Jane Nielsen was the kind of woman you would have liked to have had for a neighbor, or a best friend.  She was one of those people you just love to talk to, because she always wanted to talk about you. She'd ask how things were going with your kids, or your job, or your holiday break. During the briefest, most unexpected of meetings on a city street or in a book store, you'd find yourself giving her a history of your family from the present to whenever you'd seen her last.

     And, if you did remember your manners long enough to interrupt your self-indulgent rambling about your life and ask how things were with Jane, she'd almost invariably tell you life was going pretty well. She might offer a tidbit about the recent events in the life of her daughter or her son; maybe she'd mention some incident from a trip to an out-of-town basketball game or gymnastics meet or school event. Deftly, though, and without spending too much time talking about her world, she'd turn the attention back to you, maybe with a question about the health of that son of yours she'd gotten to know the summer he interned at a counseling place in Pierre, or with a remark that led you into a discussion of your grand-daughter's growing wisdom or skill.

     The point was, she kept you talking about yourself much of the time you were together. Who wouldn't want a friend like that?

     She should have lived to be 83, even 103, but Jane died last week while she was just 53. She worked hard all her life, survived a couple of encounters with cancer as a young woman and, by rights, shouldn't have been visited with the medical problems that eventually took her life so soon. She wore her blond hair short, and she had wide eyes that pulled you into her soul in the most casual of meetings.

     She left behind a son, Evan, a 6-4, broad-shouldered guy who played basketball a year ahead of my younger kid. She left behind a daughter, Erin, as blond as her brother and mother, a willowy woman nearly 6 feet tall with the grace of a gymnast and a loose-jointed way of frolicking across a beach or a basketball court that reminded me of a young colt.

     Erin grew up to play ball for Dakota State University. In the process, she managed to put together a nice academic life, as well, and her mother came very close to bragging some months ago when one graduate school after another began accepting Erin for further schooling. The University of Minnesota sweat shirt in the coffin last week had special meaning for Jane Nielsen and for the future of her daughter.

     Members of the Lady T basketball team and their coach showed up for the funeral. I won't soon forget the sweet sorrow of watching that group of tall, lovely young women walking in pairs into the church behind the casket and the family. It was a wonderful moment in a terribly sad time, and it left me hoping those girls win every game they play from now until eternity.

     The kids were Jane's life, and she raised them by herself for much of their lives. Her passing leaves a massive hole in their universe, but she left them with some wonderful lessons and examples.

     One that sticks in my mind came after Erin and her Pierre teammates lost a crucial basketball game at a time when they were ranked high in the Class AA list. The girls were as distraught as only 17-year-olds can be over a game. Erin had tears running down her face, and people like Nancy and me hugged her and told her that it didn't matter, that she'd played well, that it was just a game.

     Jane handled it another way. She knew it didn't matter, but she also knew it mattered immensely to her child at that moment. She said nothing. She simply wrapped her daughter in her arms and cried, too.

Reach Terry Woster at 605-224-2760 or twoster@midco.net