Some subjects, certainly people, need much more than a few manuscript pages to pay tribute to them. I find this is especially true as I try, in this second column, to capture the essence of my dear sister Helen, who passed away in March.
Helen was a loving caregiver to many, always willing to change her plans in order to travel far distances—from Minnesota to Florida, Missouri, Illinois, California, and New York. There she would help family members, sometimes staying for months. After offering a warm, supportive hug she would set to work: changing sheets, cooking meals, performing essential tasks that don’t cease just because of serious illness, or even probable death. I’ll always be grateful that she offered to take the night shift when my husband was gravely ill.
When Helen couldn’t be with me during those times the phone would ring. If I didn’t pick it up in time, the message was always the same, “Just calling to say hello. When you have time let me know how you’re doing.”
Helen loved people, especially little kids, and she talked to everyone nearby. At a café, in a shop, while waiting in line, wherever she was, she’d begin a conversation. Invariably that person would know someone that Helen knew, or a relative or friend of someone Helen knew. I witnessed this happen in state after state. Given fifteen minutes, she’d ferret out the “someone” that the stranger had in common.
“Where are you from?” was her opening phrase, and then she’d say, “I know where that is,” and ask, “Do you happen to know so-and-so?” If that question yielded a blank, she’d continue, “Where did you go to school?” On and on until she’d scored.
Some years ago, after a two-hour flight, I asked how her trip had been, she exclaimed, “Great!” and proceeded to share a mini biography of each of her seatmates: occupation, marital status, hometown, number of children, and each child’s age.
She’s the only person I’ve ever met who preferred the middle seat on a plane. If the person on her left were closed-mouthed, she could turn to the one on her right. Another time when I met her at an airport, she proudly announced that although she’d been disappointed by being seated between two of those do-not-disturb-me types, by the end of the flight they were enjoying a conversation that none of the three wanted to end.
Her secret weapon? She genuinely empathized, and eagerly awaited the answers to her questions.
Helen managed to find humor in the most unlikely of times and places. All of my siblings had gathered in Ortonville, Minnesota, the night before a family reunion years ago. When we stopped at the motel to check in we learned that our reservations had been cancelled. It was hunting season, and the rooms had gone to higher bidders. We frantically called around and through word-of-mouth found rooms at a motel sixty miles away. The motel had been taken off the tourist bureau website because of safety violations, and it was about to be shut down.
It was raining and spitting sleet when we pulled in. There were no lights in the parking lot, and we were forced to unload by flashlight. The room that Helen and I shared had only one operable light, a flickering bulb in the bathroom. The outdoor temperature was 33 degrees and dropping, and the baseboard heating was broken. Our luggage had gotten mixed up and brought to the wrong room. Our cell phones didn’t work (there was no coverage), and there was no room-to-room phone service.
Retrieving our warm garments was impossible. We quickly climbed into bed, where we learned that the bedding consisted of only a thin sheet and a worn blanket. Helen scrambled out and picked up two jackets that we threw across our shoulders.
Back in bed, Helen asked, “Did you lock the door?”
“The lock doesn’t work, but I’ll shove our bags in front of it. That way we’ll wake up if someone breaks in.”
“Very reassuring,” she said, her voice at the edge of sarcasm.
In the morning I awoke with a start. A figure, wearing a leather jacket and a cap pulled down to eyes covered by dark glasses, towered over me. I screamed! It was Helen. She pulled off the glasses and burst into laughter.
Helen and I laughed often. Other times, through tears, we comforted each other. She was woven into the fabric of my life.
Several readers suggested that I should have written more about Helen in my memoir. At the time I regretted that, because of time and space limitations, I wasn’t able to. Now I realize, even if I’d spent years and written an entire volume, I wouldn’t have been able to capture the full breadth of Helen’s spirit.
Barbara and Helen