Tomorrow is Promised to No One . . .
So, yesterday I got an email from my neighbor, D, on the corner, telling me that her sister, L, had passed away in her sleep in mid-September. There were no services. This was unfamiliar to me. In my world there are always services of some type, whether they are the traditional wake/funeral/burial, or a simple memorial service of some sort. I think that wakes and funerals serve an important function in our culture, and are most certainly for those who are left behind here on this plane of existence - a safe and expected place to begin to process our grief.
I do not believe that we shuffle off this mortal coil until our work here is done. But when someone is young, all bets are off. I subscribe to my late mom's philosophy that "elderly" is at least 10 years older than however old one happens to be at any given time, but my childhood friend was young. My age young. That she would suddenly not wake up one morning was nowhere near the realm of possibility. How is someones work done when they are not even yet retirement age?? God?? Can you help me out here, God??
I hadn't heard from my neighbor on the corner in at least a year, and it's been longer than that since we have actually seen each other. Since we live only two houses apart, there really isn't any excuse for not catching up, but I work and she doesn't, and her own health is not the best. We used to walk now and again, but her joints protested too much, so we stopped that.
I realize that I am of an age where people I know are going to start doing this - passing away - but yesterday's email was shocking to me, and it brought its own ration of regret. D was the older sister. L was the younger, and she was five months younger than I. L and I were in the same class in grade school when we were children; D was a year ahead of us. D and I reconnected five years ago, but L wasn't able to join us that day, and - unfortunately, she always seemed to have something else going when D and I were able to catch up with each other for a walk or a chat. L only lived a few blocks away, in the same village. And yet we never caught up.
And now we never will.
My day yesterday was spent in thoughts of the past and remembrances of childhood on our block . . .
. . . The boy who lived next door's nickname was "Punkin." There is a photo (somewhere) of the two of us, out front. I am looking at him adoringly . . .
. . . D, and L, and I were huge fans of the Monkees, and we played a make believe game where we were three of them. I was Micky, D was Peter, and L was Davy. D, who was always a writer even back then created a newsletter about our lives on our block. She still has the original (it's possible that D is a bit of a packrat) . . .
. . . My horrible elder cousin, JD (dead now for years (at the age of 63)), who was 15 years older than I and who lived with us because my Gramma and mom were raising him and his older sister, P. JD - always angry, often inebriated, discharging his service weapon into my snowman one winter night . . .
. . . Same cousin, JD, who when I was about 4 or 5 (and he was about 19) and I looked at the waffle iron, which was in use, and wondered out loud if the outside of it was hot like the inside, said, "Why don't you find out?" I'm surprised I still have skin on that hand . . . He got in a lot of trouble for that one, and I'm sure my screams echoed in my mom's and Gramma's memories for a very long time . . .
. . . Games of "Lost Kids" with two other of my cousins, DM and S - another made up game (we all had excellent imaginations) where the three of us were lost in the woods where we stumbled up a cabin that turns out to have been their father's where we would find "antiques" and other flotsam and jetsam. I think we must have watched a lot of television. Lost Kids was generally played at the very back of a very long and very narrow storage closet. We often played board games miraculously "found" in the "cabin" . . .
. . . Tea every afternoon with Gramma. Reasonably sure mine was milk with just enough black tea to take the chill off . . .
. . . And what is probably my earliest conscious memory, which is of my oldest cousin, P. (JD's sister), who has also been gone for years (she died at a very young age - in her late 40s). My memory is from when I was about 3 or possibly 4 years old. She was 16 years older than I, and she loved to take me places with her. I'm sure my Gramma and my mom never minded. My mom was busy mourning the death of my dad (when I was 2 1/2), and Gramma likely needed a break from me once in awhile. One of P's friends, Monica, worked at a pizza parlor on Indiana Avenue, just a few blocks from our house, and P was going to visit her at work. Indiana Avenue was a busy street but we did not need to cross it. Just south of the pizza parlor was a large parking lot, and to the south of the lot was a Kroger grocery store. It's funny how you remember things, isn't it? P took me with her to visit Monica. I don't remember being put in the stroller, but I have a very distinct memory of P, running as fast as she could up Indiana Avenue with me leaning forward in the stroller and hollering gleefully, "Faster, P! Faster!!" :-D I'm sure I must have thought I was flying . . .
Memories . . . Some painful. Some delightful. Some bittersweet.
I've offered for D to come over so we can sit for awhile and remember L and the fun we had as children, and maybe raise a glass in her memory - because memories are all that are left . . .
