Oh, Mary

Our friends Barry and Harrell invited us to drift along on their dinner-for-four ticket at a benefit for the Waterfront Playhouse in a swell house in the Truman Annex -- sweet time.

I ended up talking with a former vice-chancellor at the University of Illinois, swapping notes on our times in Chicago (and it turned out she knew my cousin Walter there), though she went on to top jobs at Ohio State, the Cal State system and CUNY. Lord, how I love women pioneers.

But over on the other side of the room was a tall man with a beard, and people were whispering about him. I went over and introduced myself. (He's the center guy in the vintage picture.)

"Noel Stookey," he said with a big smile, shaking hands and introducing me to his wife.

I told him we'd gone to a Chattanooga concert he'd done, probably in 1985, when Mary interrupted her patter to ask what the hell those pretty plants were all along the highway.

"Redbuds," shouted the audience at the Tivoli Theater.

And I gave Noel -- Noel Paul Stookey, the "Paul" of Peter, Paul and Mary -- my condolences about Mary, but let him know that every spring I've thought of her when the redbuds bloom, and always will.