Margot Kidder died yesterday, so I wrote some words about her for NOW. I hate writing obits, but here’s something I left out because I couldn’t find a way to make it fit.

I met her once, back in the late ’80s or early ’90s. It must have been at some fan thing I was covering for the Star; they had me do a lot of that stuff back then, and they’ve all blurred together in my memory. Anyway, we were in some green room somewhere, and for a couple of minutes it was just the two of us. She was chain-smoking, and I had the sense that it was more about giving herself something to do than about the enjoyment of the cigarettes.

I said hi and introduced myself. She said hi back. “Kidder, Kidder” was how she introduced herself. “Margot.” We chatted briefly about Sisters and Black Christmas and then she went on to her thing and I went on to my thing.

It was nice. I’m sad we’ve lost her so early.