Lydia and I met as freshman English majors at Waynesburg College. Had a bunch of classes together. Worked on the newspaper. Lydia was editor our senior year. I wrote a silly column trying too hard to be Dave Barry. Lydia was in charge of things. 

Anyone who knows Lydia will not be surprised by this. 

She expected a lot of herself, and of the world around her. I remember once she got so fired up upon learning that a classmate had been cheating in one of our classes.

“Pete! It’s just not fair! He’s not doing any of the work and he’s going to get the same grade as us!”

As an aside … she was being generous in including me in the ‘us’ part of the grade-getting.

“Doesn’t that make you mad?!?” 

I remember answering her that what other people did didn’t bother me much. That maybe what mattered more was what we were learning … what we were getting out of the class … what we might take with us. I remember telling her that I wasn’t sure that the grade even mattered all that much. 

Needless to say, I was unsuccessful in litigating that case with Lydia … who went on to be our class’s valedictorian, and graduate from law school after that. 

I think our friendship was forever forged in Dr. McEwen’s Research Writing class. To say that Dr. McCewen was exacting would be an understatement. The entire semester was dedicated to writing a research paper. We would meet to work on it at Lydia’s sister’s apartment in downtown Waynesburg (quieter than the dorms).

Lydia was the organized one. She kept us on task. Made sure we hit our deadlines and turned everything in on time, if not early.

None of the above were among my superpowers.

In a spasm of poor decision making, Lydia let me choose the topic for our research paper. I remember wanting to look at different periods of history to see what given societies found funny, as reflected in their drama and literature. Like, what was funny in Shakespeare’s time? And to what degree did comedy stay the same or evolve across centuries and societies? 

It looked good on paper. 

It didn’t look good in our paper. 

We’d be on like, draft 7, and Dr. McEewen would return it just bleeding red ink from his infamous pen. Lydia would get so stressed out. As the semester progressed, she doubled-down on editing our drafts before we had to re-submit. She had this big blue thesaurus. She would pull it out and make suggestions when we were stuck on something. This is one of the few things we clashed on. I’ve always hated thesauruses. Have always considered them a sign of weakness. Whenever she would bust out the thesaurus, I’d rebel. Ignored all of her suggestions. Told her we weren’t trying hard enough and would figure it out.

Aside from that, if I brought anything to our partnership, I think I helped keep things light … helped us from taking ourselves too seriously. 

I think Lyd found me amusing … much the way one is amused watching a dog chasing its tail.

I could always make her laugh.

The LYDIA laugh. 

It was glorious. More of a cackle, technically speaking. 

And one, that for as long as I knew her, she never cut short for room or circumstance. 

__

Our interactions during Dr. McEwen’s class would remain the hallmarks of our friendship after college. 

Lydia remained the organized one, always taking the initiative in our remaining in touch. She’d send cards and thoughtful letters recounting her travels abroad and life updates. Which I would return weeks, sometimes months, later. She was meticulous about sending cards around the holidays. My birthday card from her would invariably arrive a couple days early. 

By contrast, while I knew her birthday was in February, I could never remember the exact day. She’d always give me shit when it arrived days, or sometimes weeks, late. I remember once asking her to remind me when it actually fell. Her response, “I’m not telling you. You should know.” 

She expected a lot of the world around her. 

It got to the point where, when I’d see February approaching, I’d immediately send her a note, making a point of calling out how proactive I was being. 

She didn’t buy it. 

__ 

But there is one date that I know I will never, ever forget — Friday, June 7, 2024. 

We had made plans earlier in the week to talk. She’d warned me in advance. “Brace yourself, Pete … it’s not good.” 

When I picked up and told her I was driving, she said it was probably good that I was sitting down. 

And for the next couple minutes, she — unflinchingly, unblinkingly, remarkably —  let me know that it took her doctors three biopsies before they figured out what it was. That it was not the recurrence of breast cancer she and they first believed it to be. That it was worse. A rare form of cancer. Only 200 cases. And that it had spread all through her body. That she likely had a month to live. With treatment, maybe three months. Maybe a little longer. 

She told me that I was the last person she planned to have this conversation with. That it was just so impossibly hard. That she was done recounting it all. 

I mean, what do you say to that? 

You start with what’s true. 

I told her that I received both the act and substance of what she shared with me … as an honor … as a gift … as a blessing. 

That she has always had such a light about her … and that light was as bright in this moment as it had ever been. 

And that I would always do my very best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large. 

And you both cry a little bit, but not much. She’d done the crying. 

So you do what you’ve always done for as long as you’ve known each other. 

You just catch up. 

You talk about Waynesburg. Old classmates. Dr. McEwen. Other professors. 

In our reminiscing, I mentioned to her that I have few regrets, but I do regret that I was never able to go back and have an adult conversation with Dr. Bower, who was another larger-than-life character in our college experience. To talk about all the seeds he planted … his knowing we weren’t equipped in the moment for them but planting them anyway. I wished I could’ve told him what some of those seeds had come to mean for me.

When Dr. Bower passed away, Lyd and I went in on a memorial donation to the library in his honor.

In response to my ruminating, Lydia said the most remarkable thing.

She said, “I’d wish for the exact opposite.

“I’d just like to go back and have one day at college. Not even a special day. I’d just like to walk campus. Sit in on a boring class. Hang out in the dorm talking about nothing. 

“Go to Scott’s Delight … get an Everyday Special.” 

