One of the things I always do when driving by the Brumby Lofts at the northwestern arc of the Marietta Loop is to look up at the large, square grid windows on the top floor corner apartment.

That's where my friend, Pixie Laufersweiler, lived amidst an eclectic jumble of belongings, ideas and memories that were so uniquely her - steel magnolia, pageant gal and proud, outspoken mom.

Pixie was a Southern belle through and through, originally from Louisiana but with ties to, it seemed, just about every state in the South. She was like a real life Suzanne Sugarbaker (from Designing Women), a Pi Beta Phi at LSU and a member of the Junior League in Charlotte and here in Marietta. At the time we met, she'd been divorced and was battling a terrible chronic illness, though I had no idea, she was so feisty.

I'd been volunteering for the George Bush campaign when she called wanting a sign to put in her window. With an infectious laugh and genteel manner, she informed me, "I'm on the top floah over here at the Brumby, and ah think the Cobb Democrat Headquarters can see mah window from they-ah offices. I need the biggest Bush sign you have, so ah can really tick them off."

That year, campaign dollars were harvested big in Georgia, but not reinvested here, so large signs were very hard to come by. Fortunately, I've been collecting these political artifacts awhile - my crown jewel is a 2002 Janet Reno for Governor sign, acquired in an impromptu mad dash across a swampy Florida roadside.

Anyway, to Pixie's great glee, I told her I'd hoarded some 4-by-6 Bush signs from the 2000 campaign and would bring one right over. Her feistiness alone made it worth losing a sign, I thought.

But lose a sign, gain a friend. Even with teen daughters tagging along, the visit turned into an afternoon coffee klatsch.

Loft living has always intrigued me, the antithesis of our "five, four and a door" traditional surburban home, and Pixie's corner at the Brumby didn't disappoint. She honored us with a tour, and her artsy, bold style and genuine friendliness were infectious.

Bush signage placed prominently in the window, we got the lowdown on colleges, sororities and daughter Lindsey at the University of Alabama. She spoke proudly of sons, Austin and Owen, her Baton Rouge parents, the Bridgforths and her time as a Montessori teacher in Texas. She discovered one of my daughters yearns to be a Rockette, and offered inspiration galore. She had been a beauty queen.

We planned to have lunch when she felt better, "somewhere on the Square" she said, because she just loved going up there when she felt well.

We stayed in touch, she e-mailed and called. We'd drive by and see her sign, and the twinkling white lights adorning her cheerful loft windows. And at our house, if we saw anything slightly bold, intriguing or eccentric in a good way, we began calling it "Pixie-ish." And Pixieisms became how we describe something unusual or gracious or mostly, full of life.

Just this morning, I read we lost Pixie, who wasn't much older than me and way too Pixie-ish to die. She'll be laid to rest this week in her beloved Louisiana, and her friends here in Georgia will miss her dearly.

Driving past her window at The Brumby will never be the same, but I'll bet my Janet Reno sign those lights are twinkling bright in heaven this week.

To Pixie's children, my heartfelt condolences. Your mom loves you so much.

Lbarmstrong3378@comcast.net