One of my favorite memories of legendary Philly journalist Carol Saline, who died this weekend, is of her regaling the young women in the Philadelphia magazine offices with one of the many absurd experiences from early in her groundbreaking career.

During a slow period for the magazine, one of her bosses called her in and told her she was being laid off. Why? Because, as Carol recalled decades later, she was married and her husband made good money so she didn’t really need the job as much as others did.

But Carol would have none of it. Refusing to retreat to South Jersey and become a stay-at-home mom, she kept coming into the office, day after day, doing her job — her calling — even when she wasn’t being paid, until her boss relented and put her back on salary. “I mean, he finally realized I wasn’t going anywhere,” she laughed. And we laughed with her, awestruck by her temerity, and grateful for her temerity, as well. Times had changed — thanks, Carol! — and we knew we were the beneficiaries.

Needless to say, no one can ever be Carol but Carol. I am just lucky to be one of the many who benefitted from her generosity and advice and cheerleading.

We also knew we were in the presence of a (diminutive) giant — a journalist, author, speaker, Best of Philly cover model, woman around town, mother hen, feminist icon and all-around sassy broad. I don’t remember the first time I met Carol, when I was a young staffer at Philadelphia magazine. But she has never not been there since, a Philly character with a big heart and boisterous energy and creative ambition who invariably had me thinking, over the decades: I’d like to be Carol when I’m older.

Needless to say, no one can ever be Carol but Carol. I am just lucky to be one of the many who benefitted from her generosity and advice and cheerleading — most recently from the front row of Citizen events, after which she always told me how proud she was.

Carol loved working at Philadelphia magazine. She started as a young woman in the early 1970s, in the heyday of magazines, and stayed through countless editors and generations of writers before finally leaving to craft a late-in-life career of freelance writing, public speaking and philanthropy, among other things — including vintage button jewelry designer.

By the time I met her in the mid-90s, Carol had won a National Magazine Award; turned her investigative story about drug-dealing Main Line dentist Larry Lavin into a book, Dr. Snow: How the F.B.I. Nailed an Ivy League Cocaine Ring; published the bestselling photo/essay book Sisters, along with photographer Sharon Wohlmuth, with plans for two more in the series; divorced her husband, and moved to Rittenhouse Square, where she proceeded to be the doyenne of Center City Philadelphia for the next three decades. (She remarried, to Paul Rathblott, who was by her side throughout her battle with cancer these last eight years.)

She was a tiny, absurdly fit woman, with a huge presence; a fashion plate, with big jewelry — often designed by her friend, Halloween’s Henri David — and a huge red-lipped smile. That smile greeted her wide circle of friends, for whom she always showed up, opening her heart, her home, her attention. We always knew she loved us, always made us feel important to her. And Carol was always, to those who knew her, the model of what it means to live large and age fiercely, unapologetically.

She even did dying in her own large and fierce way. In June, Carol sent a note to her circle of friends telling them that she’d opted to go into hospice after contracting an infection that her body, after years of living with acute myeloid leukemia, was unable to fight.

Then, in true Carol fashion, two things happened:

• She sent her own obituary to The Inquirer’s Gary Miles, telling him that she wanted to save her family from that burden, and that “As I approach the expiration date of my life, I want to go out with a glass of Champagne in one hand, a balloon in the other, singing (off key) ‘Whoopee! It’s been a great ride!’”
• She had a revival, leaving hospice and spending several weeks in a grateful state of extended animation, exclaiming at fireworks, hitting the Rittenhouse Farmer’s Market, visiting with her children and grandchildren. As Paul told us in a CaringBridge report: “Carol, with her usual sense of humor, said, ‘This has gone on so long, people will think I’m faking!’”

Of course, she wasn’t. I tried to visit with Carol in the last couple of weeks, but we couldn’t make it happen before she again went into hospice, as her body failed her vibrant spirit. Instead, I’ll always treasure the last message I got from her, a few weeks before she died, which ended with her telling me that I have really mattered in her life. What an honor. Thank you, Carol.

Correction: An earlier version of this story misnamed the article for which Carol won a National Magazine Award. It was for a piece on cosmetic dentistry.