Carol Kirkpatrick, possibly the brightest writer I ever met in a writing group (proof positive being her ability to scribble out a pithy, brilliantly crafted story on the spot) had the additional charm of treating me to an oral history of Brooklyn whenever we walked its streets together.  Combining warmth, depth, humor, and subtlety well into her 90s, she will always represent perfectly what I’d like to be when I grow up.  My hope is to charm you with this sample of her writing:

Carlotta

She was a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post cover.

Not pretty, but impish appeal in her mischevous brown eyes hooked you.  Even my father couldn’t resist her, although it ruined his otherwise unbroken record of disapproving of my chosen playmates.

Carlotta surpassed anyone I’ve ever met in thinking up daring pranks and sassy things to say to grown-ups.  Things that might take you three weeks to come up with came to her as naturally as breathing.  She had no inhibitions about saying the unspeakable.

She claimed to have been thrown out of many schools.  I saw no reason to question these assertions.  When she was 11 and I was 10, she had just seen her last of a Catholic boarding school.  On a dare, she had parachuted off a garage with an umbrella and broken her leg.

All that summer my dad tried to teach Carlotta and me the rudiments of ballroom dancing.  We weren’t that keen on learning.  He wanted us to get the Girl Scout merit badge.  He persevered until we actually achieved that milestone…at God knows what cost to his often bruised shins, ankles, and toes.

Some of these injuries were deliberately inflicted.  I now think he should have been awarded the Arthur Murray/Fred Astaire lifetime award for putting up with pre-teen tomboy she-devils.  “How can two normal girls be so clumsy?” he repeatedly asked my mom.

In the fall Carlotta disappeared again…off to some other boarding school and bigger and better shenanigins.  I didn’t see her for about four years.

In 10th grade who should appear but my old buddy.  We were both among the gaggle of new kids at a small private school in our area.  In was in French class that Carlotta really spread her wings.

Mme Brigante, our teacher, spoke with a Brooklyn accent.  Of course it was Carlotta who pointed that out in a belittling manner.

After Mme Brigante left, a French Canadian mademoiselle took over.  Carlotta got us calling her a Canuck.

“Why don’t you shave your legs?” Carlotta demanded of her one day.  It was true the black hair on this mademoiselle’s legs was at least 4″ long.  “Or you could braid it,” Carlotta offered as an alternative.  Then Carlotta took out a pack of cards and began to deal.