Lori (ann)

I never felt comfortable calling her Lori Ann. It never sit well with me, even though that's what she preferred to be called when I knew her. Lori Ann seemed too country for my taste. "Here's Lori Ann singing 'My Truck is Red and So's My Hair'." Even though she walked out of the orchards of Linden, I always perceived her to be a city gal and she proved me right by proceeding to become that very thing..

To me, she was always Lori or as I would call her "L-ooo-rrr-iii," drawing it out like an echo in a Ricola commercial. For cheap laughs, I would add the Ann at the end as punctuation, but in lower case letters with a slight buzzer sound. So it became "L-ooo-rrr-iii...ann". It put a smile on her face with a little chuckle at the end which I would always strive to do because she was my best audience during that period. Then, also drawing it out, she'd would call me Scotty in return, a name only a few are allowed to utter. And they're all female. Imagine that.

Her first show

Hard to believe for anyone who knew her, the version of Lori I first met was an almost mousy, extremely shy 16 year old. I don't recall her speaking more than two words and those were probably "Hi" and "Bye". The cousin of a another friend, she became sort of a silent tag-a-long one summer, popping up after that every now and then like a glorified extra at Pollardville, the center of my universe at that time. Of course, she still managed to stand out while those big green eyes and copper top did all the talking for her. Her hair had been cut rather short and made her seem younger than she actually was. Over time, she grew it out to the fiery tresses we all remember, framing the woman she was about to become.  I was pleasantly surprised when she eventually auditioned for one of the shows at the Palace Showboat, that being the melodrama/vaudeville double bill of THE RATCATCHER'S DAUGHTER/HELLO, VAUDEVILLE, HELLO as directed respectively by D.W. Landingham and Ray Rustigian, the both of which having the collective good sense to cast her.

And that's when it happened.

Lori didn't merely emerge from her shell. She obliterated it once and for all. It turned out that she was the true definition of a natural talent, adept at singing, dancing and definitely comedy. From there, she didn't leave that stage for the better part of a decade, guaranteeing her a well-deserved place in the Hall of Fame of that theater. 

Fanny Oaktree

It was during that time that I really got to know Lori, falling into a immediate and intimate friendship beginning with her first show. Both on stage and off, we were collaborators, co-conspirators and confidantes, speaking in the Secret Language of Close Friends with in-jokes, both spoken and delivered with a mere look or raise of an eyebrow. She was so willing to do anything in those shows. In turn, I was so fortunate to be able to not only be on the same stage with her, but to direct and write some material made to order, whether it was Fannie Oaktree, the cowgirl choreographer who made people dance by shooting at their feet, putting oversized shoes on her knees with Bob Gossett and Tony Petrali to perform "It's a Small World" (with apologies to Tim Conway's Dorf) and even adapt the Vitameatavegamin piece from I LOVE LUCY so she could channel Lucille Ball. The great Lou Nardi, who directed a few shows at the Ville, even recognized her raw talent, giving her some choices musical numbers like "Good Times Are Here to Stay" from DAMES AT SEA among others. Then again, and I don't think this is disrespectful, but maybe Lou had a little crush on Lori.

Then again, who didn't? I'll cop to it as well. It was easy to drawn to her flame and I'm talking about her hair again. She had a magnetic personality that drew people in, keeping many of those relationships over the years and forming new ones along the way, leaving a trail of them all across the country.

But my time with her was relatively short, only a piece of the full life she had lived. She had become an RN, something that I never would have conceived for her, but damned if she wasn't. And this scuba diving obsession? What the hell? If there is a case to be made for this social media thing, it's that we can re-connect with someone who may have drifted away and  fill in at least some of the blanks that make up one's life. (Unless I'm mistaken, I believe that was one of the original intentions)

I was fortunate enough to get together with Lori in maybe 2010 (?) when she visited Portland with some friends. I can't say she was the same old Lori, though she was in there all right. She seemed a lot brassier than I remember, but maybe my memory was faltering. This is how she evolved and I was stuck in the 1980s version of her. We reminisced maybe too much and didn't share enough of our current lives, but we laughed like we always did about the absurdities of just about everything. Our time was way too short and soon we had to say a reluctant goodbye. Before we got too misty-eyed, she told me, "We'll see each other again." I knew it wasn't true and I think she did too. But it was a way to get out of that potentially awkward situation. That was the last I saw of her.

Now she's gone, certainly not the way anybody would ever expect or want for her. It certainly wasn't on her list of Things to Do. Dwelling on what happened is a disservice to her, as tragic as it might have been. That's not how Lori should be remembered. Between all of us that knew her, there are enough flashbacks to better times that we shared with her to help negate this one terrible thing. As difficult it is to do that, we have to at least try, for the sake of all of us and, most importantly, for Lori's.

So here's that awkward moment again, the most reluctant goodbye of all. Now we definitely won't see each other again. But I can see you whenever I want. All I have to do is close my eyes and dream of days gone past because you will always occupy a spot in both my heart and my mind. Thank you for being a part of my life.

I can't say the word. But I will say so long, kiddo, my sweet L-ooo-rrr-iii...ann.

Love you.