Thursday, March 29, 2018
My mom, Pat's sister, talked to Pat every morning, whether skies were a blast of sun and blue or were just absolutely leaden, for decades on end. Evidently, one day as Christmas approached, both sisters were baking cookies at the same time and were on the phone with each other, too. And, as my mom says, five hours later, they each had churned out dozen after dozen of one of the Italian confections we all enjoyed. My brother, sister, and I made a point of depleting Aunt Pat's mercilessly, much as her girls tried to do the same with my mom's. Speaking of the holidays, Christmas Eve at her house was something of a Victorian wonder. Warmth just hit each of the guests (no no...we were all family when we entered) in the face upon wiping our shoes and hanging our coats. What she may have lacked in many "things," she made up in having beautiful "things" perfectly positioned - a soft, red quilt on the back of a chair, a few strands of garland over notches and corners, the smell of lasagna coming from a gorgeously old serving tray, ancient plates and silverware removed from the cupboard specifically for this moment, and Sinatra in the background. She was uncanny in that way. So much of her mom and dad's influence, with one of Fran's paintings right here, a piece from John from when he was in the Navy right there, a reminder from the Walnut Street home just so, covered her existence. Always remember. Always cherish. My brother and I would go down to her home on Ewings Road for a water gun or snowball fight with my Uncle Don. Champ (or Larry) and I would turn on my uncle at the last moment and cover him with red-dyed water or snow. And when all manner of childish warfare was done, what would be waiting for us? Aunt Pat had scraped together some phenomenal mac & cheese in the winter and some perfectly cool ham sandwiches and tea in the summer. As for my sister, how could a relationship ever be wrong when the first gesture was to throw one's arms around the other? This they did to each with every meeting. (And what exactly would my brother and I throw…nothing but a few firecrackers in her Franklin stove just as we were leaving. She cursed us in Sicilian and with a laugh as we flew along the driveway. Success!) I know my brother saw her before she left us. I know my sister spent hours and drove a cumulative amount of thousands of miles to be with her before she left us. I, on the other hand, had just an unexpected 2 minute conversation with her. She sounded weak (like Johnny Fontane - Aunt Pat and a few others would/will get the reference), but I also heard a smile in her voice. (I knew she was happy to be seeing soon quite a few old friends.) I beamed, personally, with our conversation. I never thought I would have that moment, and I thank my sister for that joyous event (and it was an event, however brief, to me). How you do something was the lesson I take from her. That and the-shirt-off-my-back thinking carried her to the end. It will be hardest in my family on my mom. I think of their phone calls. I think of my mom telling me, when I would talk to her later that night, that they had had a wonderful lunch together at DRI or Gordie Harper's, or of the Easter meal Pat was going to make, or what flowers were recently in bloom around her yard, or what she had found of their mom's stuck between linens in a hutch drawer. They talked with abandon (joys, disappointments, frustrations, acceptances) every, single day. Ultimately, sadly, and as we are all slowly learning, a best friend is an impossible wealth to replace.
