Chit-Chatting With Liz Margaret Bolte   © Copyright 2024 by Margaret Bolte

Photo by Vyacheslav Argenberg at Wikimedia Commons.

As neighbors living across from each other, we became cordial shortly after her son came to our home to sell items for a school fundraiser and magazine subscriptions, which we purchased. After that, Liz and her husband Alex dropped their cool distrust of us as the new neighbors as my husband and I continued to support their kids' school activities, a neighborly bond began. We were invited to the kids’ high school graduation and to their reception. I never had a deep conversation with Liz. Alex would see my husband, and Alex would walk to our garage routinely. He made himself at home at our house, sitting on our lawn chair and conversing with my husband about old vehicles and their collection of tools. Alex passed from brain cancer the third year we lived in North Dakota. At his funeral service, Alex was wearing a new flannel shirt my husband had given him.

We lived in North Dakota for nine years. During the winter months, when I returned from work, a 30-mile round trip from my job as a food inspector at the Port of Entry of North Dakota and the Canadian border, Liz would call me as soon as I entered my home.

“Saw the snow tracks in your driveway; you are home. It’s been snowy all day. Thought you were home.”

“Yes,” I replied, wondering why she was calling.

“I drove back earlier from working at Gastrack (convenience store). She went on talking about mundane things about working in the deli. “I had to make turkey sandwiches.

Those Canadians sure are picky about what they want on a turkey sandwich.”

One skill that I did not have was being a ‘social talker.’ I spoke only when I needed to gather information for work reports or discuss pertinent issues with my husband about our home projects. Just talking to talk was a waste of time. When I came home after working all day, having discussions with co-workers about inspection quotas and work assignments, and taking phone calls from brokers asking about releasing truckloads of product, I had no desire to speak and looked forward to a quiet time.

Yet, out of courtesy, I would listen to Liz talk. Our conversations started slowly, with her leading. Suddenly, I listened more intently as she shared a story of seeing her deceased mother wearing a nightgown on the staircase of their home. Her mother had lived with Liz and her family, and she passed away a few years ago. “My mother just wanted to let me know she was still in charge. Her spirit is always around this house.” She would ask how long I had been married, and I replied that it had been about 25 years. She said, “I married Alex when I was young, 18 years old. He is older, about 12 years older than me, but I like him – no other boys took an interest in me.

Full of surprises, Liz helped me share myself with her in her own way. She knew I collected Coca-Cola items, a hobby I started in North Dakota. She told me that her brother in Fargo had been to a yard sale and bought Coca-Cola collectibles. “If you want, my brother will show and sell you the stuff when he comes to Anthony’s graduation.” I agreed. And at the graduation reception, I met Liz’s brother, and Liz announced to me in her brash, loud voice, “he has the coke stuff in the trunk of his car.” Outside, I looked around and noticed a police officer across the street.

“It is Coke-Cola soda items, right?” I said. Liz's brother had a dozen great cola soda items, and he sold them to me for what he paid for them. It was an amusing interaction.

When I retired, my husband and I decided to leave North Dakota and move to South Dakota to be near his mother. I called Liz and gave her our new phone number and address. A few months later, Liz called me. I always took her call, joyful to hear from her. She was fun to talk to, as she mentioned that the new neighbor never waves. We talked about trivial stuff – how expensive groceries were, how her car needed an oil change – minor life issues. I responded with similar mundane incidents, like waiting so long at Walmart to pay for groceries. I was chatting, and it was a nice distraction. We chit-chatted about nothing, and yet for Liz, it was about everything – her life activities. And she was funny. She shared how her grandson likes books and thanked me for sending a care package of books and toys for Sebastian.

“I am glad he likes the books. That is good for a youngster,” I commented.

“Oh, he gets into those books. He chews on them.”

“What? He tries to eat the books?” I asked.

“Yeah. Thanks for sending the books. It’s a good start for him.”

We visited North Dakota and our former hometown six years ago, and Liz was the first person we saw. She greeted us with a smile. “You guys should have never left!” It was fun to see her.

For the last ten years, Liz has been calling me every month or two months. Last March, the call was when she told me she had become ill. “They tell me it is breast cancer.”

“I am so sorry Liz. I will pray for you. Keep me posted. I want to know how you are feeling.”

“Yeah, it sucks – I am staying with my daughter and her husband and my grandson…getting treatment. Those doctors don’t know a damn thing-they never tell me anything…” This time our chit-chatting was not trivial.

A couple of months ago, Liz called. “I just had a treatment-chemo- and something went wrong…I couldn’t breathe…they told me I was turning blue. A lot of nurses and doctors came into my room. I have all these IV lines and monitors on me.”

“Are you all right now? Where is Marion? Is anybody with you?”

“No, everyone is gone… they went to a car show in Fargo. Didn’t pick up their phone…They will be back sometime.”

“You just do what the doctors tell you. Liz, you have to take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, this really sucks,’ she said with a soft, fading voice. “Well, suppose I should go…”

I told Liz to call me again. “Let me know how you are doing. God is with you.’

“All right, suppose I should go…bye.”

The last call from Liz came a month ago. It was a Sunday at 5:30 p.m. She called me. “How is it going?” she asked.

“Okay. What about you?”

“Oh, they want to give me more treatments. “I don’t know why. I am having trouble walking…it is just a hassle.” I asked about her family. “They are okay. My grandson starts high school in a few months – he likes sports… “Don’t know why I can’t leave this place," she said in a soft voice.

“Are you still in a hospital?” I asked.

“It is a rehabilitation place. The nurses don’t tell me anything. Well, I suppose I should go.” Her voice was weak and no longer loud.

“Liz, I will send you a gift card from Walmart. You get something you can use, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I suppose…” Her words lingered in the air.

“Let’s talk later. I will pray for you.”

“Yeah, do that. Suppose I'd better go.”

Those were the last words I heard from Liz. The day after that brief evening call, Liz stopped breathing and passed away. Liz taught me to chit-chat. Her calls will remain special. There is beauty in a person who seems ordinary, yet by sharing our lives, we build a connection that can last. A person who talks about nothing taught me that nothing is always something, and that is heartwarming. From her, I learned to be open to others, no matter who they are, and that a relationship may begin and, with luck, perhaps endure over time.

She called me. I will miss her calls, and as my eyes swell with tears, I am not crying. I am smiling with gratitude to know I had a unique friend who lived in North Dakota. Her name is Liz Dumenchuk, a different name, but a name that lives on in my heart. I suppose I'd better go. Yes, we all will have to go…God be with you, Liz, and I will remember that you always have something to say.