This Renoir, the exquisite 1880 portrait of 8-year-old Irene Caher d’Anvers, was part of today’s lesson.   Irene would live to be 91.  Born in horse-and-buggy Paris, she would die with humans hurtling through space at unimaginable speeds.

Irene reminded me of a something I’d mentioned in class a few days before. In 29 years of teaching, I told them, I have never taught so many red-haired girls, in particular, and hair in so many shades of red–from strawberry blonde to deep copper. Having this many redheads is extraordinary.

This anomaly led to intense meditation and at least one extended monologue in front of 31 slightly befuddled sophomores, on redheads–all of this was me processing information–and it led to one logical, unavoidable conclusion about them:  They are beautiful.

My mother, by the way, had deep auburn hair. That’s her, with my big sister, Roberta, in 1943. She was twenty-two, with ancestors from County Wicklow, on Ireland’s east coast.

One of the dearest friends of my life, Joe Loomis, died last fall. Joe was the kind of guy–you hear stories about this in him over and over again–who would drop anything and everything to help a friend.

Here’s an example. My Mom, the single most informative influence of my life, died when I was 17.  She took her own life, a pattern that runs in my family the way cancer does in others. Nobody knew how to handle my tragedy. Joe did. He simply drove up to our front door in a jeep, invited me to jump in, and drove me—rapidly–up the Huasna to his family’s Tar Springs Ranch.  The Loomises gave me a place, their home, where I could feel safe again.

Years later, Joe and I had lost touch, but it didn’t matter because I knew this great friend would be around nearby and we would have the luxury of time to renew our friendship.

And now he isn’t, and now we don’t.

I made a color copy of a photograph of Joe– it radiates his kindness and good humor–and put it on the corner of my classroom desk.  This is his year. I will be the best teacher I can be, and it’s for him.

After school today, Kaylee and Maggie, two basketball players, were studying in my room–I work late, and I hate working alone, so having kids do their homework with me is a blessing.

We were talking, I think, about Irene again–-Irene with the red hair, because Maggie has red hair, too.  I was talking to Maggie and suddenly I thought of Joe.

“One of my best friends died this year,” I started.

The girls’ faces fell.  They started to stammer their “sorries.” These are good kids.

“No, you don’t understand.  Maggie, go look at the photo of my friend on the corner of my desk.”

She did.  The girls thought he looked nice.  I asked Maggie what color hair Joe had.  Red, she said.

I don’t think they completely got the point because I didn’t completely make it, and coherence is in short supply when you need it most.  They had to go to their game, and I think they believed they’d said or done something wrong, when in fact they’d given me a wonderful gift.  It took me a few hours to unwrap it.

The reason–and when you’re in your sixties, you begin to understand that life isn’t as accidental and random as you think it is–the reason I have more redheads this year than I’ve ever had in 29 years of teaching— is that Joe hasn’t left me at all.

My little brace of red-haired girls light me up inside every day they’re in my classroom, because they are themselves beautiful and, I now understand, because they connect me to the friend of a lifetime.  It’s no wonder I loved Joe—excuse me, love him–so very much.

February 2014