Linda: A Short Story of a Long Friendship

“What you really want for yourself is always trying to break through,

Just as a cooling breeze flows through an open window on a hot day.

Your part is to open the windows of your mind.”

Vernon Howard, The Mystic Path to Cosmic Power, Parker Publishing Co., West Nyack, NY, 1967

Mary’s Peak

I received the email that Linda promised for Mary’s Peak, her monthly poetry group, when we met at the local group in Salem. “Wow!” I thought. I recently had been “stuck” in writing poetry. Before coming to Oregon, I’d been in Seattle, where I mainly studied and performed dance. My inner self inkled me, so I’d started writing again, but I’d been feeling intimidated to share my work.

At Linda’s home I found angels hanging in nearly every room. Yes, angels. They ranged from Christmas angels to anytime angels made of glass, cardboard, feathers, metal, bits of craft, and any other material from which an angel could be made. “I have 1000s of these, “ Linda explained. “I buy them wherever I find them. Plus my husband takes me to the Scandinavian Festival every year to buy them. I keep them in boxes in my closet and switch them out according to the season. Some are out all year round.”

Astounded, I believed her. Angels were in every room, as far as the eye could see, on side tables and dressers, in the bathrooms, hanging from the ceiling. I love angels and believe they exist, as I am sensitive to energy and spiritual messages. Ubiquitously present, these angels at least had the grace to leave the furniture open for the mortals to use for daily living. Beyond the angels, the house was eclectic, comfortable, hospitable, and largely made of Oregon wood.

Linda introduced me to her husband, Court. I immediately knew they both were generous and kind. “Help yourself,” she said, “I buy stuff for this group.” As other group members arrived, I followed them to the kitchen anteroom to select from the tables of copious snacks and delicious bites before we settled around the table in “Heaven.”

“Heaven”, the first room in from the front door, was filled with a long table covered with colorful cloths over which at least fifty angels of all shapes, sizes, and materials dangled. As I sat down, settling with my almonds and chocolate, I began to learn that, If I needed to speak to someone across the table from me, I could gently move the angels nearest me aside.

Court brought me a glass of water. As I put it on the table, Linda said, “Here, use a coaster so you don’t make rings.” She tumbled several coasters to the others across the table from where she sat at the end like a chairwoman of a board. Some angels hanging over the table stirred slightly. “Does everyone have their poems? Let’s start.” Each person had brought copies to share. We went around the table as each person read and others commented on that reader’s poems. “What are you trying to do here?” she would demand of each person, to confirm the writer had fulfilled the poem’s intention before handing that person’s poem back with written comments.

At first, since she was so blunt, I was nervous about what she might say. (I still see her marking off the “ings” , the gerunds and past participles in my poems and hear her say, “No ‘ -ings.’ Use the main verb form. You don’t need them.”) But, as I heard Linda’s comments amid the comments of the others on my poems, I knew it was OK. I felt more and more comfortable. I was part of the group. From this first meeting, I knew they all wanted the best for my poems, and I wanted to get them there. “Can’t wait until next time,” I told myself.

In the Poetry Community

We were fast friends. I began participating in just about everything poetic or artistic in Corvallis. Joining Mary’s Peak was the prelude to being part of a slew of other poetry groups, events, conferences, and readings (i.e., groups in Corvallis and Salem and readings for William Stafford and Peter Sears), in which we participated. Linda invited me to other local arts events (judging children’s poetry in a contest at the art center, attending plays, Scrabble, and even taking in OSU gymnastics). She included everyone, and I learned to feel part of the larger community—despite occasional challenging situations where I needed support. “Don’t let her bother you, “ she would say when I shared I felt intimidated by someone. “She’s like that. You belong. You have your own row to hoe.”

As I became involved in the Oregon poetry community, I tried new approaches to my work. In April 2016, for poetry month, Linda and I dedicated ourselves to writing a poem each day—of any kind. Just some sort of poem. “Here, read my new April Fool’s poem,” I wrote her. “It is both historical AND hysterical.” I came up with a poem every day, stanzas or not, as haiku, new concept or traditional. We tracked with each other through the month, often exchanging our poems. The poems did not have to be finished. By the end of the month, I realized the scope of what I could produce.

