thanks, jill, bobby, stephen, etal. the memorial service is saturday. she left
a husband and two adult  children.

here's what i wrote for her service;

My friendship with Sylvia began when I was fifteen.  Steve, Sylvia, and the
two children came to see us on their way to Mexico. Meera was all of three
years old, and she had an earache, so after much debate, Sylvia gave her half
an aspirin and put Meera down for a nap in my parents bedroom. An hour later
Meera came out, looking like a china doll, all smiling and rosy cheeked, and
said "I all better."

Sylvia  must have liked me, as she began writing to me after they got back
from Mexico.   Even in those days, I wrote long, poetic letters like Anne of
Green Gables, so I was happy to have another person  to write to besides my
sister, who was in Israel for many years. We discussed everything from whether
Sylvia should get Meera a bike seat so she could take Meera with her when she
rode her bike, to whether I could  work on a farm and be with animals, to the
death penalty and anti-nuke protests.

Her first handwritten letters mystified me. She wrote about  "Lickens"  and I
thought she meant chickens or kittens. It took a couple of letters to
straighten me out that she was really talking about Lichens.  She wrote me
long handwritten letters all about lichens as if they were family pets. I
remember thinking it odd that she didn't write more about my cousins, David
and Meera. From the start of our correspondence when I was fifteen, Sylvia
always treated me as a full human being, and treated me with respect, and I
always appreciated this.

As the years unfolded, it became apparent to me that Sylvia had a real passion
for this odd but beautiful lifeform called Lichens. And I grew to respect her
as having an identity outside of being a mom. She sent me some pieces of bark
that were covered with brown, gold, and green Lichens, and I kept them
faithfully, watering them every few days. I loved the way they smelled; like
the way the earth smells after a rainfall. They were very soft to the touch
and  fascinating to look at and lasted many years perched on my windowsill.

When I was 24, I moved to the East Bay  from Santa Monica, and over the next
18 years I had many opportunities visit with Steve and Sylvia. I remember with
great fondness all the holiday dinners my parents and I went to at the
Sharnoff's house. The house was always warm and filled with life, and that is
the way I will remember Sylvia.

I could go on, but there will be 125 people at the memorial, and so steve
asked we keep it short and sweet.

mag.