My tribute to Eleanor Lee

My childhood friend, Eleanor Lee Harrison Stephens, died in Escondido, CA a week or so ago. Her daughter called and asked me to write something she could read at the service Saturday. It was hard, really hard, because I haven't seen Eleanor Lee in at least thirty-five or forty years. But it tells ou not only about her, but about my growing up years on the South Side of Chicago.

Eleanor Lee's childhood home on the right

This is what I wrote:

It’s hard for me to know where to begin to talk about Eleanor Lee. You know these days, the young people talk about your BFF—best friend forever. But I’ve noticed that most of them have several BFFs. And I suppose that’s how it was for me. But Eleanor Lee was my first BFF.

We met in a Brownie troop if my memory serves me right. Soon we were spending the night at each other’s houses. I can remember the first night my dad took me to the Harrison house on University Avenue. Eleanor Lee’s great-grandmother, Mamie, took great pride in telling him how old, how solid the house was—her way of showing him I’d be safe. Had he known about the cockroaches that swarmed the kitchen at night, he’s have probably snatched me home.

But in the next years, really all through high school, that house became central to my social life. There was the man who was determined to break in, and the night Eleanor Lee and I called the police; there were endless pizza parties and chess games; there were the friends of her sister, Liz—older and so intriguing. Her mom used to wake us in the morning by sing-songing, “God has made another day/Think! Shall we let it slip useless away?” And if there was a storm, she would look at me complacently and say, “It’s all right. We’re insured. Aren’t you?” I was never quite sure if I was or not. There was so much excitement, so much love at that house that I once wrote a juvenile novel title, “I wish I Lived at Eleanor Lee’s House.” It never saw publication unfortunately—not much market for a Chicago novel from a Texasbound writer.

But there was another side to our friendship. We stayed at my house a lot too, and that was where Mom taught us to cook. She used to let us bake cookies and such, and when a friend asked her how she could let us make such a mess of her kitchen, she said, “If I don’t, they’ll never learn to cook.” We learned. Left alone if my folks went out, we loved a can of Spaghetti-Os and a can of spinach. One, in a hostel cafeteria, Mom said, "Eleanor Lee, you're not eating your spinach." Eleanor Lee wrinkled her nose and said, "I think it's fresh."

For many summers, Eleanor Lee went with my family to our cottage in the Indian Dunes, perched high above Lake Michigan. Once we came home from an exploration in the woods and told my mom we’d seen a snake. While I gestured that it was maybe four-to-six inches long, Eleanor Lee was describing it as fat and round. Mom said, “I think you girls saw a hot dog.” We swam and hiked, and once my mom sent us hiking across a huge blowout in the hot mid-day sun, so she could get two dots for perspective in the picture she was taking. 

We went to church groups together, and I’ve always thought we were fortunate that our social life, on the South Side of Chicago, centered around the church, where Eleanor Lee’s mother was the secretary, and the YMCA. We joined a high school sorority named Calliope, for some unknown reason. We whispered and giggled about boyfriends, and we spent long summer days lying on blankets with a crowd of kids at the Point—a small piece of land that jutted out into Lake Michigan. We rode bikes everywhere, and a big treat was for my mom to give us quarters for thick, thick chocolate milkshakes at a local ice cream parlor. They were so rich, Mom let us have them for lunch.

Inevitably, with college, we grew apart. Eleanor Lee went to a school in southern Illinois; I went to one in Iowa. We saw each other on holidays, but it wasn’t the same. And we married. I had of course known Frank in high school, but I think Eleanor Lee only met my husband, Joel, once.

The last time I saw her was at least thirty-five years ago, when I took my two youngest children with me to a Western Writers convention in San Diego. Eleanor Lee and Frank showed us the town, and I especially remember the wonderful restaurants on the piers. After that, we kept in touch through Christmas cards and short messages. But it still wasn’t the same. The magic of childhood was gone.

In my mind, Eleanor Lee is still that girl of—what? Maybe twelve?—who came riding her bike to my house, tears streaming down her face, to tell me that Mamie had died. Now she’s with Mamie, and her mom, and I believe she’s happy.

Did you notice I always call her Eleanor Lee, never just Eleanor? That’s how she’ll live on in my memory forever.