How can a year or two pass without my calling someone who hand-carried my son through most of his childhood, steadfastly dragging me with him? Unfathomable — yet my only excuse lies in the fact that she has not called me either. Lame, I know; yet there it is.

I first met Katrina Singsen Taggart when our boys both attended Purple Dragon Pre-School, where they learned sharing, math, cursive, and the delights of German food before they turned five. Our families gravitated towards one another. Our curly-headed sons formed a fast bond which their mothers soon emulated.

Katrina tackled adversity with cheerful logic and unfailing determination. She also let kids take risks that terrified me, and remained unflappable throughout every adventure. As a consequence, my son took to life in her household in a way that I envied. She fed the kids beef, which Patrick never got at home; made popcorn on the stove; and baked delightful desserts like cake and pie which I could not begin to master. She put the boys to work and taught them such necessary skills as how to clean by opening a rag to its full length “to increase the available surface area”. I will never forget Patrick sharing that lesson with the patience that I knew she had exhibited in the first instance.

With the Taggarts, Patrick picked blueberries, went to the RenFest, and Trick-or-Treated for hours. For Katrina, he bagged Meals On Wheels and helped deliver to the households on her list. I called Katrina to help with every crisis over a fifteen-year period, from needing childcare so I could attend a funeral to the death of our beloved dog Chocolate. She came each time, with food, a tool kit, suggestions, and endless hugs to comfort us through the trying hours ahead.

We alternated holidays in each other’s homes. Their family filled the table in my house while we augmented their already crowded dinners. Katrina’s calm offset my nervousness, easing situations that might have been unbearable. She graciously expanded her holiday traditions to include my son and me. When my turn came to host, she boxed her Eastern Bunny cakes and her Christmas cranberries and brought them to my table.

Katrina enriched my son’s childhood, and thus his life, in ways that I cannot articulate without tears. She raised her own children to be gentle and kind, without losing their uniqueness. She stood by her husband in all his trials, to his dying day. She rescued every kind of animal you can imagine, from the chipmunks in her back yard to the mice which infested her garage. She handled everything life piled on her with infinite patience and ingenuity. In the thirty years that I have known her, I do not believe that I have ever heard her complain. But I’ve seen the glow of love, the sparkle of compassion, and the liveliness of discovery cross her face enough times to consider her a shining light in my often chaotic, dark world.

Midnight approaches in the time zone where Katrina lives. Her birthday draws to a close just as I have remembered it. Her children no doubt lavished her with gifts, sent her cards, made dinner for her. Here in Pacific time, I sit reflecting on all that she gave me without asking anything in return. Her generosity of spirit touches everyone she knows. She is, quite simply, the best friend I ever had. I have no words for how much I miss her. If I could pray, I would pray that her life holds no more sorrow, and infinite quantities of joy. She deserves as good as she has given, and not one iota less.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

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