I’m not sure if it’s because January marks eight years since my beloved friend Harriet Traurig died or because the last time I saw her was a month before her death, during the December holidays, but I’ve been thinking about her a lot recently. Maybe it’s because Harriet was my “older, wiser” Jewish soul sister who died at the age of 54 and I turned 55 in October. Maybe it’s because there was no better gift giver than Harriet, and as I shop for family and friends at this time of year, I keep asking myself, “What would Harriet think about this?”

Probably, it’s all those reasons and the fact that I miss her so very much. She worked for years to champion public art and died after a long, courageous fight with breast cancer.

I got to know Harriet during a period of time I fondly refer to as “between husbands”-as in hers and mine.  We became very good friends in fairly short order-running around buddies who liked to go out together and chase up some fun. At first I thought maybe that was because we were in similar places at similar points in our lives. But after more consideration, it became clear to both of us that we shared something so profound it instantaneously drew us to each other… Sunset Blaze.

A cross between eggplant purple and fire engine red, Harriet and I enjoyed a hair color found nowhere in nature. You’d be surprised how quickly something like that can lay a foundation for an enduring, beautiful friendship.

The fact that we had the same hair color and the same kind of curly, chaotic hair, led many people to the same conclusion: we must be sisters. And so, we figured, why argue? It wasn’t like we were lying, exactly. If people thought we were sisters who were we to tell them otherwise? Besides, I don’t have a sister and I couldn’t imagine one more fabulous than Harriet.

Of course, with a sister like Harriet, it was only a matter of time before we’d get into trouble.

I was reviewing movies for the Post-Dispatch and often would bring Harriet along to evening screenings. I’d introduce myself and explain I was reviewing such-and-such film for the paper and in we’d go.

One night Harriet and I arranged to meet at the Esquire. When I got there, I didn’t see her so I figured I’d go inside and wait. I did my usual routine, went up to the ticket taker, told him who I was and what I was doing there.

“What are you talking about? You’re already here,” he said.

I looked at him like he was crazy. “Let me in,” I said.

“Look lady, I already let you in.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Harriet laughing. It was just too easy, she said.

That was Harriet, pushing the envelope. I often felt like Ethel to Harriet’s Lucy. She was always concocting some scheme for us. Like the time she decided we should enter a bicycle race.

Now this made perfect sense for Harriet, who rode her bicycle virtually everywhere. She was fearless and tireless. It was her weekend mode of transportation and when she could swing it, she rode to work on it, too.

Me, well, suffice it to say, bicycling is not my sport. I protested the bike race but Harriet assured me it would be OK. And Harriet had a way of assuring people so they actually believed her.

The day of the race arrived. It was in Litchfield, Ill. We loaded the bikes into the car and off we went. I whined the entire way.

We were a few miles from Litchfield when Harriet told me that we could win this thing. “Maybe you can win.” I said, “but I can’t pedal a few miles without a break.”

“Oh, you’ll get a break,” Harriet countered. “In fact, you’ll get several.”

It was then Harriet explained she had entered us into the “Tour de Donut,” a bicycle race that was less about how many miles you rode and more about how many doughnuts you ate. And to think I doubted “my sister” for one minute.

Harriet, I suppose, inadvertently but nonetheless, introduced me to my husband and for that I will forever be indebted. When people ask how I met Jeff, the short answer is at a Neville Brothers concert at the old Mississippi Nights. But the long story is, at a Neville Brothers concert where he asked out my good friend Harriet.

Yes, that’s right, Harriet and my husband dated each other. OK, maybe it was just one date but when I asked each one about it, their responses were both the same: “It was nice but the timing was off.”

This, apparently, was good news for me and for Harriet’s husband-to-be, Rupert.

Harriet was amazing at so many things, not the least of which was an uncanny ability to remember every special occasion in her friends’ lives and celebrate them with the best presents.

Honestly, the woman never failed to pick out something unusual or perfectly representative of a moment in our friendship. True, I’m still trying to figure out what to do with the Betsey Johnson spandex mini dress festooned with oversized, colorful fruit-but I know it’s only a matter of time before an occasion presents itself. 

I was lucky enough, along with another good friend of Harriet’s, to visit her and Rupert in San Francisco a month before her death. Harriet was frail and tired easily but she was still Harriet through and through, which meant she insisted on cooking us brunch, shopping with us in Haight-Asbury and going to the movies to see “Bad Santa.” It’s weird because I knew she was so very sick but now, when I think about her, all that comes to mind is that wild red hair and her jokes and laughter and those dozens of Harriet-isms I know and love.

I’d like to leave you with a few that have served me well and I hope will do the same for you.

Harriet on consumerism: The only purchases worth regretting are the ones you didn’t make.

Harriet on sleep: It’s over-rated.

Harriet on bowling: It’s underrated.

Harriet on nutrition: There is no bad time to eat chocolate or drink champagne.

Harriet on choosing a centerpiece for a dinner table: Nothing says elegant better than a plate of Moonpies with sparklers in the center.

Harriet on risk taking: Every 10 years you have to turn your life upside down. You owe it to yourself.

Harriet on aging: When people ask, always add eight years to your age. That way they’re bound to tell you how terrific you look.

Harriet on her husband Rupert: He makes me want to dance.

Harriet loved to dance. She loved to laugh and she loved to smile. She loved a good joke. She loved to see the people she loved succeed and be happy and she was willing to do anything she could to help them realize those goals.

It is impossible for me to think of Harriet, especially at this time of year, and not smile. Those of us who knew her are better people for it and we owe it to her to keep her legacy alive.

And with that I will tell you of what I think Harriet would say right now: There is no bad time to eat chocolate and drink champagne, especially during the December holidays.