Bechir Chourou

After multiple attempts, I finally managed to get in touch with mom's old friend Bechir Chourou, who lives in Tunis.

(As it turns out, Sarah had already successfully contacted him. Perhaps I should let Sarah know what I am doing, once in a while. This might be wise, considering that she has mom's address books, and the latest of her email archives. Duh!)

Bechir said:

"I have already heard about Linge (that's how I call your mom) - your sister Sarah sent me the sad news. I still can get over her passing away. With her went away the memories of my best years in the US, the best years of my life. I know that eventually we are all bound to die but somehow I always thought that we would depart together just as we have lived together for over 40 years. In fact I met Linge in 1966 when we were undergrads at Roosevelt U. in Chicago: it seems it was yesterday. I miss her and will miss her terribly."

and:

"Linge used to read everything I wrote, not only to correct my punctuation (she had to conclude that I was beyond redemption in that area, and I think she was right, but then punctuation is English is weird!) but, more importantly, to contest some of my ideas. Her comments will be sorely missed."

Bechir, whom I have not seen in more than 25 years, is partly responsible for some of my fondest memories, which took place in Tunis. I submit, as evidence of the generosity of this man and his family, that my mother and I lived at his mother's house in Tunis on three separate occasions, for several moths each time. This blog contains other stories about Bechir's mother, whose name I just don't know--she was always El-Hajja to me. Someday humanity just might evolve a language that contains words that can adequately describe the magnificence that was this woman's cooking.

This is the type of friend that my mother had. I should be so lucky.