As I write this, it has only been two hours since I heard that our longtime friend died.
Lillian Petrucelli — known, admired and loved by many — went to be with her beloved Fred. He was 100 1/2 when he died in September, leaving a gap in our lives. David and I met him when we came to Conway in 1990 to work for the newspaper, where he was a writer.
She was 86 on March 16. We took her for lunch two days before at Mike’s Place, our traditional Conway restaurant to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries in our little friend group — Patty and Doug, Dan and Donna, David and me, Fred and Lillian.
Lillian had fallen a couple of times, had heart issues and had been in the hospital twice since Fred died. Naturally a small person, she was a little thinner on her birthday, but she was dressed up and walking on her own when she came in. We had flowers and gifts, she laughed at the silly cards, and we toasted her birthday.
Our tradition, which I guess I started, was to get our picture taken as a group before we left the restaurant each time. I kept saying I should create a book of nothing but photos of our get-togethers there. Sometimes we even got camera-shy Dan in the group shots.
On one of her recent birthdays, Liam Neeson came to the celebration. Lillian loved him, and Dan had a life-size cutout of Neeson made and brought it to the restaurant.
Fred and Lillian were quite a pair, crazy about each other. They had been married only about
30 years, but they made the most of them.
She was not Italian, but she learned to cook wonderful Italian meals for Fred, who was. They enjoyed their wine, too, and their house on the lake, especially sitting on the deck.
When he was gone, she had to find “a new normal.” She started watching more television and got hooked on Wheel of Fortune. She was good at it, just like she was an excellent Scrabble player. She was in a book club and was active at St. Peter’s Episcopal Church. She said more than once, “There is so much love in that place.”
We visited Lillian and Fred every Sunday afternoon we were in town. Sometimes she’d have “tall-man chores” for David, like changing a light bulb, but mostly we talked, reminisced and laughed.
The last time we were at her house in March, she looked especially frail. Her breathing was a little labored.
More than once since Fred died, she said, “This is existing; it isn’t living.”
Her babies, a cocker spaniel named Josie, and a beautiful gray-and-white cat named Kitty Boo, kept her going. She said Josie would sleep back-to-back with her and snore. Sometimes she thought it was Fred, she said, laughing.
She laughed a little less those last few weeks. The last time we saw her, she said even Pat Sajak started to irritate her, although she couldn’t pinpoint why.
I showed her a video of Fred I’d taken on my phone months ago, and she said, “He’s been around here a lot lately.”
She gave us back some photographs, including a recordable frame with a photo of the four of us: David, me, Lillian and Fred. On the recording, David and I wished them “Happy Birthday” and said they were amazing. It’s true.
In her earlier years, she was known for her work at the Arkansas Educational Television Network and with the United Way of Central Arkansas. And she also wrote (with the help of David, me and others) and directed several murder mysteries to benefit Torreyson Library at the University of Central Arkansas. Nobody else would have been able to get a long list of community leaders to perform in the corny shows.
She choreographed all the dances and taught — or at least tried to — the dances to us amateurs. Fred was always a Kampus Kop.
When she got frustrated with our suggestions or complaints, she’d say: “Who’s the director?”
Finally, she’d just raise her hand during chaos and say, “What’s the question?”
So, our little friend group called her The Director.
We were having lunch at Mike’s Place, gathering after our out-of-town friends had been to see her at her home, the morning after she had been released from the hospital. Her daughter was with us for a much-needed break. We were at the same table where we’d sat for her birthday. Lillian’s priest and a hospice nurse were with her.
We toasted Fred and Lillian: “To longtime friends.” Not long afterward, her daughter got a call to come home. We sat and told stories about Lillian and Fred, expecting the worst.
A few minutes later, we got a text: “She’s gone.”
We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, among the din of laughter and talk all around us.
It was fitting that we were there together. We left without taking a photo.
We didn’t need it to remember.
Senior writer Tammy Keith can be reached at (501) 327-0370 or tkeith@arkansasonline.com.