We went to Santa Cruz, our day trip precipitated by a memorial for Ron’s childhood friend Elizabeth Jane Schaefer. We stopped at the flower shop where our daughter works and picked up a small metal vase of bright orange and yellow mums and various wildflowers.
After the memorial, we ate outside at the brewery and enjoyed the ocean air. After we ate, we walked along the cliff to Steamer’s Lane to watch surfers waiting for big waves. From the cliffs, we could see the beacon of fluorescent lights of Fireball and decided to go to the Boardwalk. From the line at the Fireball, we watched as the workers readjusted seat harnesses. Then we watched the ride ahead of us, as the mechanical monster’s arm took six claws of people up for a gravity-defying swirl.
Liz was my husband Ron’s childhood friend. I’d met her three years ago at his high school reunion, which was pretty casual and held at a local country club. Liz had a sparkle in her eyes. I remember how she’d seemed so comfortable in her own skin. I don’t actually remember what she was wearing but imagine that her curves fit snug into form-fitting white jeans, an emerald green blouse accentuating her bust line and setting off her big mane of strawberry blond hair. She wasn’t that tall, but she had a big personality.
There were a couple of other women there too when I met Liz, laughing and reminiscing. But Liz had made an impression as she had for Ron and others growing up. She and Ron and I talked about getting together. She lived close to us in Emeryville and had been working for a company that designs cleaning tools for woodwind and brass instruments.
From the Fireball line, we take a selfie and wait.
A few minutes later we watch as the claws of people come down to the Earth. Next, we witness a boy on the ride. His face locks into a feral, mad stare. One second later we see the chunky liquid hit the seat and then after he gets up and his sister pats his back, more puke hits the concrete within the circle of claws of people. The ride is shut down for clean up so we end up using our tickets to enjoy some screaming on the Giant Dipper.
Some of the women I’d met at the reunion were at Liz’s memorial. All of them spoke about her with so much love. And you could tell how much she loved her friends. She was there for them. Lunch at the Crow’s Nest restaurant. Meeting at the club for pink drinks and loud bands and in the classic dancing on the tables. There at the hospital or there for their mom’s memorial. She was a fierce and loyal friend.
Ron talked with the women about growing up, running from house to house as kids, riding bikes, making cookies, acting in plays. Ron was a little guy at that point, and his rough and tumble guy friends were too busy proving themselves to each other to notice him. So Ron made friends by making these girls laugh.
I imagine the laughter as Liz and these other women take turns hoisting “Scrawny Ronnie” up onto their shoulders, his thighs hugging their necks and Liz with her big hair waving around wildly.
Rest in Peace Liz
Wendy Lea Writing 