Calyx

Linda was a founding member of Calyx, a feminist magazine in Corvallis, which publishes the poetry, short stories, and other writings of women writers. “I still miss Marguerite (Donnelly),” she would say. Marguerite was a feminist and visionary founder of Calyx. “All those years went by too fast.” I love the picture of the original group who founded the literary and arts magazine, strong and hopeful at having women’s voices heard, Linda in front.

I became involved with Calyx, too. I volunteered to read poems submitted for a contest; I also wrote a piece for their anniversary, Calyx Turns 40!, which was published in the Salem newspaper (http://www.statesmanjournal.com/story/life/2015/12/01/feminist-press-calyx-turns-next-year/76523824/). I felt the importance of hearing the women’s voices as I had in Northwoods Women, the women’s feminist poetry group I’d co-founded when I was in graduate school in Minneapolis.

These Are the Poems You Should Be Writing!

Linda established her own press, Rainbow Communications, from which she produced book after book brimmed with poems in all kinds of rhythms and proclamations (she not a devotee of subtleties) which she summarily shipped out to all her friends in Oregon and relatives in the US and Sweden. Astounded again, I was a lucky recipient of each one, turning page after page marveling at her dedication and amazed at the range of forms and rhythms. Each book was in itself a work of art, from cover to opening each chapter, in a coordinated stream. “How can I do a book?” I asked myself. To me, I wanted to get my poems out without having to compete for publication.

I began asking her how she put her books together. I had been published in Sing, Heavenly Muse, a chapbook in Minneapolis, and other publications, but I had never put my own chapbook together. She told me to gather poems together within a chosen book topic and then create chapters for that topic. “I use Lulu Press,” she explained, “once I have everything ready to go. But I have to wait until Maureen gets the illustrations done before I put the manuscript into a book. She has to take time to see them in her mind after she reads my poems.”

In a World full of Roses, Stand Out like a Dandelion in the Middle of the Lawn. June Stoyer

Over one summer and into the fall, Linda wrote poems in her yard. “It’s great to be out there,” she said. “I see bees and butterflies and birds, and it is restful to be in nature.” Court took a picture of her through the window.

While she wrote about nature, she remembered her angels, too, in April is Angel Month.

                                        	     April is Angel Month
            April is Angel Month, part
            of the winged-ones wing-ding
            in our backyard?

            Bees, butterflies, bugs and birds
            find this mostly light-filled month
            with sunny, warm days inviting.
            
            As I plump my pillow on my chi-
            gathering chair in the backyard,
            a white butterfly swoops to greet me.
            
            Airlika angel on the hazelnut branch
            above me and stationary Tootsie,
            the weathervane angel toot silent horns.
            
            I pull up my blue hoodie to protect me
            from another nose cancer. With blue
            clothing, blue pillow I wish the blues away
            
            A bee on the dandelion before me makes
            touch down twice. Two more puffballs
            since yesterday, refreshed by rain.
            
            Red azaleas sneak out of the branches.
            Red strawberry leaves foreshadow
            what is to come. Apple petals gently fall.
            
            White blueberry and apple blossoms
            welcome winged-ones. A second butterfly
            flits by. An angel in disguise?

            Even angels would love this cloudless
            sky and solar-power.  Halos would shine.
            Wings could cluster, be mistaken for clouds.
            
            Mid-afternoon, the birds have not come
            to our organic, motor-less, safe yard. Also
            a haven for me.  Do I scare them?
            
            Wind-chimes, but no bird chirps.  Shiny,
            Airlika sways above me. Tootsie, sun bathes.
            Cement, prone, Bottom angel chills.
            
            A third butterfly hovers near the fence.
            A tiny white moth in the apple canopy.
            A distant mourning dove coos.
            
            A fourth butterfly leaves the blueberry bush.
            Two neighbors try to start machines which
            rat-a-rat-tat. Grating. I’m grateful they don’t start.
            
