Mary Kellog, a dear friend, an angel, and a gifted poet died peacefully last night in her sleep, surrounded by her loving family, and in the warm comfort of hospice.

She was 91.

Mary was one of those excellent humans, a transformative figure in my life and in the life of Maria.  She knew how to be a moral, loving and exceptional human.

Together, she and Maria and I published four books of her wonderful poetry, the last one being “This Time Of Life.” Maria edited each one and helped put them together.

Every single one of her four books sold out.

I met Mary in 2006, not long after her husband Dick died.

She and four friends had gathered every year for 50 years for a “learning experience” and that year they chose Bedlam Farm.

Mary wrote me a neatly typed letter (I hadn’t seen a typewriter-like that in years)  asking permission to come to the farm.

The group (they were not quiet) spent a day at the farm, and Mary and I become close and fast friends, perhaps the best friend I ever had.

On a second visit, Mary mentioned the poems she had been writing all of her life but had never shown to anyone, including her husband.

She feared he and other people would think her strange if they found out she wrote poetry.

I told her she was strange, but so what?

A week later, Mary came over and showed them to me, Maria and I were blown away by them and we printed more than 2,000 copies over time and she sold every one.

She came to every one of our Open Houses and read from her poetry books there. By this time, I was in love with her.

She made many friends from an online creative group I had formed so creative people could gather and support one another.

Mary lived by herself on a 30-acre farm on the top of a remote hillside in Hebron, N.Y. It was a beautiful place, but forbidding. I don’t know anyone in their 80’s, male or female, that would have lived alone there.

Mary loved every inch of it.

I worried about her being there alone, the phone and power often went out.

One winter, during a nasty ice storm, I called her to make sure she was all right and cautioned her to stay inside – she was always driving older people to the grocery store and doctor.

It was a fierce storm, the roads were slick and still unplowed. She assured me she would be fine. An hour later, there was a knock on the back door.

It was Mary, holding a bowl of warm vegetable soup. ” I was worried about you down here in this big house all alone,” she said. “I brought you some dinner.”

That was a lesson I never forget, and I had no doubt that Mary delivered it deliberately. After that, I never told her what to do or fussed about her being alone on the farm, which she loved so much.

She stayed on that farm on the top of a hill well into her late 80’s until she fell about 18 months ago and broke her hip and agreed to go into an assisted care facility.

There, away from the farm, away from her beloved poetry, away from us and others, she began to wither and fade.

Her death was no surprise.

As so often happens when the extreme elderly fall, it is difficult to recover. Mary tried bravely, but she never got to see her farm again. That was heartbreaking.

I’m not sure I have the words to explain what Mary meant to Maria and to me.

Both of us were very alone then, we had both been mostly shunned by the friends we had before we got divorced, and isolated in a very small and remote town on a big farm.

I was recovering from a savage breakdown and Maria was setting out to reconstruct her life and return to her life as an artist. Mary was central to both of those things.

Maria rarely thinks she is important, and it’s hard for her to believe how much people love and respect her. I loved Mary and she loved me, but the real story was Mary and Maria, two extraordinary women who loved and thought the world of each other.

People like Mary are rare. They can not be replaced, only appreciated. We are grateful for every minute we spent with her. So are people like Maria. Their friendship was a mutual gift.

It was pure joy to see Mary and Maria, both of them sitting together at Mary’s dining room table, going over Mary’s poems, talking, and laughing.

She trusted Maria so much, and Maria loved her poetry and her as much.

When Maria asked Mary to think about making changes, Mary almost always agreed, gratefully and with appreciation. When she didn’t agree, she said so.

She was tough as nails beneath her gracious manner.

Mary had moved to the center of our lives, our hearts, and our souls.

She has been ill for some time now, this may be God’s way of preparing us for the death of someone we love. But their friendship – Mary’s and Maria’s – was one of the most beautiful things I ever saw.

Mary became in some ways, the mother and family neither of us had.

She loved us and said so.

She supported and encouraged us, she admired us. She told me right off that she saw me changing and was glad of it, she liked the new Katz more than the old one.

And she appreciated us.

I never once saw Mary when she didn’t thank me for reading her poems and suggesting she come out of hiding as a poet and show them to the world.

