After moving thousands of miles away from someone who is over 100 yrs. old, one tends to lose touch. Phone calls don't do it, not when she knows so many many people... without a face attached to the voice, she can't place you. She sounds great, she sounds like she's smiling, happy to hear from you, will chat awhile, but there's something in her voice, acknowledgment is missing. I've missed her, but what can you do. I know she has family and lots of friends back there taking good care of her. I remember lots of times we spent together, most of the stories she told. She was a good storyteller, and had enthusiasm for life I admire. Sometimes she felt down, but she'd let it out (gently) and get over it. She was always polite, good with euphemisms!
There are many articles online about her from the local paper, about her unflagging support of the police department, and how she volunteered in the schools. I remember her telling me about how much she disliked the spoiled kids in the foothills, and truly loved those at the magnet schools on the south side. Mainly she was impressed by manners, being polite, even if not perfectly so. She loved please and thank you. And the stories! about coming to the US on a ship, weeks long journey, being seasick terribly, and the ship's doctor giving her some injections to help her feel better. Well, it worked, but when she got here, she got sick in a different way... the doctor had been giving her heroin! Oh, and the time she had a neighborhood watch meeting at her house, and a lady made a racist comment, and she told the woman to leave!
I wish someone had written her stories down, or better yet, recorded or videotaped her telling them, as she had a wonderful way of expressing herself, along with her delightful Irish accent.
I enjoyed her shortbread and brownies, which she always cooked ahead and stored in foil in her freezer, generously handing over the whole package for my enjoyment later. I'm glad she shared her recipe with me.
When my father died, she sent me a nice card, and had written that my father and her father are looking down on us both and are glad that we're friends. I still have that card in a safe place.
A couple of weeks ago I found an embroidery she made for me for my birthday. It has lots of blues and purples and greens, very pretty. It's framed, and I had it in a box, and put it back in the box.
Yesterday I got a letter from a friend who still lives in the same town, who sent me a clipping from the paper, Molly's obituary. She died at the end of October, a couple of weeks ago, at age 108.
I miss you, Molly. But I'm glad we're friends. Tell my dad I love him.
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