Nine years ago, Kay offered her services as a proofreader. She had done the research for a Comparison Shopper chart. But she was aging, and her legs were no longer suited to long walks between aisles of canned goods and condiments.

"But I can proofread," she said one day in the Rivercross lobby. Indeed she could. She knew every rule ever devised to keep errant writers on track in their use of language and spelling and grammar. She knew that the proper spelling of barbecue was with the c, not the q (though the latter has crept into dictionaries). She knew the proper spelling and structure of "hors d’ oeuvre" and countless phrases and foreign words. She knew Spanish and French, in particular, but Portuguese, Latin, and German were no challenge for her either.

On a proof-page, she could spot an out-of-font character or an extra space at a glance.

She could do all of these things quickly, on deadline, with authority, and with keen accuracy and completeness. To remarks in praise of her skill, she would often suggest, "Nobody will notice," but those of us putting The WIRE together took a special pride in having a lower error rate than The New York Times, or any other newspaper, for that matter. Kay headed a team of three or four proofreaders that could and can take pride in adding the last finishing touch – the final shine of excellence, when it can be achieved – to the pages of this community newspaper.

She was, for the past decade, The WIRE’s special soul because the entirety of her contribution (like that of many others) was a volunteer activity, gratitude the only reward.

But for Kay, it went beyond volunteerism. Her sons were eager for her to move to Vermont, where she died a week ago, but she had refused, wanting to stay on Roosevelt Island to continue to make her contribution to The WIRE. She was persuaded to move only when her illness told her that the end was near – and because through e-mail, she could continue to play her part in production of The WIRE. This issue, in fact, contains some of her work, in the condensation of the Jay Gallagher book that occupies its center four pages; we had worked on it immediately before and after the last issue went to press.

Her commitment to The WIRE was so total, in fact, that weeks before her death she wrote a check for a substantial sum – and with this I violate an unspoken understanding that the contribution would go unacknowledged in these pages – to provide a financial boost for the paper, which chronically operates on the ragged edge of breakeven.

Over the years, Kay’s WIRE involvement grew to something more in terms of a relationship with this writer, its managing editor. Favors were easily traded. I would include her shopping list in a weekly run to Costco or a stop at Gristede’s; she would piggyback my small order on her larger order from FreshDirect. I’d troubleshoot a computer problem for her; she would save her finished New Yorker magazines for me.

In the last few months, as a variety of medical problems intruded upon her life, Kay stopped delivering her corrections. We used the phone. It meant less in-person contact, but we grew closer nonetheless.

Kay also volunteered her special skills to a novel I have coming out in a month or two, reading through some 300 pages of styled language. When she saw the galleys several weeks back, she noticed something immediately – in the acknowledgments, her name was not in alphabetical sequence with others. Even in that moment of appreciation for her contribution, she was playing the role she has played so well – catching errors and making sure they got fixed.

And now, she is gone. Gone, but not without leaving behind an experience, for me, of working with a total, thoroughgoing professional, dedicated and skilled beyond my meager ability to describe.

We will notice Kay’s absence every time an error appears in these pages, every time we apply one of the many rules she taught us, and every time there is an impulse to reach for the telephone to call her for a quick answer to some question about usage or a grammatical anomaly.

It is hard to say goodbye. Kay and I talked daily after she moved to Vermont – calls that ranged from short minutes to longer as we each recognized the coming consequences of the brave course she had chosen in refusing food as her way of taking full charge of the end of her life.

Her son reported that she died at peace after having visits, over the past two weeks, from members of her immediate and extended family. They supported the choices she was making, and held her close to the end.

We will hold close our own memories of her, and our deep fondness for her, and the special legacy of excellence and professionalism she contributed so thoroughly and willingly to The Main Street WIRE.

Dick Lutz