Mary returned the favor.

She supported our creativity encouraged us as well. Mary was the very first person I told about my love for Maria, and the only one at that time. “Oh, that’s great,” she said, smiling. “She’ll be good for you, she’ll keep you in line.”

And so she has. After we got married, she referred to us as “the kids.”

Mary’s total trust in Maria, her interest in her life, her admiration for her loving spirit, and intense creativity — these were all gifts no one had ever given Maria at a time when she most needed them.

Our great friendship with her continued, until the time she no longer knew us or remembered us. But even then, she would sometimes talk of a poem in her head,  apologize that she just could no longer get it out. She wanted so much to remember my name, but couldn’t.

She was a true poet through and through, and she was so proud of that work, right to the end. It was who she was.

It got harder to visit her, she would look at me and struggle, mortified that she couldn’t remember my name. But she always asked me what I was doing how my life was, made sure I knew how glad we were there.

We visited her often on her farm before she fell. Whenever she saw us pull into the driveway, she came to the door and beamed.

Because you see, we gave Mary a beautiful gift also, without even knowing it. Into her 80’s, missing her husband, looking for meaning and purpose, the poetry gave Mary the focus and meaning she had been seeking as she neared the end of her life.

She loved writing about her beloved farm, she loved the crowd reading, the appreciation, the attention, the applause. I joked that once she stood up to read her poems, I’d need a crook to get her back into her seat.

Mary loved being teased, even when I repeatedly suggested that Napoleon was the first person to appreciate her poetry, she laughed and laughed.

She was so comfortable within herself, with who she was.

Mary was a killer on a book tour and at the open houses, soaking up questions, hustling her books – she sold 2,000 copies all by herself.

No one in her family had noticed Maria’s many amazing traits and gifts, no one ever asked her about her life, or what she was doing, no one made her feel whole and worthwhile. Nobody bought a smartphone to keep track of her work on her blog.

Mary did want to know, and all the time.

Mary was universally loved and admired. She was the first person  – and the only person – to encourage and support my relationship with Maria after my divorce.

Mary was at a turning point in her life after Dick died.

She resolved for him to never spend a day in the hospital, she took care of him for ten years. She was devastated by his loss and somewhat adrift, remembers her daughter Nancy,  and is depressed. The poetry, she said,  was a godsend for her.

It gave her an important reason to move forward and helped her recover.

Mary was a quiet and gracious person, but she loved doing readings and coming to the Open House. It turned out she was a ham. She loved the light that shone on her and her work.

Mary’s poems were gorgeous and iconic, inspired by her childhood on a family farm, her father, with whom she was close, and the stages of her life, including the last book, titled “This Time Of Life.”

She was unfailingly polite, gracious, and warm.

What a privilege for Maria and I to know her and support her very beautiful poetry (all of her books are sold out, there are none to buy at this time.

She loved taking care of other people. In her later years, she worked long and hard to have a hospice built near the town of Granville. She succeeded.

(Fate came rushing over to Maria when we learned of Mary’s death.)

Mary wrote several poems about Bedlam Farm and the dogs, she considered the farm a place of great harmony. When I met her Rose was still reigning at Bedlam Farm.

She often told me something I really needed to hear – that I had done right by coming to the country, despite all the pain it caused.

You’ll be okay, she used to tell me. I believed her.

It is difficult for me to mourn Mary too much. I’d rather celebrate her life and her poetry and our friendship with her.

She was a wonderful person, she had many dear and lifelong friends, an adoring mass of children,  grandchildren, great and great-great-grandchildren.

She lived a good and worthy life. Isn’t that all we can ask for?

We have missed her for a while.

Many family members were sitting by her side when she died.

She was grateful for her life and its bumps. I never heard Mary say a hard thing about it, or complain about the dark side of it.

If there is a heaven, Mary, you are already there, writing your poems, sipping your tea, become close friends with the angels. You are one yourself.

— People who wish to write Mary’s family or send flowers can do so: Robert M. King Funeral Home serving Granville, N.Y. Phone, 518 642-2322, 23 Church Street, Granville, N.Y., 12832.  Mary never liked anyone making a fuss. I think the family would appreciate letters rather than flowers.