I would like to share a few small but revealing memories of Moffett.
Moffett was truly unique. When we became roommates in a little Berkeley cottage in the early 1960s, Moffett was no longer in graduate school but moved easily in and even surpassed the academic milieu. She read widely, and was studying Russian. She had a very fine mind, probably the finest of anyone I have known. She liked having discussions. When you ventured an opinion about something, she would think quietly for a few minutes, then astound you with an absolutely penetrating view of the subject.
Those were the heady days of the popularity of the first Julia Child cookbook. I became something of a food snob, and was especially proud of my salads, making sure I “fatigued” the lettuce with olive oil and used a homemade vinaigrette. I was holding forth about the properly made salad we were eating one evening when Moffett speared a big piece of lettuce, held it up, and said drily, “Maybe the pieces of lettuce could be a little smaller?”
I was happy to be able to keep up with Moffett over the years as we both moved back and forth all over the country. After going to a Swarthmore reunion several years ago, she came to stay with us for a few days in our Philadelphia suburb. In our guest room she spotted a framed line drawing by some world master that I had had for many years, and said in that faintly surprised but authoritative tone, “Rena, I think that picture was mine!” Of course she went back to Berkeley with the picture in her suitcase.
Moffett was a great letter writer, all by hand. Over the years she sent me with her letters various memorabilia and some exquisite small water colors. I framed and hung my favorite of these, and will try to attach a picture to those in the memorial art page.
I will miss her very much.
--Rena Fraboni Bloom
