My mom hated to play Bridge. She dreaded the silence and the serious nature of the card game. Her idea of fun was to have a party where everyone could visit.

But in the early ‘60s, she was invited by a few friends to join a monthly Bridge Club. Each woman took turns hosting the card game. There were seven ladies, and they wanted Mom to be the eighth hand. Month after month they called, still she declined. Finally they called with a threat. “Rita if you don’t join us, we will hold Bridge Club at your house every month until you do.”

That did it. She brushed up on her Bridge skills, which were minimal at best. She smiled and joked through each hand. The high point for her was after the hands were played, and the friends enjoyed a child-free evening with a show-off dessert. Mother began to look forward to seeing everyone, and the women formed a special bond of friendship.

These women began to bear each other’s burdens. When Fran’s son broke his neck, they provided her with moral support and diversion during his hospitalization and recovery. When the Jones’ house was destroyed in a fire, and two of their children were killed, the Bridge Club families helped Shirley catalog all the contents of the burned out house for the insurance claim.

It was 24 years ago exactly that mother passed away. The remaining members of the Bridge Club came to the hospital, to the house, and to the wake. They cooked and cleaned and helped us set up and serve at the reception after the funeral.

On Easter, some of the daughters of the ladies of the Bridge Club came to my house for a party that my mom would have loved. Andre Laird’s daughter, Margot, flew in from Minneapolis, and she brought her handsome sons and one of their girlfriends to join us around the big table. Also joining us was Margot’s nephew, Joe Laird IV, a pre-med freshman at the University of Washington. It was emotional to look in his eyes and see the echo of his dad, my classmate, and a talented oncologist who was recently claimed by the disease.

Regina White’s daughter, Joyce, was here with her husband, Dan, both classmates of my sister who live in Edmonds. We figured that Regina and Andre are probably the only remaining members of the Bridge Club, and are approaching 90 years old. Ten of us around the big table ate and talked for hours, and there was not a playing card in sight. Yes, it was Mom’s kind of party.

I’ve heard it said that you’re not dead until there is no one left who remembers you. Somehow it seemed so appropriate on Easter, a day of celebration and remembrance to keep alive the memory of this group of friends.

Patty Luzzi has lived on the Eastside for 33 years. Readers can contact her at pattyluzzi@yahoo.com.