Remembering Joanne Pateman

My dear friend Joanne Pateman, who wrote the “Reflections” column, died on December 17.

Most people thought she would beat her cancer, because she attacked it like she did everything in life — with determination, a positive spirit and hard work.

When she joined the Rogers Memorial Library writing group, I knew we would click. After that first session, we sat next to each other for our weekly meetings. She was both student and teacher, pushing herself and us to higher standards.

With her signature blue marker and sprawling script, she caught all my clichés and wrote: “You can do better.” A comment we saw often. But Joanne, a graduate of the MFA program in creative writing at Stony Brook Southampton, also welcomed our critique of her work.

It was a joke in our group how Joanne managed to include mouthwatering descriptions of food in most of her columns, regardless of the subject. The articles she wrote for Edible East End satisfied that passion and her natural curiosity about people.

For Valentine’s Day, she wrote about favorite local couples in food and drink on the East End: Karen and Michael Catapano, owners of a dairy farm in Peconic; Kareem and Karen Massoud, winemakers at Paumanok Vineyards; and chef Jason Weiner and artist Almond Zigmund, owners of Almond Restaurant in Bridgehampton. Almond hosted a monthly offseason writers and artists salon. Our writing members and friends were regulars.

Early in our friendship, Joanne invited me to join a book group that she had organized 30 years ago, when she lived in New York City. She added, “If nothing else, you’ll love the real estate.”

Besides the amazing homes, the level of discussion she orchestrated was insightful, and informed. Plus, the women were terrific.

Joanne and I shared a love of Ireland and modern Irish writers: Banville, Williams, McCann, O’Brien. The NYC ladies would groan at the suggestion of another Irish book.

Joanne told me that, as a city resident, she wore black and gray. When she moved to Southampton permanently after 9/11, she felt free and shed her drab uniform. She was always the most colorful person in the room. After she wore red Converse sneakers, some of us adopted her fashion statement.

As a former art director and graphic designer, art was in Joanne’s bones. She became a docent at the Parrish Art Museum when it moved to its present location. On days we rode the Jitney into the city for monthly book meetings, we took the opportunity to visit art museums. She was my personal docent.

Food, wine and entertaining bonded us. We took pictures of each other’s party table settings and memorable meals. I remembered being thrilled to hear the chords of live music as my husband and I arrived for a dinner party. Among the 12 guests, three owned pigs. Always an interesting crowd.

Whether it was at her home, Towd Point, the Southampton Golf Club or the Parrish Art Museum, she was a generous hostess. You couldn’t get out the door without something: honey nut squash from Mrs. Halsey’s farm, preserves from the jam man (her husband, Mick), or snips of herbs from her potted garden.

Occasionally, we treated ourselves to lunch at Sant Ambroeus, where my gifted friend ordered panini caldi sfiziosi, with dramatic pronunciation. Fellow members of her Italian class would have been proud.

This year, Joanne and Mick took me to Pierre’s for my birthday. We sat outside, against the building, with the sun on our faces. Joanne ordered with a French accent. She loved all things French.

Before COVID, the Patemans took their three pre-teenage grandchildren to France. Her older grandson took pride in ordering baguettes and croissants at a local market. At home, he took French lessons, and now in high school he is in an advanced class. I wonder if he speaks the language with his grandmother’s flair.

At the end of a round of chemo, Joanne had a party for a small group of regular visitors who delivered food, brought books and magazines, stayed for a cup of Barry’s Irish tea. Along with her daughter, who had come from California, we feasted on lobster rolls from the Shinnecock Lobster Factory, perfectly grilled tuna nicoise and her housekeeper’s flan.

Joanne turned 74 in October. I sent a text to the members of the NYC book group and our writing “sistas.” We needed to celebrate Joanne’s birthday. I checked with Mick. He suggested that we assemble on the patio. He thought that a large group might be overwhelming for her. He also mentioned not to bring food.

So the plan was to stay outside, pop a cork, sing “Happy Birthday,” and present her with “Peter Marino: Art Architecture”; while in a wheelchair, she had interviewed him for a future column.

Joanne insisted we come inside and sit around her at the table. Her son and his girlfriend had set out crystal flutes and homemade cake. Despite her frailty, the former model looked beautiful bedecked in gold jewelry, cashmere and a Hermes scarf.

During a visit in November, Joanne asked Mick to get her pile of Hermes scarves. She presented them to me and said, “Pick the one you like.” I chose one titled “Cosmos.” It seemed appropriate to me, since she expanded my world with experiences that enriched my life.

There are so many clichés associated with death. Joanne would not approve. Instead, I’ll end with an Irish blessing:

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; love leaves a memory no one can steal.”