Scott’s was an unassuming greasy spoon down the road from campus. A counter with stools directly in front of you as you entered, and a few booths on either side of the entrance. The Everyday Special = legendary. You could get a burger, fries and a coke for like $1.85. Cup of nacho cheese to dip your curly fries would set you back another 45 cents. That’s how the pros did it, anyway. 

It wasn’t great. But it was perfect. 

An Everyday Special. 

It was just the most golden thing for Lydia to say.

I was still letting it sink in when she continued. 

“Oh, there’s something else I wanted to tell you.” 

She said that she was hoping to surprise me, but she wasn’t sure she would get the chance, so she wanted to tell me just in case.  

She asked me if I remembered seeing a few months ago that the college (I know it’s a fancy University now, but it will never be anything other than Waynesburg College to me) was doing a fundraiser for an Alumni Walk.

Um, I hadn’t seen it … to which she was not surprised. 

She let me know that she made a donation … to which I was not surprised. 

Until she added … 

“I got us each of us a brick, Pete.” 

Oh my gosh, I said aloud, pulling one hand off the steering wheel and placing it on my heart. 

I mean, what do you say to that? 

She said it for us. 

“So we’ll always be together on campus.” 

I was speechless. 

I don’t remember what we chatted about after that. 

I only remember one thing, actually. 

At some point … I made her laugh. 

Don’t remember what I said … most assuredly something dumb, like always. 

But there it was.

The Lydia laugh. 

Her singular cackle. 

The one she never cut short — even in this impossible moment — for room or circumstance. 

Undiminished. Resplendent.

__

Days later I found myself downstairs at my desk … still reflecting on our remarkable conversation … when it hit me.

I remembered something I hadn’t had occasion to think about for 35 years. 

The kind of detail that Lydia was notorious for remembering … the kind I never could recall. 

I remembered the title of our research paper. 

And it about knocked me out of my chair. 

In the shadow of our remarkable conversation, it was infused with a poignancy that I cannot adequately put into words. 

The title of our paper was inspired by a story we’d come across in our research. The story is believed to be apocryphal, its exact source lost to history. 

But the gist of it is this. 

A famous actor was lying on their deathbed, being attended by family and friends come to pay their last respects. A former colleague was at the bedside, looking at the frail actor in their failing health. Piteously, the colleague said, “This must be so difficult for you.” 

To which the actor opened their eyes and said in reply …

“Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.” 

The memory hit me at the very moment I was thinking of the sound of Lydia’s laughter … from the last conversation we would ever have. 

Lydia took the thesis from our paper and pretty much made it the thesis for a full life, well-lived. One she never stopped researching.

In the end she was litigating my case back to me. That when all was said and done … the grade didn’t matter after all.

__

I had the great honor to attend Lydia’s celebration of life a couple weeks later. Got to see her sister Karen for the first time in decades. She kindly invited me to stop by the luncheon they were hosting after the service, said that Lydia had something for me.  When I did, Karen handed me a bag … said that Lydia had written me a note, but that she had so wanted to revise it (always the editor). Had asked Karen if maybe she could type a revision for her, but Karen told her that she was certain it would mean more in her own handwriting. 

Of course she was right.

I waited until I’d driven the four hours back home from Mechanicsburg before I looked in the bag and fished out the letter. 

__

This is me keeping my promise to my friend. To do my best to reflect her good light back to her, and to the world at large.

While I recalled above how our friendship was forged in Dr. McEwen’s research writing class, Lydia had a finer point to put on the forging. 

“For me, our lifelong friendship was sealed on September 17, 1990. While battling my first round  with cancer, I called to wish you a happy birthday. The summer of 1990 was beyond challenging for me — battling Hodgkin’s Disease while attempting to carry on as though all was well. During our call, you said, ‘I miss you, Lyd.’ Nearly 34 years later, your simple sentiment brings tears to my eyes. You were so sincere, and it was just what I needed to hear. Thank you, my friend.” 

Of course Lydia would remember the exact date.

Of course she would think to call me on my birthday while she was battling her first round with cancer. 

Of course she would remember what I said.

If you only knew that about Lydia Hack, you would know enough. 

But there was more in her note. Her gift.

“I’m not sure if you recognize this. Do you recall the role it played during our Senior Thesis? This tattered reference has traveled with me throughout my career (both legal and nanny). When I was cleaning out my office, I thought you should have it.” 

I placed her letter inside the cover. To make sure I would have an excuse to crack it open every now and again.

__ 

In a spasm of poor decision making, I let my son talk me into signing us up for the Waynesburg Homecoming 5K, which was held early yesterday morning on campus. 

I’d never participated in the race before. The course looped through campus and spilled a little beyond. Past Martin Hall … our freshman dorm. Up the hill past the bottom of Buhl Hall … where all our English classes were held. Made a left at the corner where Scott’s used to be before it was torn down way too soon so many years ago. 

Aside from a few alumni starting to mill about, it was just a regular day on campus. 

I took note of that.

With one notable exception.

When we’d arrived early before the race I saw a sign listing the schedule of events for Homecoming weekend. 

Where I learned that they were dedicating the Alumni Walk at 9:45 a.m. … not far from where the race finished up.

Of course they were.

While Peter waited in the gym after the race for the awards to see how he did in his age group (he won), I walked over to the space between Miller and Hanna halls just as the ceremony was beginning. 

Found us.

I miss you, Lyd.