Frances Rickard

Born in a Yiddish-speaking household to immigrant parents Isadore Isaac Rosen from Poland and Molly Smolen from Russia (now Belarus), Frances’ girlhood played out against the vibrant Brooklyn neighborhood of Flatbush. To her mishpachah, she was known as “Sonia.”

After high school and rebranded as "Frances," she sought work in Manhattan. Drawn to the hustle and bustle of media and entertainment, she found her way to the secretary pool of a top ad agency on Madison Avenue. As glamorous as she was gregarious, Frances started as a receptionist and worked her way up to a media buyer — a career she devoted herself to through 2000. It was at one of those agencies that she met Jack Rickard, a storyboard illustrator, soon to join the ranks of Bill Gaines’ MAD Magazine as one of its best-known artists.

Frances and Jack were the happily-ever-after teased in the romantic comedies of their era (some of which Jack illustrated the movie posters for). The neighborhood girl with stars in her eyes married a handsome, successful ad man and they spent the next 20 years traipsing around their city as the best-dressed couple in any room. While living in Kips Bay, they welcomed their daughter Diana and son David. The family then made its happy home on West 78th Street during which time Jack passed from pancreatic cancer in 1983.

Frances often wore black — not as a widow, but as a New Yorker. Her next act brought her to the world of residential real estate where she became a licensed salesperson for Century 21 and Level Group. She fought fiercely for her clients and believed that a bargain was in the eye of the budget. She would say that Florida was the land of extremes, California of ups and down, and that nobody really loses in the Big Apple.

Frances was the consummate culture-vulture. When she wasn’t at the office or showing a listing, you could find her at an art gallery, a museum, the movies, the opera, the ballet, or a Broadway theater — where she collected over 100 Playbills of the shows she saw. On the night a tragic accident took her life, Frances was on her way to a reception at Sotheby’s.

Until her last breath, this Big Appler made the city her playground — from luxury residences to “mom-and-popsicles.” She woke at the crack of noon to call her friends, gossip about the night before, and then head to Bloomingdales in her fur and Balenciaga sneakers. She mourned the closing of Lord & Taylor and her Upper West Side haunts La Caridad and The Cottage. She wondered how the city that never sleeps could stay awake when all the diners were closing. As Frances would say, the more things change, the more things change.

Frances is survived by her daughter Diana Rickard of Brooklyn, NY — poet, criminologist, and full professor at BMCC; and her son David Ricard — a three-time Emmy-nominated composer living in Los Angeles with his wife Sarah; many beloved cousins including Debbie Smolen of Long Island and Jason Smolen of Maryland; and too many friends to count. Frances had no grandchildren despite many years of pestering.

You can honor her memory by speaking out against 45/47, watching Casablanca, fighting for reproductive justice, evaluating who has had good and bad “work," donating to WQXR, hitting a party, ordering Chinese from The New Cottage (which reopened at the site of La Caridad), shopping at Century 21, riding the M66, and wearing black, which — just like Frances — never goes out of style.