Memories of a sister…

I thought it odd which memories first ricocheted through my mind when I got the call yesterday telling me my eldest sister, Karen Veronica, had passed away.  Then I realized how lovely it was that each brought a smile to my face.

I remember she and my middle sister used to hide their small, colorful ceramic elves out in the yard.  Eventually I’d find them scattered out next to a tree, perhaps under a Mayapple, or tight along the banks of Scott’s Brook.  With a straight face I’d be told these elves were magic.  Waking at night they’d leave my sisters’ bedroom shelves, go into the backyard to play in the dark, and then freeze again with the daylight.

I remember she was the one who told me there was no Santa Claus, while in the same conversation explaining to me what the word ‘striptease’ meant.

I remember she spent a summer home from college and took me, her far younger and dorky kid brother out on the town doing all kinds of fun things with me.  She, being eight years older, could take me places I only wished about.  The highlight was spending a day at the local circus in downtown Cleveland.  Those experiences that summer were slices of heaven to a young, little brother hanging out as a perceived equal to his very cool, beatnik sister.

I remember her giving me grief at our favorite restaurant, The New York Spaghetti House, again in Cleveland, because I couldn’t master the ability to twirl my spaghetti on my fork.  Instead I had to cut my pasta (we just called them noodles back then) so I could eat it.  She, along with the wait staff worked tirelessly to help me finally achieve what I remember as one of my earliest life’s goals.

I remember it was Karen who gave me my second German shepherd.  We had a male, Bowser, and Karen decided Bowser needed a companion.  She bought me a female pup and named her Sancha, explaining it was the feminization of Sancho, for Sancho Panza – and by the way I had better read ‘Don Quixote’ to understand her choice. 

I remember the gift she gave me when I left for my freshman year in college.  The bag held two things:  A fifth of rum and a large can of Medaglia d’Oro espresso.  She explained her gift saying ‘Scott, these are two of the critical things you’ll need to master in college.  First the rum.  I want you to sit somewhere safe with one of the first friends you make at college, get a bottle of Coke, and drink this until you’re drunk.  You need to learn what ‘drunk’ feels like.  Now the espresso.  This is undoubtedly the best coffee you will ever drink in college – and believe me you’ll be drinking a lot of coffee in college.  So learn to appreciate the really good stuff and promise me you’ll only drink this properly — straight black.  No cream, no sugar.’  I promised her on both counts.  I can still recall drinking that bottle of rum with my first collegiate, and still close, friend, Bob Porter, in a hidden recess of Baldwin Hall.  I have always, and still, drink my coffee straight black.

I remember when she gave me a package to open when I left for Semester at Sea.  It came complete with instructions to not open it until the ship had left the pier and I was in my stateroom.  Sitting on my bunk that first night I opened her package to find a small poster.  It read “Involvement with people is always a very delicate thing.  It requires real maturity to become involved and not get all messed up.  Bernard Cooke S. J.”  It was prophetic advice.

Now she’s gone.  Rest in peace, sister!