Dec. 2—I’m sure — at least I hope — this has happened to you:
You’re grinding away, going to school, doing a job, raising a family, maybe even raising hell — whatever — and you run into a person who makes the world better simply by inhaling and exhaling.
Man, what a gift. It’s like tripping over the Hope Diamond and landing in a vat of Godiva chocolate.
I’m praying the following hasn’t happened to you:
That aforementioned person — the one with the heart as big and wide as the Pacific; the walking, talking definition of kindness; the one who deserves to live to 120 — is taken in what can only be described as a blinding flash of inexplicable cruelty.
Her name was, is, Barbara Armijo. She filled up her appointment book during her six decades on the planet, but you can’t meet everyone, so if someone never had the pleasure of knowing her, well … I’m truly sorry. She was a gem.
She died Tuesday night in an Albuquerque hospital, undone by a devastating stroke and then, incredibly, cancer. A couple months ago, such a fate was unimaginable. By day, as a member of the state’s Public Education Department, she was working to put New Mexico students back into the classroom. At night and on the weekends, she was loving on a new grandbaby and hanging with her two sons or legions of friends.
Two months.
I simply, simply do not comprehend how this can happen. But it does.
For just a moment, I want to write about the good times. We’re almost the same age, having graduated at about the same time from rival Albuquerque high schools. For a long while, we were 20- or 30-something sportswriters together — teasing one another about our respective dating lives (it was a long time ago) while dropping headlines onto an NBA roundup, taking a box score on Farmington-Santa Fe or discussing Barb’s forays into the Albuquerque Dukes’ clubhouse when a female sportswriter entering the lair of oft-naked men was still a tricky proposition for all concerned.
Barb — the sports guys called her Babs — never flinched, though I know there were times she must have recoiled at the discomfort. But her sunny personality never wavered. Five, 10, 15, 30 years after people left her company, they remained warmed by her glow. My Facebook feed is afire with memories of Barb’s life. Her Facebook page opened with this mantra: “Happy, happy, joy, joy.”
I can’t tell you how many stories I’ve edited in a newspaper career: That’s the best lead you’ll ever read.
Which is why, in every time zone, people are crying. Their tears will create another El Niño.
In my life, I’ve seen that kind of power only one other time. Which means I’ve gotta be the luckiest guy in the world. Usually, you only experience it once, if at all.
Barb, a mother of two, eventually left journalism. She became a teacher not far from where she grew up, Albuquerque’s South Valley. Eventually, she moved to the Public Education Department, where she did a variety of things, most recently heading an effort to revive classroom attendance — crushed by the pandemic, and maybe, an erosion of fundamentals on the home front.
As Barb struggled this fall at University of New Mexico Hospital, I’d converse occasionally with her boss at the agency, Leslie Kelly. We’d give each other updates, then talk about Barb between heaves and sobs, for we feared the woman we loved was probably lost forever after the crushing stroke.
The day after Barb died, Kelly texted me what Cabinet Secretary Arsenio Romero sent to the staff at PED.
“I am writing with sad news this morning. One of our most beloved colleagues has passed away. Barb Armijo died last night surrounded by her loved ones following a stroke earlier this year. For those of us lucky enough to know Barb and work with her, we know that there is a valiant advocate for the students of New Mexico missing among us.
“Barb’s devotion to the young people of this state was unwavering. Most recently, she spent time working on our attendance initiatives, channeling her relentless belief and humor into some of our most important work.
“Please take a moment today to remember Barb, to look around and appreciate these humans we are lucky enough to do purposeful work with and maybe go to coffee and tell a joke or a great story in her honor.”
I guess this is my attempt to do just that, though I know it’s not nearly enough. She was that good a human being — better than words, bigger than tears. And I’m grateful for your indulgence to tell this one story, maybe because you know someone just like Barb, too.
If so, enjoy that person. Revel in every day.
Phill Casaus is editor of The New Mexican.