Last week was a tough one.

No, it had nothing to do with the national news, although those political events were bad or confusing, depending on your point of view.

The week began with the death of an old friend, Mary Dodge Brewer, the retired editor of the Boothbay Register. It ended with the funeral of another, Shirley Jameson.

In a world where the news seemed to swirl out of control, the memories of both women brought me back to reality.

Mary was a local, although she claimed she was not, for she was born at Miles Memorial Hospital in Damariscotta. Shirley was from away, but she adopted our community and took it to heart.

Mary was a childhood chum of my bride. Both lived in East Boothbay.

For the nearly 40 years we lived in Hoosierland, we drove to Boothbay every summer. And, most every year, I would chat with Mary about the newspaper business. Actually, I would listen, as she explained, and complained about it to me.

Mary Brewer, like a lot of old-time newspaper folks, didn’t study journalism. She didn’t need complex statistical studies to encourage her to focus the paper’s coverage on their core community. Mary learned it on the job as the process evolved from linotype machines to computers. She earned the trust of her colleagues and readers week after week as the Boothbay Register, and the Wiscasset Newspaper, recounted the loves, lives, and deaths of her friends and neighbors in the Midcoast.

During our summer chats, I think I figured her out.

For all her bluster, Mary was all about love, although if I dared to say that out loud, she would have dismissed me with a sharp word and sharp look.

Here are some things I learned from her.

She loved her family, especially the grandkids. She loved the Boothbay region and its people. She loved the Register and was so devoted to it she used to collect the staff’s old soda bottles, turn them in for the deposit, and put the proceeds into the company cash box.

She kept an old scanner radio next to her desk. Unlike most editors, she was not listening to police and fire calls. Her radio was tuned to the marine frequencies so she could make sure her beloved husband, Butch, a lobsterman, was OK.

I met Shirley through my bride, who was sort of related to Shirley’s husband, Danny Jameson. I say sort of, for it is a relationship based on a long and complicated friendship between the Barrows-Jameson family and that of my bride’s mother, Eleanor Andrews Stevens.

Shirley and Danny were born in the same week in the same Melrose, Massachusetts hospital and were high school sweethearts. They recently celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary.

Every marriage has periods of discord. It is part of every union. Sometimes, a couple is just not on the same page, and I wondered how Shirley and Danny dealt with discord over the years.

On Valentine’s Day, I visited with them and asked how they managed to stay together for 70-plus years.

“You just make it work,” she said. “You must think about the other person. We do that today.”

A moment later, she looked at me, her dark eyes twinkling behind her black-rimmed glasses. I could feel the warmth of her smile. And, when she turned her smile towards her husband, I think the real secret to their 70-year marriage was her smile.

Shirley loved her family, the violin, and their old home on Lobster Cove. But, maybe, just maybe, the violin ranked just behind her husband.

She began her violin studies as a child and only put it down after her tiny fingers could no longer make it sing the songs that raced around her brain. When I asked Shirley how long she had been playing the fiddle, she looked over her glasses and shot me a stern glance. “I play the violin, I am not a fiddler.”

At her Friday funeral, held at St. Columba’s Episcopal Church, the audience was treated to an uplifting service that included a wonderful violin concert from her teacher.

As people walked out of the church, I overheard two women wondering who was playing the violin. “Boy, he nailed that piece,” said another who was a longtime band director.

The violin player was Ferdinand "Dino" Liva, a founding member of the state’s premier chamber music ensemble, the DaPonte String Quartet.

He couldn’t resist her smile either.

Boothbay lost a very public figure last week. We also lost a very private one, too.

We will miss them both — a lot.