            A fifth butterfly ambages a finale flight.
            Is there a bird boycott? Some say they
            are angelic messengers to Earthlings.
            
            I can’t count on birds.  Butterflies so far
            this month have been more reliable. Angels
            are probably enjoying recognition this month.
            
            When I despair humanity doesn’t uplift or
            enlighten, somehow I believe in angels,
            despite no proof, on just a wing and a prayer.

Linda Varsell Smith, Beyond Windows: 2020 Apertures, Rainbow Communications, 2020

Linda’s poem shows the same kind of perspective as a poet she claimed as a mentor, Ursula Le Guin, showed in her poem, Slick Rock Creek, September:

A lacewing fly touches my hand.
I speak too slow
for her to understand.
Rock’s warm under my hand.
It speaks too slow
for me to understand.

Ursula K. Le Guin, Hard Words and Other Poems, Harper and Row, New York, NY, 1981

that is, communication between humans and non-human creatures, putting both on the same spectrum of sensibility and being.

Even when Mary’s Peak was not meeting I would take poems to show her, especially when I produced new poems. “Here are my poems on Big Sur,” I told her one day. I’d written about Big Sur meeting the sea, using pictures as a prompt. “I love Big Sur and its landscapes; Robinson Jeffers is one of my favorite poets.”

“These are the poems you need to be writing,” she proclaimed emphatically, “when are you getting them published?” My mouth dropped, but I believed her. I knew they were good. I just had to not be afraid to get my poems published. “I will work on it,” I promised. Here’s one.

I started by locating a “passel” of poems I’d written about the family and the farm and the place where I grew up in Ohio over the years which I was ready to share. With Linda’s recommendation of Lulu, I went ahead and set up the manuscript with thirty+ poems. This became my Love Continuous: One of a Southern Ohio Family. Published in 2022, I wrote special thanks to Linda “whose friendship and mentorship with my poetry and sharing of her own is unparalleled” and to Court “for his constant and kind helpfulness.”

Other Worlds

“I was in the UFO parade in McMinnville as a space ballerina,” I told Linda. I’d worn a black flounced lace skirt over stiff crinoline and studded with sequins that I’d gotten from Ross Dress for Less and matching ballet-style shoes. (McMinnville, Oregon was the site of UFO sightings at a local farm in 1950—see https://share.google/aimode/3sQ5AoQkQPglM3Yyh; https://youtube.com/watch?v=xF1kJQclyIw&si=CGEGtXvWllxXN8Tf ).

“I had a great time. They filmed the parade and put it on the local cable station. I actually have seen UFOs.”

“I believe in UFOs and other dimensions,” she replied somewhat to my surprise. “I listen to talks and meet online with groups on the 5th and other dimensions. I am ready to go there anytime. The only reason I can stay here is that Court keeps me tethered to being on earth.”

“Tethered?” I thought. “All right,” I said. Knowing Court, I wondered whether he knew she would say that. I’d never known anyone who was “tethered.” Even though I had seen UFOs before, I didn’t visit other dimensions I was aware of. But I didn’t have to go to the place she went; it was OK, a bit startling, perhaps, like encountering a ghost, but not scary. Just a different realm of the truth. I am an empath and on a spiritual path since birth, really. With traditional and alternative approaches to belief and faith, I understood there are versions of the truth, and I always learn more.

“In fact,” she continued, “a lot of the pictures in my books are from my visions that I describe to Maureen.” From then on, I tracked with Linda on the truths she shared, including meeting a friend whom she claimed was a “walk in” who came to visit when she had messages to share with her. All part of the mix, and I acted like it was normal. It lent an “extra dimension” to what I’d seen before. I was glad she told me.

What Do You Think? You Are the Intuitive

I started giving her angels for Christmas, (yes, more angels, hoping that Court would not mind too much to have more to move around). It started with an angel card in mostly blue and went on to dancer angels, funny angels, and vintage angels, as I found them. I have contributed several to the “collection” at this writing. (What’s a few more to the multitudes? )

But there was a serious side to this. Once I learned that she and Court had lost a son at fifteen years old, I knew they had grieved for a long time. I sensed that, for Linda, having all of the angels might have reassured her and helped to heal her with that. And, the more I understood her draw to the outer dimensions, the more I was sure the angels were part of her spiritual path.

