Reminiscing

 My sister died a month ago.  A sibling dying is not an inconsequential event, for anyone.  For me, it was deep.  You see, she was ten years older than I, so she was also a mother figure for me.  Actually, she was better than a mother.  I'll give you an example.

When I was ten years old, I told my sister about a boy I liked (Never to my mother!)  We looked his name up in the phone book.  (How's that for a nostalgic journey?)  We found his family name and address.  We got in the car and drove by his house.  That's it.  That's all.  What mother would do that? Only sisters do those things.

Another favorite memory I have of my sister is a Christmas memory.  We both loved to color.  Whenever I was sick, she bought me a new coloring book.  It seemed I was always sick with measles, chicken pox, asthma, colds, and even a ruptured appendix!  And of course, Santa always brought new crayons and coloring books. Christmas night, we loved to put all the lights off in the living room, except for the Christmas tree lights.  Then we would crawl under the Christmas tree and color with our new crayons and books.  

It was magical!

Before dementia stole my sister from me, we sent each other birthday cards.  Since my birthday was a couple of weeks before hers, whatever type of card she sent me, I would reciprocate by bumping it up a notch.  If she sent me a lovey-dovey, mushy Happy Birthday Dear Sister, I would send her the most grandiose "lovey-dovey", mushy card.  If she sent me a funny card, I reciprocated with a real zinger.

Recalling old memories leaves a sense of warm nostalgia.  Reminiscing leads me to tell you something important.  

School starts in a couple of weeks, and when I took my grands to buy school supplies, I found myself staring at all the Crayola products.

Mmmm.  Yes, I did.

I bought the biggest box of crayons the store sold, and an adult coloring book.  While we checked out our purchases, I took out my personal items and brought them home.  

As I colored that night, I thought of the many types of prayers that everyone uses.  And I thought that sometimes... sometimes, the best prayers are those that are offered up in color. 

IN LOVING MEMORY OF Elizabeth "Bette" Donovan

The Same But Different

 Yesterday morning, I fell.  I tripped over the electrical cord to the hair blower.  I fell flat on the floor.  Only my knees got hurt.  But my memmory was shook.  My father once fell in his bedroom, and I remember thinking very negative thoughts about him.

I was an older teenager.  My grandmother had died (my father's mother).  The previous day we had the Wake.  The morning of the funeral Mass and burial, my father's toe got caught up in the intricate bedspread fringe.

He fell.  The corner of the bedside table went into his sternum.  It cracked the sternum--very painful.  It hurt him to breathe.  Don't feel too sorry for him; he was drunk.

As I was getting up from the floor, I immediately thought of Dad.  No, I didn't feel too  sorry for him.  He hurt himself.  He missed his own mother's funeral and burial.  

Addictions are terrible.  Please pray for addicts to get the grace they need to overcome their addictions.  Plus, pray for their families who have to put up with them.  

Happiness is a Short Memory

Last night I was at a family gathering with a lot of people I have never met before, or haven't seen in years.  One of the men there approached me and whispered in my ear, "I want to apologize for my behavior at your prom."  Outside of, "huh?", I didn't know what to say.

He continued to explain that he didn't want to go to a prom.  He wasn't the type.  His parents made him go.  He was young, immature, and stupid.  That was why he behaved like he did.

Okaaayy.

What did he do?  ????????????  

I don't know, but I guess it's a good thing that I don't remember.  Someone once said that happiness is health, and a short memory.

I do remember him, but that's about it.  Maybe I repressed the memory?  Nah....like he said, "he was young, immature, and stupid."

So was I.