Else Blangsted and I were close friends for three decades.  I first met her through my friend and musical partner Dudley Moore.  She was important to Dudley, and became an important part of my life.

During Dudley’s later years, she spoke with him often, and when he was dealing with health issues in his final year, she read to him by phone every week.  He looked forward to speaking with Else.  After his death, Else and I continued to speak every week, and it’s no exaggeration to say there was never a dull conversation with Else.

Else was full of wisdom and humor.  One of her great delights in life was bringing people together—those she thought might have interests in common. She was always right on target in her assessment.

Else was wise, and knew how to listen.  All her friends turned to her for advice.  Big decisions in life were simply not made before consulting with Else.  And she was usually right!  When she told all her friends, many years ago, that she planned to live to 100, nobody doubted her—and she lived until three weeks before her 100th birthday. Else will be missed by all who knew and loved her.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight. 

I am the soft stars that shine at night. 

Do not stand at my grave and cry, 

I am not there; I did not die. 

 Dear Else,
Thank you for being my close friend for more than three decades.
I have so many amazing memories of you that it’s hard to sum up our relationship in a couple of minutes.  It would have to be more like a book.
But certain scenes are imprinted on my memory, and will always bring a smile to my face, even though today they are mixed with tears.
I will always remember what a good friend you were to my friend Dudley Moore, and how you came to visit him at my home in New Jersey even in your later years when you didn’t like flying. At the end of his life, you offered to read to him by phone every week, even though he selected Dickens’ “A Tale of Two Cities,” a project that would never end.
I will always cherish how outspoken you were with everyone.  You could instantly assess a person’s innermost qualities, and if they were deemed good qualities and the subject passed the test, that was one lucky person.  Each of us felt very special.  We each belonged to you.  You called us MY Rena, or MY Jamie, or MY Linda.
But if you didn’t like someone, beware!  I have a vivid memory of you slapping Lauren Bacall’s hand at a Carnegie Hall post-concert supper when she tried to interfere with your caring for YOUR Dudley.
We all learned from you not to care what anyone else thought of us, but to trust ourselves to have value.
You certainly knew how to talk to us, and (much more rare) you knew how to listen to us.
We learned not to worry about your use of strong language.  We learned to be a bit apprehensive at those formal occasions, when you said all you needed to wear was black sweats and your diamond earrings.
You taught us to think more deeply, challenge conventions, and break taboos, such as when you addressed 200+ guests at my daughter’s wedding in NJ, which happened to be on your 84th birthday.  You had a lot to say that was important. But you did create a stir in your speech when you advised the bride and groom to remember that a marriage was “not just about orgasms,” and frankly nobody remembered whatever you said after that.
You were loyal, caring, and fiercely protective of your group, which today has become OUR group.  I, like all of us, feel honored and blessed by having your friendship and love for so many years.  We will always love you.
 

Rena.

 Else was a unique being among us. She knew that she had something special to offer, and she bestowed her gift on those of us that she selected as recipients. Gratefully, I can count myself among the chosen souls in Else’s orbit. She seemed to attract and hold us in magnetic thrall as we rotated around her. Maybe her light also cast some shadows, as all powerful lights do. But illumination and nourishment were always the reward. I am lucky that Else reached out to me over the years, even though I had never been that good at taking the initiative myself. Now I wish I had saved some of her inimitable lengthy voice-mails as reminders of her warmth and wit. Those of us in Else’s realm experienced the absence of that light after her passing. There is some comfort in sharing memories with others who knew her well, even though many of us are strangers to one another. We embraced Else, and she embraced us. That is a bond. It’s nice to be in this small, select and very privileged club.  

 How calmly does the orange branch observe
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair. 

Sometime while night obscures the tree
The Zenith of its life will be
Gone past forever, and from thence
A second history will commense.

A chronicle no longer old,
A bargaining with mist and mould,
And finally the broken stem
Te plummeting to earth; and then 

An intercourse not well designed
For beings of a golden kind
Whose native green must arch above
The earth's obscene, corrupting love.

And still the ripe fruit and the branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer,
With no betrayal of despair.

O Courage could you not as well 
Select a second place to dwell,
Not only in that golden tree
But in the frightened heart of me?