Remembering Susan

Her name was Susan Loda.  Her laughter was like bells, and when you looked at her, you not only saw her wide smile and boyish cap of gray hair, but you saw how she was inside, too, filled with light and a beautiful spirit that took your breath away.

I met her in 1996 when I deplaned in Rome where I would travel by van to the medieval walled city of Assissi for an art workshop.  There I was with my fanny pack and one small suitcase, wondering what I had gotten myself into, worried about surviving three weeks in a country who language I didn’t speak. And there Susan was, serene in the harried atmosphere of the airport, with only one suitcase and a backpack. The two of us stood out, traveling light in a group of women who had packed an outfit and matching shoes for every occasion.

We gravitated toward each other as naturally as the sunflowers turning toward the light in the green valleys of Umbria. On the surface, we had nothing in common. She was there for the spiritual workshops while I was there to study screenwriting. I’m a tall girl from the Deep South; she was a spirte, Tinker Bell posing as Susan from Brooklyn. My Italian was laughable, hers fluent. She and her husband Frank had lived in Italy once upon a time, so, for her, the trip was coming home.

We checked into the Hotel Giotto, perched at the bottom of t MountSubiaso and tucked underneath the shadow of the Basilica of St. Francis, which dominates Assissi. I dressed for dinner in one of the many pareo sarongs that doubled as bedspread by day, dinner dress at night then went down the grand staircase to a family-style dining room where I was immediately flummoxed by the waiter who spouted off the menu in Italian. I didn’t understand a word he said. I guess I’d have starved to death if it hadn’t been for Susan.

From that first night, she provided me with instruction and I provided her with entertainment. When Susan wanted to laugh, which was often, she simply said, “Peggy, say truffle in Italian.” Her laughter was as silvery as the bells that rang every evening to call the faithful to mass. I can still hear echoes. I can still see her spirit shining in her face as she watched the cypress tress outside the hotel dancing to the tune of cathedral bells.

Susan loved to hear me talk about my novels. Somewhere I think she’s smiling to know that she was the inspiration for Betty Jewel in The Sweetest Hallelujah.   

This is the first in a series of posts that will celebrate the power of friendship as I remember Susan. I have a wealth of pictures and stories from my journey with her through Italy, and I look forward to sharing them with you.

I’d love to hear your stories about friendship.