Martha Apgar and Jay Nordlinger, the night before her grandson Jack’s wedding, November 2019 (Sarah McAskill)

Her son Rob said to me yesterday, “Whatever you do, don’t mention her middle name — she hated it.” Needless to say, I mention it at the top, and I mention it at the bottom.

Her middle name was “Lydia,” so I’d sing, “Lydia oh Lydia, say, have you met Lydia?” (That’s the opening of “Lydia, the Tattooed Lady,” the old Groucho Marx song.)

Let me now quote from the end of my piece, or toward it:

Have I mentioned that she loved music? She did, mightily. Some years ago, she asked whether I would select music for her funeral. I waved her off, not wanting to deal with it. In years to follow, I felt a little guilty about it. The other day, her granddaughter Sarah . . . asked me to suggest some music. I was pleased to do it. I felt I was fulfilling Martha’s request, belatedly. I said to Sarah, “How about ‘Lydia, the Tattooed Lady’?” (In reality, it will be Bach et al.)

Lots of National Reviewers knew, and loved, Martha Apgar. She was one of the best friends we ever had. If you didn’t know her, you can now, a bit. A wonderful and great woman. For “Our Friend Martha,” go here.