Shiner

I woke up Monday morning and, as usual, checked in with Twitter.  There, kind of sandwiched in between the flurry of the latest reports of Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s death by heroin overdose, were two small tweets with the news that Joan Mondale, wife of former Vice President Walter Mondale, had died.

Too bad.  My condolences go out to all her friends and family. She was a lovely woman.

I knew her because, back in 1984, I had hosted a garden party meet and greet for her in my backyard.  She was whistle-stopping around the country to promote her cook book- and to do a little fund-raising for her husband’s presidential campaign, as well.

(Remember that one?  Walter Mondale had made history when he had chosen Geraldine Ferraro to be his running mate.  Reagan wiped the floor with both of them.)

I have no idea why I was tapped to have this thing.  I wasn’t even a Democrat in those days. I think I had eagerly agreed to host a fund raiser for Senator John Glenn, and then when he dropped out the committee was stuck and so…

I might not remember exactly why I had this party but I do remember what I wore.  A Valentino white pique cotton bustier and matching skirt- both topped by a navy and white striped cardigan. Slightly nautical, patriotic- and fabulous.

And I remember exactly what Natasha- then aged five and  half- wore.  A darling smocked pink dress.

And a big black eye.

The day before she had whacked herself at recess flipping around the monkey bars.  The school nurse had called me pronto.

“I don’t think her vision is affected but you’d better get her to an eye doctor right away,” she updated me.

Roger that.

Natasha and I were on on our way ten minutes later- even though my regular eye doctor was out of town.  I didn’t care.  The doc on call would be just fine by me.

And by the time we had pulled into his parking lot, Natasha’s eye and cheek were already swelling up and turning every color of the rainbow.

We were hastily ushered into an examining room.  The stand-in ophthalmologist quickly told me that her vision had not been damaged.  But he was going to double check to make sure.

“How did this happen?” he asked me.

“She hit herself swinging around the monkey bars.  The school called me,” I replied.

And then he asked me to leave the room.

I was kind of surprised, but Natasha was okay with it.  And so I started to walk into the waiting room.

“Now, how did this happen?” I heard him ask Natasha in a very low voice.

Hmm.  I didn’t hear her answer but I knew what he was trying to uncover.  After all, Natasha did look exactly like someone had belted her and he had a duty to report child abuse when he saw it.

“He asked me how it happened, Mommy, and I told him that I hit my face on the monkey bars,” Natasha reportedly matter-of-factly back to me in the car on the return trip home. “You told him that, too.”

“The doctor just wanted to make sure he had all the facts straight,” I told her.  “He cares about you and he wanted to make sure that you were going to be alright.  He was just doing his job.”

Joan Mondale struck me as the same kind of gal.

A straight shooter.  A good wife and conscientious mother to her three children.   The pillar of her church and the Ladies’ Auxiliary.  A good scout- and probably a den mother once upon a time, too.

She came to my house without an entourage of any kind.  Kind of unthinkable now when wives of Presidential candidates are “managed” and guarded like rock stars.

She was essentially Midwestern, I think.  Down-to-earth, wholesome, gracious.

And she cheerfully answered questions from the group who had showed up in my back yard with endless good humor and patience.  (Although I bet she was asked those same questions every time she met people at fundraisers like this.)

The Twitter obits all made mention of her passion for pottery, painting and sculpture, as well.  “Joan of Art” was her nickname as she took the lead in Washington D.C. when Jimmy Carter named her honorary chairwoman of the Federal Council on the Arts and Humanities.  She often lobbied Congress to boost public funding for art programs.

And later, when her husband was named ambassador to Japan, she showcased many American artists at the embassy, as well.

Low key and not interested in hogging the spotlight, Joan Mondale was a great lady in the old-fashioned sense of the word.

May her memory shine on.