My mom used to say this. It has guided me my entire life and has kept me moving forward more times than I can count.
Life is short. Be sure you are living yours . . .
Goodbye, L. I'm sure that wherever you are it's beautiful, and I hope you get to meet Davy Jones . . .
I do not believe that we shuffle off this mortal coil until our work here is done. But when someone is young, all bets are off. I subscribe to my late mom's philosophy that "elderly" is at least 10 years older than however old one happens to be at any given time, but my childhood friend was young. My age young. That she would suddenly not wake up one morning was nowhere near the realm of possibility. How is someones work done when they are not even yet retirement age?? God?? Can you help me out here, God??
I hadn't heard from my neighbor on the corner in at least a year, and it's been longer than that since we have actually seen each other. Since we live only two houses apart, there really isn't any excuse for not catching up, but I work and she doesn't, and her own health is not the best. We used to walk now and again, but her joints protested too much, so we stopped that.
I realize that I am of an age where people I know are going to start doing this - passing away - but yesterday's email was shocking to me, and it brought its own ration of regret. D was the older sister. L was the younger, and she was five months younger than I. L and I were in the same class in grade school when we were children; D was a year ahead of us. D and I reconnected five years ago, but L wasn't able to join us that day, and - unfortunately, she always seemed to have something else going when D and I were able to catch up with each other for a walk or a chat. L only lived a few blocks away, in the same village. And yet we never caught up.
And now we never will.
My day yesterday was spent in thoughts of the past and remembrances of childhood on our block . . .
. . . The boy who lived next door's nickname was "Punkin." There is a photo (somewhere) of the two of us, out front. I am looking at him adoringly . . .
. . . D, and L, and I were huge fans of the Monkees, and we played a make believe game where we were three of them. I was Micky, D was Peter, and L was Davy. D, who was always a writer even back then created a newsletter about our lives on our block. She still has the original (it's possible that D is a bit of a packrat) . . .
. . . My horrible elder cousin, JD (dead now for years (at the age of 63)), who was 15 years older than I and who lived with us because my Gramma and mom were raising him and his older sister, P. JD - always angry, often inebriated, discharging his service weapon into my snowman one winter night . . .
. . . Same cousin, JD, who when I was about 4 or 5 (and he was about 19) and I looked at the waffle iron, which was in use, and wondered out loud if the outside of it was hot like the inside, said, "Why don't you find out?" I'm surprised I still have skin on that hand . . . He got in a lot of trouble for that one, and I'm sure my screams echoed in my mom's and Gramma's memories for a very long time . . .
. . . Games of "Lost Kids" with two other of my cousins, DM and S - another made up game (we all had excellent imaginations) where the three of us were lost in the woods where we stumbled up a cabin that turns out to have been their father's where we would find "antiques" and other flotsam and jetsam. I think we must have watched a lot of television. Lost Kids was generally played at the very back of a very long and very narrow storage closet. We often played board games miraculously "found" in the "cabin" . . .
. . . Tea every afternoon with Gramma. Reasonably sure mine was milk with just enough black tea to take the chill off . . .
. . . And what is probably my earliest conscious memory, which is of my oldest cousin, P. (JD's sister), who has also been gone for years (she died at a very young age - in her late 40s). My memory is from when I was about 3 or possibly 4 years old. She was 16 years older than I, and she loved to take me places with her. I'm sure my Gramma and my mom never minded. My mom was busy mourning the death of my dad (when I was 2 1/2), and Gramma likely needed a break from me once in awhile. One of P's friends, Monica, worked at a pizza parlor on Indiana Avenue, just a few blocks from our house, and P was going to visit her at work. Indiana Avenue was a busy street but we did not need to cross it. Just south of the pizza parlor was a large parking lot, and to the south of the lot was a Kroger grocery store. It's funny how you remember things, isn't it? P took me with her to visit Monica. I don't remember being put in the stroller, but I have a very distinct memory of P, running as fast as she could up Indiana Avenue with me leaning forward in the stroller and hollering gleefully, "Faster, P! Faster!!" :-D I'm sure I must have thought I was flying . . .
Memories . . . Some painful. Some delightful. Some bittersweet.
I've offered for D to come over so we can sit for awhile and remember L and the fun we had as children, and maybe raise a glass in her memory - because memories are all that are left . . .
Tomorrow is Promised to No One
My mom used to say this. It has guided me my entire life and has kept me moving forward more times than I can count.
Life is short. Be sure you are living yours . . .
Goodbye, L. I'm sure that wherever you are it's beautiful, and I hope you get to meet Davy Jones . . .
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