“This was one of the happiest places in my life,” Violet said. “Right here, under this entryway, Johnny and I held hands as we walked in and out every day. It was so perfect in our world, Ronni. We had everything, absolutely everything.” She swiped at a tear rolling down her cheek. “I can’t believe they saved this.”

“I’m sure it means a lot to many people.” I smiled as she touched her lips and planted a hand-kiss on the inside of the arch.

“I can practically see Johnny and Sam and Katie Ruth and Johnette and Mary Nell...God, I’m the only girl left in that group. We were all so close, once upon a time. Katie Ruth died last August. You would have loved her.”

“I’m sure I would have. Here, let me take your picture.” I held up my phone as Violet struck a very sixteen-year-old pose, one arm extended up a row of bricks, the opposite arm and leg playfully extended like she was preparing to cartwheel. Her pleated ivory skirt and jacket were perfect.

“Adorable. You need saddle shoes.”

“Darling,” she came to examine the pic and nodded, “I never wore saddle shoes. That’s pretty cute. Will you print it out for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you for bringing me here. So many good memories.” Violet gazed at the arches one last time.

“You are most welcome. Where to now?”

“If you know any decent restaurants, let’s get a non-institutional meal. I’m buying.”

I drove to an upscale place called Classic On Noble, all chandeliers and fancy salads for ladies who lunch.

“This used to be Woolworth’s!” Violet blinked at the crystal sparkling in the windows. “Imagine that. From soda fountain to chic. I love it.” She swung her car door open and walked her ballerina walk to the waiting doorman as I schlepped behind her, feeling like I should be carrying her train.

That was the thing about Violet: she entered any room like a queen and inspired train-carrying impulses. “You should always walk like you have a crown on your head, Ronni. You are beautiful when you radiate confidence. Remember that.”

So, where would I begin to write the story of a woman who inspired me so? I picked up the many scribbles I’d made about conversations with her, trying to write a decent opening sentence:

“Violet Glenn was born in 1930, during the Great Depression, as God’s gift to cheer the world.” No. Sappy and stupid.

“Violet Glenn rode her bicycle down the sidewalk to the home of her first love, Johnny Perkins. She was ten years old and lived in the perfect place at the perfect time. Her parents doted on her and so did Johnny, even before he realized it.” No, too boring.

“Everybody loved Violet. Let me tell you why.” Who would turn that page? No.