing,” she agreed. She wrote from the heart, and she wrote beautifully.

At one point I was privileged to read poetry she had written to her children when they were babies. She was embarrassed to admit that she never shared her poetry with them as they grew older. Her poetry, in precise, journal-like fashion, expressed her private joys and fears about motherhood. I encouraged her to let her children into that part of her life so that they might experience the feelings and emotions that she had so lovingly preserved in writing years ago.

Roberta told me that her relationship with her children, though comfortable, was not close. Even though her children were grown and gone, she felt “funny” or “silly” sharing her intimate thoughts -- let alone her poetry -- with them.

I volunteered how my mother had shared some diary entries she had written when I was a baby, memorializing her thoughts about life as a young wife and mother in post-war New England. It created a new dimension to our mother-son relationship that touched me profoundly. Sadly, it was all too short-lived as my mother passed away not long thereafter. But getting to know her as a young mom, through her own words, is priceless to me and will remain with me for the rest of my life.

Apparently my story struck a chord with Roberta. She told me that she was going to take a chance. And she did. She mailed one of her poems to Stan. She never regretted taking that chance because it ultimately opened up a floodgate of communication with each of her children, and a level of emotional intimacy, that she had never experienced before.

From that point forward, her emails radiated a renewed passion for life itself. She was exuberant and at times even giddy. We began “talking” almost every day through our messages. Sometimes it was nothing more than a one-line weather report; other times it was an exchange of thoughts about the world situation, the state of health care, kids today, the future -- whatever the topic, we discussed it.

Then one day I didn’t receive a message from Roberta. Nor the next day. That was unusual. A few more days passed. I sent her a message just to touch base and to make sure everything was okay. Still no response.

I became increasingly concerned, the slow realization setting in that I knew so much about Roberta, yet I really knew so little about her. I knew she lived in Canada and I knew about her life, her children, her thoughts, and her feelings. But I didn’t know where she lived nor how to contact her, other than by email. I didn’t know if she was black or white or green, tall or short, heavy or thin. None of that was ever relevant.

Weeks went by.

Then one day an email arrived from one of her sons. Stan. The one with whom she felt a special connection; the one with whom she chose to take a chance and share a poem. Stan told me that Roberta spoke of “Mr. Modem” often. She also told him that I had encouraged her to send him that first poem, for which he was eternally grateful.

I knew what was coming next, of course, but the electronically transmitted words were nonetheless heartbreaking. His mother -- my Roberta -- had passed away.

On her little kitchen table, in the public housing facility in which she lived, was an ancient computer and an old dot-matrix printer with a threadbare ribbon. Next to her computer was a folder of our email exchanges that she had saved -- and from their condition, apparently read often, all bound in a tattered pink ribbon.

I was told that at her funeral, each of her children read excerpts from our email exchanges. How strange, I thought, to be both a complete stranger and yet an intimate friend. I also learned that she hardly ever left her one-room apartment because she couldn’t walk, and rarely spoke with any other residents of the facility.

I will miss her, but I feel my life is richer for having had the pleasure and the experience of crossing electronic paths with the gentle, sensitive, gracious and articulate lady as I came to know as Roberta.

I learned one other thing: Roberta was 97 when she passed away.

Rest in peace, my dear friend.

About the Author

Mr. Modem (MrModem.com) is an author, syndicated columnist, radio host, and publisher of the wildly popular, always entertaining, Pulitzer-lacking weekly "Ask Mr. Modem" computer-help newsletter. Mr. Modem’s columns appear in more than 300 publications and each month in “Smart Computing” magazine. Visit MrModem.com for additional information, to view a sample issue, or to subscribe.

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