An All Saints Day Tribute

 

As is my custom late every Halloween night, I turn my heart to All Saints' Day. In particular, I remember with fondness "my saints" -- my parents and grandmother (who was in the household as a sort of "bonus parent" all my life).

 

Never was a little girl more blessed, more loved. Never did a tiny family laugh harder, prank better, fight fiercer, or love more deeply. We were funny, loyal, chaotic, disorganized, clever, sarcastic, overly sentimental, and smart. We might claw each other's eyes out behind closed doors, but woe betide the interloper who dared speak a bad word about one of us to any of the others.

 

We celebrated absolutely everything and invited absolutely everyone -- Daddy never met a stranger, never let a traveling colleague make do with tired hotel chicken, never met a "holiday orphan" who didn't find their way to our table for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, you name it. We ate crap on beautifully appointed, perfectly set tables -- until I learned to cook (God bless you, Elizabeth Yeager, for eighth-grade home ec!) and then we ate decent food, still on beautifully appointed, perfectly set tables.

 

We looked for Santa in the night sky, and we found him. We waited for the Great Pumpkin to rise over the patch, and he did. We hoped the Easter bunny would leave more chocolate and fewer jelly beans, and he delivered. (Well, except for the one year SOMEBODY got up early, went out to the living room in search of her basket, found nothing, and burst into Jack and IdaMae's room sobbing her heart out. She remained inconsolable until her Daddy gently reminded her that today was Saturday and E.B. wasn't expected until tomorrow. Oooops. Never did live that one down.)

 

Two of us constructed elaborate lies to fool one of us. One poor, gullible victim was convinced that visitors to the Mexican border towns could walk from La Paz to Matamoros ON the actual international border. Two cruel, horrible adults persuaded a heartbroken, scratched-up, innocent child that her hideously aggressive stray kitten was living in a special place with lots of other wild, violent kittens; this place was, of course, closed to visitors. Only the oldest and least educated of us was sharp enough to see through everybody else's bullshit.

 

We drove across the country, up and down both coasts, all over the West. We tried to eat with locals, chat with locals, learn to understand local ways of being in this big, gorgeous world. We bought beaded replicas of kachinas in New Mexico, chocolate-covered blackberry jelly candy in Oregon, rosaries for the Catholic relatives in Mexicali. One of us, trying to set up a tent for overnight camping, got caught in the tent fabric and rolled ass-over-teacups down a hill in windy Panguitch, Utah, while the other three laughed, devoid of sympathy. We watched the Angels vs. the Oakland As on July 20, 1969; one of us choked back tears as play was stopped for an announcement that Apollo 11 had safely landed on the moon. Two of us had separate small roles in building bridges, highways and power plants. One of us supported surgeons in a growing young county, later turning her professional attention to tuberculosis testing and the treatment of diseases among the underserved. One of us whipped out intricate, highly tailored dresses and coats -- on a shoestring.

Three of us have now died, leaving the fourth behind to pray for the repose of their souls and to reflect on the innumerable blessings they brought to this world and directly to her. She misses them and she cries for them. But she knows they're never far away and she carries them in her heart. She is grateful.

 

Mother, Daddy, Neenie -- I love you and I miss you. Until we meet again -- xoxoxoxo -- love, jillie