One last painful twist to 2004: Carol Marcum died.

Carol moved in to our neighborhood with her 3 small children when I was about 5. They lived across the street from me in the house she owned til the end. The house that she painted all but the bottom 2 boards of, which drove my father completely mad for years. Every night he'd look out the front door window and claim that he was going to sneak over there in the middle of the night and finish the paint job. He never did. Neither did she. Eventually, she had the house sided.

Carol had a voice that, um, carried. Summer nights when our windows were open, we could hear Carol. Whether yelling at her kids or just having conversation, we heard almost every word. It made us laugh.

Even though her oldest child was only 2 years younger than me, this was my first babysitting gig. Basically all I had to do was play with them and keep them from killing each other. This was no small feat, considering one of them fell through the front window while playing on her recliner and another time the boy had his head slammed in the front door (on purpose) by the middle child. He went on to be an extra in the movie "Alamo," so he wasn't too badly injured.

It seemed like every time I talked to her, she was working a different job. We always laughed about that. As many times as she quit, though, she never seemed without work. I don't know how she did that.

When I went through my hating mom stage, Carol was there. She listened and cried with me. She was the first adult who felt like a peer. She had gotten married, er, um, "earlier" than most, and was one of the youngest moms I knew. She was a friend. I could go there for coffee, and did so, hundreds of times from my teenage years on to the recent past. During my smoking phases, I could bum a ciggie off of her. I called her my adoptive mom, and she would have taken me in in a heartbeat, or so I want to believe.

About a year ago, she was diagnosed with cancer. I only sat with her face to face once since. My real mom was with her a lot, and she had her children to help, and not long ago she went to stay with her youngest daughter, the one who slammed her brother's head in the door. I never went to visit her. I pretended that she was no different than the woman I used to sit with on her porch. I pretended that she wasn't dying.

She died last night, at her daughter's house. I'm told it was quick, it was peaceful, and that she hadn't been in pain. I guess that's a good thing. But I didn't get to say goodbye to her, that's my fault, I know. But I am so sad that it went unspoken.

Carol was my first and biggest fan, outside of my biological family. She loved to read this column when her AO-hell would cooperate.

So, Carol, I am saying goodbye here. I hope you read it, I hope you enjoy it. I have a feeling that you share my desire to have people cry over your departure, and I will oblige, I am currently.

Goodbye, Carol. I'll miss you horribly.

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