Bill Venter 1937-2019

I inherited the artist Bill Venter from Muffy Wheeler, my predecessor at Polaroid Credit Union. I thought since he'd done good work for her, I should give him a chance. Little did I know, not only would we produce some really good materials, we would have decades of friendship.

I'd walk down to his studio, past the caramel-smelling Necco factory. Often we go to lunch after a hunt for his keys. I bought him a locator, but instead of responding to a clap, it went off to a laugh.

We talked about everything. He coached kids' football. One of his three sons, all of whom he adored, went to Boston Latin with my daughter. His boys. Later he would have granddaughters.

When I changed jobs and was working in Maynard, rather than have him spend a couple of hours in the car, he stopped off with projects on his way home.

There was the night my roommates and I served him a Shepherds Pie, only we forgot the meat. Or the night he dropped artwork off during the last episode of Mash. We'd turned the house into the Mash site. Years later he gave me a poster of the Mash crew that went with me to Europe specially framed and originally matted.

My daughter's cat adored him. Pumpkin wouldn't leave him alone. Sometimes she had to settle curling up in his hat.

There was the night my daughter and I were putting together the new microwave table. He speeded up the process considerably (although there was much discussion) and enjoyed the first cocoa nuked in the new machine.

Whenever I came back to Boston from Europe where I'd moved, we would meet up for lunch and catch up. It was as if we'd seen each other a few days before.

When I met my now husband and told him, he said that he'd have to check him out and give his approval. In Cambridge we shared a meal. Fortunately, he gave Rick the okay, and Rick understood why I valued Bill's friendship so much.

Tonight, Facebook carried the message of his death. As a writer I should be able to do better than the cliché "a punch in the stomach" but that's what it felt like.

We were coming to Boston for Christmas, and I hoped to see him. Now I wish I could tell him, how much his passing hurts. He'd tell me not to hurt.

One of the things about aging, is we lose we people care for. I will never get good at it and yes, I can be grateful for having such wonderful people, wonderful men, like Bill in my life.