She was 86 years old and had a laundry list of ailments in addition to total hip and knee replacement. She could barely walk unaided and yet she wanted to pump some iron! I was smitten with her immediately.

I found out later that my beloved Sara was somewhat notorious around the spa. I was told that she liked to flash the male massage therapists from time to time.

Apparently the male massage therapists found this disturbing. I found it hilarious.

As a young woman, Sara had danced with Martha Graham and while she didn’t brag about the fact much, she did relish dropping racy quotes which she attributed to Martha whenever it pleased her. One time I took her to the Opera and while we waited in the crowded lobby she loudly announced, apropos of nothing, “When I danced with Martha Graham she used to tell me: when you plie you need to breathe through your vagina.”

It wouldn’t be the first time I would hear her repeat that bit of advice. She used it again when a young man flirted with me while we waited for drinks during intermission at the Philharmonic. The young man’s ears turned red and he said, “Your grandmother is quite a character.”

“She’s not my grandmo-” and Sara interrupted, “I wish. If only my grandkids had the balls of this one. My name is Sara Charles Crumley”

She always introduced herself that way. I called her my fairy godmother.

Every afternoon when she arrived at the spa I would link her arm with mine and walk her around for a few minutes while she told me stories. She had a million of them. She had been a successful entrepreneur, a rancher, and of course, had danced with Martha Graham. She also created a holiday. She told me this one afternoon as she sat by the pool, wearing a broad brimmed sun hat and looking for all the world, like a character from a Willa Cather novel.

“Oh, I’m just getting ready for World Gratitude Day. It’s a holiday I created a few years ago and it’s celebrated all the world over.”

She handed me an ancient, yellowed pamphlet which looked like it belonged next to a copy of “Bus 9 to Paradise” in a doctor’s waiting room from 1976. On the cover was a horn o’ plenty and the words, “World Gratitude Day- established by Sara Charles Crumley”. You want something to happen? Make it a holiday. That was my Sara.

One afternoon, as I lead Sara from the lobby to the pool, she asked me what I was doing that weekend. I told her that my boyfriend and I were going to see “The Scarlet Pimpernel”. She said, “Oh, wonderful. My friend David is in town from Dublin. He loves the theatre. We’ll meet you there.”  She was good at inviting herself places.

We met at the theatre and she charmed her way into getting the seats beside ours. Afterwards she said, “You have to come back to my apartment for a glass of champagne”

Her apartment was a stunning duplex on Riverside Drive with a spiral staircase and a terrace overlooking the Hudson. The minute we walked in, however, we were nearly knocked over by the smell of something burning on the stove. I ran into the kitchen and found what had once been a couple of eggs that she had intended to hard boil but forgot and they turned to ash while we were at the play. It was January and 20 degrees outside but we had to open all the doors and windows to get the stench out. Soon the apartment was freezing and Sara went into her bedroom and emerged with an armful of old Blackglama fur coats which were reeking of mothballs. We sat in her den in those crazy coats and told stories and sang songs as we went through 4 bottles of Veuve Cliquot. This was all she had in the fridge-- a wedge of Stilton cheese and 12 bottle of Veuve Cliquot. She ate out every night. The gal knew how to live.

When my boyfriend became my fiance, Sara said, “Well, of course you’ll have your engagement party at my apartment.”

Of course!

We arrived a few hours before our party to bring in the caterers and decorate the place with flowers. The eight of us hustled around her kitchen and living room for an hour or so until the moment that Sara emerged from her bedroom, ready for her close-up. I stopped what I was doing and turned to see that Sara was standing in the doorframe to her bedroom, one arm up and one down, posing for dramatic effect. She’d been waiting for one of us to notice her. Lord knows how long she’d been standing there. She was wearing an ornately patterned... dress? Caftan?

“Sara you look so beautiful. What are you wearing?”
“Oh, this?” She smiled. “I’ve just had this piece of fabric forever and I didn’t know what to do with it but I wanted to wear it.”  She was wearing a black bodysuit with a piece of fabric, draped over her-- she just threw on a piece of fabric and called it a day. God bless her. She was the life of the party and when it was over she tossed the fabric on a chair and crawled into bed, where I tucked her in like a little girl. God, how I miss that woman.

In all the years I knew her, I never heard this woman say an unkind word about anyone (other than the schmuck I replaced) and even though she had many health issues and must have endured a great deal of pain and discomfort daily, she never complained. But what I really loved about Sara was that she didn’t give a damn about what was expected of her, what other people thought of her, or what was appropriate. Is there a word in the English language more constipated than appropriate?

I can’t wait to get old and fabulous and eccentric, like my great dame Sara. Look out world! She taught me how to breathe through my vagina.

A month before I left New York I ran into her on the street. She had a home health aid with her and she was using a walker but she still looked fabulous.

I saw her everyday at the spa so I’d never had occasion to call her.

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* This is a pseudonym for a woman who is still very much alive, in New York City.