By Loriann Knapton

Diane was my best friend Sue’s mother. I met her during my first playdate at Sue’s house on Wisconsin Street around 1968. Because 1960s etiquette required that all children call their elders by Mr., Mrs., or Miss until they were told that a first name was OK, she was Mrs. Sarbacker to me until a few years later when a change in husbands made her a Balzer, at which point she told me I should just call her Diane, which I did. It was less complicated.

 Over the next 20 years, we had an interesting relationship, Diane and me. One of the “cool” moms in my circle of friends, she was so unlike my own conservative, plain “churchy” mother. Young and pretty with sassy red hair, a larger-than-life smile, and a deep-throated laugh that seemed to start in her toes, she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind on any subject which she did often and unapologetically. Like me, she relished a debate, and like me if she had something to say she said it and damn the consequences. As a result, we sometimes found ourselves doing battle: she and I, usually in disagreement over what was best for her daughter, me, or our respective families. Despite our sometimes-fiery discussions, Diane was a positive force in my life and one of the few people I’ve ever met who could teach life’s lessons by simply allowing one to learn them.

It was Diane who took me to my first professional live performance at a local college: An “arty” modern play, which my 12-year-old self didn’t really understand. But I remember being mesmerized by what was happening on the stage. Until then the only live performance I had seen was the local high school production of The Music Man. It was Diane who initiated me to the wonders of the natural world beyond my own backyard, by taking me on my first visit to Devil’s Lake State Park where we swam and hiked and grilled hamburgers from dawn to dusk. It was Diane, 4-H Foods project leader, who introduced me to my first taste of ripe fresh pineapple. It was so delicious and exotic. I begged my own mother for weeks to please buy this very expensive whole fruit, so excited was I by the revelation that there was an option other than the syrup-packed rings, chunks, and tidbits out of a can labeled Dole that I was familiar with.

It was also Diane who one scorching July afternoon at a private pond on her property sat quietly near the edge of the bank reading a book while I, Sue, and a couple of 13-year-old girlfriends shed suits and went skinny dipping. How scandalously daring we felt, mud squishing between our toes, tadpoles nipping at our feet as we splashed around in the cool shallow water. My own mother would have stopped us and scolded us properly with a lecture on propriety, but not Diane; she just smiled, understanding our need to be safely fearless and kept careful watch to ensure that no one else was around to see.

As I became a young adult our relationship changed from being my best friend’s mom to simply being a friend. As my friend, Diane offered support even when she didn’t agree, and expressive approval when she did. When I was married at 18, the summer after high school graduation, she wished me well but didn’t hesitate to let me know she thought I was a bit young for such a big step. Then she promptly invited me, three weeks before my wedding, to go with their family when Sue moved into her dorm at college.  It was her way, I believe, of showing me there might be other paths to take besides walking down a church aisle in a white dress. A couple of years later when I was nine months pregnant with my first baby, she loudly chided me in front of shower guests not to sit in an antique chair lest “I break it by my excessive weight.” But when ten-pound four-ounce Jacob was born a few weeks later she came to the hospital to see me with big smiles and arms full of infant sleepers. All sizes extra-large. When she directed The Fantasticks for our local community theatre, Diane asked me to be the costume director, supporting and defending me throughout the play’s run to everyone despite my obvious lack of experience. Her confidence in me made me confident in my abilities and was the major reason I succeeded in the task. That was Diane. Throughout her life I don’t think she realized the many positive ways my life was shaped by being in her aura and at the time, neither did I.

The last time I saw Diane was a few weeks before she died. My husband and I (the one she thought I was too young to marry), had just moved from a very small starter home to a larger three-bedroom Cape Cod on the Wisconsin River. She stopped by one evening with Sue to see the house. As I gushed about how wonderful everything was, she listened quietly and then in typical Diane fashion proceeded to point out every flaw as well as how each cupboard, closet, shelving unit, and room could benefit from an update. I smiled and for once didn’t argue because I realized as she spoke that her comments were made not as a criticism but from a place of love. I was certain of this truth as she stood on the sidewalk outside of the house before leaving and said to me, “You know, the important thing, the most important thing, is that you are here. That’s all that matters. I’m just so happy that you are home.”

Sometimes people pass through your life circle during a time when daily living gets in the way of understanding their importance. Diane was one of those people. Her presence in my life throughout the many years we knew each other shaped mine in so many ways. I only regret that I never took the time to let her know.

© 2024 Loriann Knapton

Loriann Knapton has been writing since childhood.  Having crafted countless rhymes, short stories, and personal essays over her sixty-odd years she has a keen interest in ensuring her family memories are recorded for the next generations. Her writing reflects the humorous and poignant experiences of growing up in 1960’s small-town America with her mom and disabled dad.