Liz Dribben’s Jahrzeit

It’s so tough to say tootle-loo.

When Liz Dribben passed away last year, I resorted to photographs of Michelle Pfeiffer to illustrate my reminiscences. That would have pleased Liz tremendously, as I said at the time, because she’d always hoped that “Miss Pfeiffer” would play her in the movie adaptation of her life story. Even so, I promised to update my essay with photographs of the real Liz Dribben, who was very much the star of her own life, and a glamorous blonde at that.

I had one gorgeous picture of Liz already at hand — or so I thought. Yes, she’d given it to me while I was helping her to sort through her myriad collections, files, cases, and hordes of hoards, just before she left for the nursing home. Meanwhile, however, the photograph, a bona fide 8 x 10 print, slipped off to the warehouse with all my other belongings. By the time I’d unpacked it again and managed to scan it, Liz’s Jahrzeit, the first anniversary of her death, was upon me.

So here is the picture, and here is the anniversary. Miss Pfeiffer will remain in place, and Liz’s own portrait will get its own special frame. Together now we can look at the pioneering Buffalo TV journalist, along with her co-anchor. I don’t know whether this is the fellow who was getting paid more than Liz for doing the same work, but I do know that, when she asked for equal pay, she was fired. That’s how she wound up in New York, where I met her two decades later.

I’ve had a year to get used to Liz’s absence, to the phone that doesn’t ring and the e-mail that doesn’t ping. But how can I get used to hours not spent talking with her every week when I’m in New York! Not receiving her chatty notes and the news articles she forwarded so avidly! And not being on the receiving end of her endless advice!

Now that I reflect on it, her advice was seldom entirely practical, and there was always a catch to it: yes, it would be terrific if I did on-the-scene reporting from a bathysphere off the eastern coast of Madagascar, especially if Mr. Sondheim came with me, and especially if I got one of those broadcast-quality digital telephones she’d heard about (and craved), and I’d have to admit she was right, even as I tallied up the reasons her scheme would never work.

Say what you will, she was always looking out for me, thinking about me, wishing me well. A resilient optimist, too, she forever insisted, “You never know” what good might come of my efforts, if only I’d dare.

I miss that.

I miss Liz.

The concept of “Jahrzeit” means that we grieve for a year, and then we move on. It’s going to take me a while longer.