Vibrant Vi

“My name is Vi… as in Viagra” said the elegant white-haired lady, her eyes sparkling at our muffled laughter and slight confusion.

Her name was really Violeta, as we soon learned, a name that she took with artistic license as permission to decorate her apartment in all shades of purple, lavender, and violet. Although really Vi never needed – or indeed asked for – permission to do anything. Born between the two world wars, a stay-at-home mom of 5 kids in the 1950s and onward, she defied stereotypes and conventions. She was the most loving, most fun, and most outrageous 80+ year old my husband and I had ever met, and befriended.

Although it may be more accurate to say Vi met and befriended us, or rather, first, my husband, being the outgoing flirt and keen appreciator of beauty that she was. Vi had lost her beloved husband, her childhood sweetheart, more than a decade before we met her. She never tired of recounting their love story; how she, a Manhattan debutante, born and raised on Fifth Avenue, daughter of a high-ranking UN lawyer and Miss Chile (a story in its own right!), who “never traveled outside of Manhattan without a passport,” had met a West Point Plebe from South Dakota at a dance, and after a brief whirlwind romance, had married him at 20 years old. Five kids came in quick succession, as did multiple tours of duty, military postings (some international), and deployments. A devoted Army wife (who “used to cook for armies” she said as an explanation of why her fridge was empty except for the carafes of white wine), she rediscovered her artistic talents when her kids grew up, becoming one of Alexandria, Virginia’s great artists. She painted over 800 oil paintings and ran her own interior decorating company, outfitting whole buildings in DC, as well as was one of the founders of the Torpedo Factory, an art gallery and artists’ studios on the Potomac banks of Old Town Alexandria. Oh yes, and in her spare time, she volunteered as a Spanish translator for the Alexandria Police Department, whose service she greatly admired.

Of course, we didn’t know all of this when we met her. In fact, I’m not even sure how we met, but wouldn’t be surprised if she had chatted up my husband in the elevator (she lived a few floors above us) or pulled him onto the dance floor at our condo’s monthly piano happy hour. Our friendship quickly flourished, in spite of 50 years’ age difference – but Vi did have a special gift to connecting with everyone, young or old. As neighbors and fellow parishioners, we soon found ourselves accepting Vi’s invites: “Meet me for brunch at the diner,” she would say as she slipped out of the front pew at Mass right after Communion to avoid the parking lot traffic. (She did drive until almost 90; witnessing her make a few left turns into a busy road convinced us that her guardian angel was pretty effective at his/her job). At the diner, over half a bowl of oatmeal or half a piece of toast (she ate like a bird and took the rest to go), she would regale us with tales of her childhood or married life. And we drank in her stories avidly – they were so descriptive, so full of life and humor, and there was no moralizing as one sometimes expects and receives from the elderly. Vi had her opinions and they were often very pronounced, but if she loved you, she loved you fiercely and loyally, and you knew it well. We bonded over our shared Catholic faith (“We’re lucky! We have confession on our side,” she would exclaim after a particularly mischievous remark), our knowledge of Spanish (the language she grew up with), and so many other commonalities that it turned out we shared.

“I love you even more now!” she exclaimed when she found out that our newborn baby boy had the same name – Spanish spelling included – as her beloved father. She doted on our son R. There was always a stray toy car or truck in her monochrome violet pockets at Mass, perfectly produced to catch his wandering baby attention, and a full closet of dollar store finds in her home, just waiting for visiting children. Vi’s home must have seemed to him like magic: beautifully designed, adorned with a debutante portrait of its owner and a bust that she would decorate seasonally and with seemingly unending creativity with fedoras, hats, and jewelry. Once he got older, he unerringly took off from the front entrance to her bedroom to immediately procure the two singing Army bears (seated on chairs), supplementing their singing with the musical Nutcracker ornament. Before she passed away, she also taught him what toy guns were and how to shoot (thanks, Vi…!).

Vi was generous. She always tried to pick up the tab for our meals together; her door was always open to us, and it was always five o’clock in her apartment as she encouraged us to grab a drink (she had turned her den into a bar complete with a sink). Vi not only doted on our son, but she gave presents to the newborn kids of her faithful cleaning ladies. She showered us and her neighbors friends with homemade Christmas tree ornaments (those corks from the numerous wine bottles came in handy!); her Christmas cards were also homemade, often quirky, always memorable. For last year’s card, she squeezed her diminutive frame into our toddler’s push car and had us take a photo of her in her signature violet, taking up a whole parking space. She asked us to print the photo so she could take it to Kinko’s and make copies for her, but we assured her that we could take care of it faster ourselves through Vistaprint.

Her Catholic faith was like her – strong, vibrant, rooted, but playful. She was a regular in the first pew at Sunday Mass, and generously supported the construction of a new mission church a few hours’ drive away. The product of a Catholic all-girls school education, she used to say that “the nuns taught her all she needed to know” and I witnessed her daily 3 PM round of exercise – she would walk on the gym’s treadmill for 15 minutes, enough to get through 5 decades of the rosary.

One of my favorite memories of her is her passion for playing Safeway Monopoly and collecting the cards/pieces that came with every grocery purchase. Since her own grocery list (and bill, and thus corresponding Monopoly pieces) were quite limited, she would wait past the checkout line, accosting leaving customers to inquire if they wouldn’t mind giving her the Monopoly pieces if they weren’t going to use them. They usually didn’t. She convinced us and other neighbors to contribute to her Monopoly stash, and she built quite a few ‘boards’ with the help of scissors and glue. While she never won the grand prize, anything she did win (like canned goods or bread), she would collect from the store, and then donate.

Vi was the oldest person I had befriended, and while it was heartbreaking to see her slowly fade this past year, chronic pain and some illnesses clouding her health and sometimes spirits, it was an honor to be with her in her last days and last moments, as her family opened up her home to us just as it had been when she was well. Even on her deathbed, there were flashes of her vibrant self; a few days before dying, she asked for a hug from my son and told my husband he was “so gorgeous.”

It is sad to see her go, and although I know heaven is as eternal and unchanging as God himself, I can’t but believe that it’s a bit more fun up there right now, with Vi dancing the jitterbug with her husband.

The danger of befriending someone born almost a century ago is that you know your time together is limited; but friendship with Vi was an unexpected gift, and one that we know will continue beyond this life and this earth.

Rest in peace, Vi. We are grateful to have known you.