I am an empath and intuitive and receive messages that I share on a spiritual basis for healing. When she learned I was empathetic with the angels and the other worlds, she consulted me on her concern over an experience in terms of contacting her son, sending me an email message with “What Do You Think? You Are the Intuitive” as the heading.

I did a “reading” of the situation, conveying what I was certain of, what I felt was untrue, and some real-time impressions, energy, and messages I received from her son as I read. She seemed to be at peace with that.

Dancing with the Stars

We both loved dance. I had spent years taking modern, ballet, and other forms of dance and movement classes and doing performances. Linda’d had dance, too, with special opportunities to have some of the cutting edge modern troupes come for classes and performance while she was in college in Connecticut. We both loved Loie Fuller, a modern dance pioneer of the early 20th century, who is featured in the Maryhill Museum in Goldendale, Washington.

But, Dancing with the Stars was a different kind of dance in its own scenario. Based on ballroom, the dancers performed spectacular pieces in stunning costumes. Each couple trained for weeks and was rated on its performance by a panel of judges, accumulating in victory with the Mirrorball Trophy. Show regulars created the choreography and served as partners for selected celebrities.

Linda really loved this show. But she loved watching Derek Hough, a Dancing with the Stars principal dancer, more. With Court, she traveled to New York to see Derek in person after one of his performances. Showing me the picture Court took of her with Derek, she cooed, “There he is, I met him. He has such a great smile.” I agree.

To watch Derek dance as often as possible, she had to watch the show. Watching the show became a Monday night ritual–weekly, without fail. We migrated from her house to that of her Brazilian friend Vera, tall and still dark-haired and beautiful at 80 who had been a model and dancer before marrying and moving to Corvallis.

While we hooted and hollered for the best couple on each show to come up in the ranks and win, Vera served grapes, sandwiches, nuts, cookies, and other snacks with diet Coke while the cat she was taking care of wound its way around her feet. We told her to be careful or she might trip. It was the weekly blast. “When does Dancing with the Stars start again?” she’d ask me between seasons. She never stopped watching the show.

Blue Hair

“I got my hair done!” she shouted, when I came in the door of her house. I sat down at the table in Heaven and looked at her in her commanding spot.

“You sure did!” I agreed, looking at her. Her short, gray-blonde hair now fell in stunning strands of blue, lavender, and purple. “You look very Swedish.”

She’d gotten it done at a beauty shop downtown in a building with multiple levels, lots of steps and no elevator. “I had to go down the stairs and back up,” she grumbled. “I could hardly make it, my knee hurt so much. If they wanted me to go down there, they should’ve fixed it so I could get out.”

Knowing she needed to complain, I assured her. “That looks pretty neat, Linda. You look like you are in style with all the cool people around here.” I stopped. “What does Court say?” I asked.

“I think he likes it,” she responded. “Too bad if he doesn’t.”To me, I enjoyed seeing her stay in her groove of being a little contrary while being of her own mind. That’s where I fit.

Holding the Line

Her strength of conviction and voice convinced me over the years that she was strong and would not back down on what she believed to be true. Our mutual trust was tested when she disapproved of my relationship with a man who was proving to be untrustworthy. “Why do you let him treat you like that?” she demanded. “When he calls and texts you, you are upset. I don’t want him to bother you. Get rid of him.”

Being in love at the time, I did not see what others saw or how it affected people who cared about me. But I knew it was my right to choose what to do. “It is none of your business to tell me what to do,” I finally asserted. I was so buffeted around by being in the situation, I could take no more stress and held my line.

She finally apologized after some time, but, by then I had left him and knew she had been right. I had been right, too, to follow what I had thought was true in the situation until I saw it wasn’t. But her vociferous defense of me I have not forgotten.

