Barbara was truly an angel on Earth. A friend to young women in need, and was always kind and true. Barbara lit up thousands of lives, and made everything new. Barbara would listen,  and then she would do. Only a true angel does that. Not once, not twice, but for her entire life. 

God, this world will miss her. I know I will. And will always always always remember her.

When I was 9 and 10 years old, we just moved to Martinez, and my elementary school started later than my siblings' junior high, so Barbara would drop them off first.  We’d go to Le Petit Boulangerie and sit over hot chocolate, coffee, and croissants. It felt like luxury—just the two of us, unhurried, before the day really started. That extra time gave us rare moments to be alone, bond, and share a treat together.

It's such a special memory for me. 

Barbara was my first boss when I was fresh out graduate school. I had a bad case of imposter syndrome. Every day was an obstacle course of things I’d never done before, but were part of my new job. She taught me everything I know today about nonprofit budget mgmt., but she didn’t know she was teaching me. She seemed to think we were collaborating.

One day, we went out for a working lunch. We were deep in discussion when Barbara reached into my plate and helped herself to some french fries. On reflex, before I could stop myself, I slapped her hand. Then time stood still, our eyes locked, and I thought “lordy, please tell me I did not just slap my boss…”  Somehow that moment ended without Barbara seeming to know that anything at all had happened.

After that — even long after our employment relationship ended and we were friends and colleagues — I never ate a meal out with her where I didn’t survey my plate, identify the things that Barbara could possibly snatch, telling myself, “Hands in your lap.” But alas — she never did it again. 

The serious part of all this is that I don’t think Barbara ever fully understood how big an impact she had on people. She was always just be-bopping through her day, being herself. Sometimes miracles happened; sometimes chaos ensued, and, either way, she just kept on truckin ’.  The last time I saw her in person, I miraculously had the presence of mind to tell her how grateful I was to have worked with her when I was that young and green. She looked at me as if I were speaking Urdu.