The piece I wrote for Wendy's memorial service

My sister named everything. She and Lars have only been in Tucson a little while, but already they adopted Henry the Saguaro cactus and Carletia the Ironwood tree, and – having moved nine tons of rock – they are good friends with Juan the wheelbarrow. There’s Bertha the ancient Volvo, and several foot-long lizards that hang out near the compost heap, all named Herman. I’m surprised the compost heap doesn’t have a name – Wendy was so overjoyed to be creating dirt in the desert.

Wendy was on intimate terms with the world. I used to go to her apartment and find everything labeled with its name in whatever language she was trying to learn – the door said la porte and the kitchen le cuisine, and even in the fridge the milk said lait. She had a real ear – especially for the accent. Probably her best accent was the deep South one she picked up dating Andrew – she used to give “how to speak Southern” lessons that could have been a stand-up routine: “No,” she’d say, “you’re trying too hard. You just gotta barely open yer mouth.” She wasn’t shy about throwing a little bit of German or Norwegian or French or Spanish into the conversation. “Das Gut!”

Actually, she just wasn’t shy. I always admired her fierceness – how direct and unselfconscious she was. She wasn’t shy about being the only gringa at the Cinquo De Mayo. She wasn’t shy learning to polka on a tabletop at Oktoberfest. I don’t think she had any idea how extraordinary that was – just as she didn’t have any idea that she could scrub her face and throw on whatever and still turn every head when she walked into a room.

That fierceness – you didn't want to get in the way of that fierceness. Probably lots of people remember shopping with Wendy, what an adventure that was. She always knew what she wanted, and she wasn’t going to compromise. It once took us four days to buy a pair of jeans. Imagine shopping for a wedding dress. She wanted something simple – no big-skirt Barbie bridal. It used to be pretty hard to find. I remember going into a tres chic shop in Coral Gables Florida, trying on dresses. Of course the store put her in a longline bra and a slip that was practically a hoop skirt. I can see her standing there in her bra and hoopskirt and sweatsocks, with her hands on her hips. “See, this is exactly what I don’t want.” Sales clerks were running for cover.

She taught me “never buy anything you don’t love.” And later she changed it: “Never do anything you don’t love.” And she didn’t.

I’ve always hoped for my baby that she would be strong and fierce like Wendy. I wanted to tell you how excited Wendy was about becoming an Aunt. I feel so cheated about this – that my little one won’t ever know her. But I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her “never do anything you don’t love.” And we’re going to call her Vivian, which means “full of life," and that's for Wendy.