Pandemic

When the pandemic came, everything turned inside out. Friends and family and people I knew were affected in ways I could not have predicted. The church I went to had services outside on member farms—even in colder weather. Many people stayed home rather than attend.

Linda no longer held Mary’s Peak meetings. She feared getting sick having anyone from outside her family in her home. Although I suggested she do Zoom meetings for the group –something I was gratified for as they allowed people to meet from their homes, Linda didn’t want to do them. She withdrew with the exception of going with Court to the coast on rides to get outside.

I missed those meetings and going to Heaven in Linda’s house. Finally, in 2021, after vaccines were available, she and Court came to a reading I was part of in Salem because it was outside. It was a joy to be able to do a reading with them there.

Leaving

After my brother died of glioblastoma in 2020 ( I traveled from Oregon to Ohio to be with him), I began to know I needed to return to Ohio in 2022. It was a turning point for me spiritually and emotionally, and I needed to recoup myself then in ways I could not do far away.

Friends like Linda were not happy. Some burst into tears. It was all I could do to proceed with it because I knew in my heart it was necessary.

I have visited my Oregon friends regularly every year since, including Linda and Court among the top of my list. We’ve had joyful visits. Every time I came, we’d watch Dancing with the Stars in the den.

I found and sent Linda angels each Christmas and called often. Every time I called she’d come to the phone with, “So you are staying out there, are you? Are you sure? You know, when I left Connecticut, I decided to never come back.” Oregon is a wonderful place to live.

On my trip to Oregon this year, I wanted to bring her a copy of the new anthology of Oregon poets, Just Imagine: Oregon Horizons, edited by Alexandra Mason, in which I have published three poems. I wanted to hear her say, “These are the poems you should be writing.”

Passing

I continued to receive all her poetry books until she announced that she had written the last one. I asked her why. “I just don’t have any more that I am supposed to write,” she replied.

I couldn’t believe it. I was sure that there would be yet one more book coming down the line since Linda was the prodigious poet. I never thought she would back down on her work.

But she was done. Around 2022 her health began to change as her sugar levels caught up with her. A year later, she had gallbladder surgery and, then, a small stroke. She sounded fairly normal when I called her, but she was losing interest in anything about writing poems. “I just want to see Achilles (her toddler great-grandson) and rest,” she said, following that with her question of whether I would stay in Ohio.

A few weeks ago, she died. Court had been in touch about the state of her heart, for which Linda declined surgery, choosing to take medication instead. “She’ll go as far as that will take her,” he told me on the phone. I had known what that might mean and that it fulfilled her wishes.

After

I edited a retrospective of her life that Court wrote for friends and family.

When I read Court’s account from top to bottom, I immediately saw the connection between her picture as a child at the top of the piece and her picture at the end. I saw that young girl in the picture at the top because she looked like me at that same age, with a frilly blue dress and patent leather shoes. I knew that woman, in her hospital bed at the end, who is always my friend.

In her obituary, which she wrote in the third person, she says, among other things:

“Linda loved her family, friends, poetry, plays, art, astrophysics, dark chocolate, and dance.”

We loved her, too. And still do.

Now, she is untethered, flown away, like a balloon let loose by a child. God speed, Linda. ❤️

Artist’s statement

I am a writer, teacher, and dancer who writes and teaches poetry and short stories. I grew up on a farm in Ohio. I write poetry and short stories and have taught poetry to adults and children. My dance writing has appeared in Arterial and my poetry has appeared in Sing! Heavenly Muse, Farm and Ranch Living, Highland County Journal, Terra Incognita, and Love Continuous. A selection of my poems on the Pacific Northwest were published in 2026 in the anthology Just Imagine: Oregon Horizons. In 2026, I lost two friends to death, which has opened me to my core and the love I hold for them. The latter, Linda, was a poet, teacher, mentor, and friend I knew when I lived in Oregon. My regard and gratitude to her pulse with every beat of my heart. She was a defender, a promotor, an adamant reviewer, a feminist, and, most of all, inclusive. I want to honor Linda for her friendship to me. This piece is a chronicle of that friendship.