As Halloween ends, I turn to honor and revere "my" three saints

 Halloween is winding down and my thoughts turn to All Saints. Here are a few memories of "my" three saints (in no particular order and not all sugared up. These were genuine, three-dimensional, flawed people whom I love more deeply every day).

My grandmother, ("Neenie") was pretty much my third parent. She moved in with my parents before I was born and cared for me and the household after the pediatrician sent my mother back to work when I was six months old. (He told Mother she was such an uptight worrywart she'd ruin me, so everybody was better off with her gainfully employed. Wise words, Dr. Bornstein!) Before I was school-aged, Neenie and the dog and I had our morning coffee together (yes, I drank coffee as a toddler with no ill effects whatsoever), usually accompanied by plain buttered toast. When I was tiny, she had endless patience with everything except my sassy mouth. That patience ebbed considerably as I grew into more of an actual person, but the love remained. She hated to cook, and was the worst nightmare a suburban kitchen has ever seen, thereby fostering my early interest in getting GOOD meals on the table. She was startlingly practical -- could mend ANYTHING, from a torn coat lining to a moody antique lamp, like an early MacGyver. A survivor of extreme childhood abuse, she carried some deep wounds and used her "fragile health" as a tool to get into and out of situations at will. It wasn't all bad; we had orchestra seats to numerous flirtatious encounters, in which befuddled widowers found themselves asking "How high?" when she sighed "It would be so nice if someone would jump." It should be noted that this weak, delicate flower lived to be 96 years old. I didn't turn out to be the fluffy-minded belle she envisioned, and she never understood my academic and career pursuits. But she loved us well and deeply, and I honor and treasure her memory. I miss her soft, squishy hugs and her gentle, soothing hands in my hair. I thank her for steadfast love and care, for unwavering devotion even when she wanted to choke the last breath out of me.

Daddy. You all know about my Daddy, a textbook case of surviving the depression and the coal mines of southwestern Pennsylvania, fighting "the war," and prospering during the postwar boom. He was the youngest of four by many years, a surprise menopause baby who was initially mistaken for a case of the stomach flu. Handsome, freakishly intelligent, glib, prankish and charming, he got away with utter mayhem. He was absolutely my mother's knight in shining armor, and she was his beloved emerald-eyed queen. He called her "Sunshine," and, to this day, when I hear "You Are My Sunshine," I can't stop the tears. As was typical of his generation, he couldn't talk about his wounds, his longings, his demons; and the darkness finally overcame him. He died much too young, and in much too much pain. But no daughter ever had a better guide, a more adventurous cruise director, a prouder cheerleader, or a more vigorous coach. He was a voracious reader, a greedy absorber of whatever he could learn about other countries and cultures, and an openhearted, congenial host. I thank him for the Steelers (kinda embarrassing this season, but ya love who ya love), the world's best red sauce, a legacy of storytelling, his belief in me, his stubborn refusal to stomp on my dreams, and the emphasis he placed on cultivating an inquisitive, vigorous mind. My Daddy gave me wings.

My mother was a child of the depression, a coal miner's daughter, a young nurse in the postwar years. She never really wanted to be a nurse, but made the best of circumstances and became a damn good one. When she finally had a child who survived, she elected public health, so she could spend nights and weekends with her little girl. Mother was the walking, talking embodiment of love. Squirrely, unfocused and wildly disorganized, she tut-tutted about everybody else's untidiness while blissfully ignoring her own. Mother loved to fuss the details; she hated to cook but her holiday tables looked PERFECT, from the starched napkins to the floral arrangements to the polished silver. She was as pretty as a picture, loved to dress up, and was always -- ALWAYS -- in full hair and makeup. There was nothing, absolutely NOTHING, she wouldn't sacrifice for the ones she loved; we had everything we needed and most of what we wanted, thanks to her. When I wanted to go 3000 miles away to school, she gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, and swallowed her tears. When I came home after five years in Washington, D.C., she became one of my best friends. When I started a new job, she bought me a new suit -- every time. When I got married, she and Neenie gave me the wedding of my dreams (on an October evening in a university chapel by candlelight). When I arrived at her door in tears with a baby on my hip and a midnight announcement of divorce, all she said was "Well, there are sheets on your old bed. You'll stay here until things get sorted out." She was fun, playful, gullible, loyal, protective, and ferocious. Her adherence to doctrine and ecclesiastical niceties was all over the map, but her faith was solid granite. I thank her for acceptance, for a listening ear, for fake poached eggs that soothed every heartache, for innumerable rescues, for allowing me to take care of her in her last days.

I still miss them, I still cry for them, I still feel their absence. But most of all, I am grateful for them. May God rest their precious souls until we meet again.