Dear Jean,
Two nights ago I had one of those vivid dreams, you know, the kind that stick with you for days or forever after you awaken from them.
In this dream, we had made plans to meet for lunch at a place you recommended. You gave me the directions to it. It was upstairs. The decor included barnboard and nautical colors and themes. Paintings of anchors and a mermaid over the bar.
I waited in a booth for you to arrive. After a while, I became worried that you weren't coming, that I was in the wrong place or had the date wrong. So I called you on the bartender's phone. 245-4137. That was the number I dialed. No area code. You answered the phone and said you were on your way.
I was thrilled.
Moments later, I woke up, but in that strange place between sleeping and waking, I vaccilated between relief and joy that you were still alive--because I had talked to you myself. I wasn't dreaming. I heard your voice. There was no way I would have found that restaurant without you giving me directions to it. Then uncertainty... you and Jan have such similar voices on the phone... It must have been Jan I was talking to. But it had to have been you. I called the Mulhern phone number in Wakefield, the one carved into my memory from early childhood, before you had even met Jan.
My heart was beating fast when I finally opened my eyes, before sadness enveloped me.
I am so sad that you are gone. Doesn't seem believable. Not you, Jean: My strongest, smartest cousin.
I have flashes of the past...Memories of Jordan Ave and you and a couple of friends (Kathy Queenie, Chrissy Bloom?) in that big "play house" behind your house wearing Beatles wigs and singing Beatles songs in front of a fake microphone. You were the lead singer. George Harrison, I think. I was the awe-struck audience of one. You were such a great impersonator!
Then there were magical summer days on Stedman St, playing Clue on the grass next to the driveway... You taught me how to play the most fun card game I've ever played: Spit... And summer camp at Grotonwood Baptist Camp. We were in the same tent. You were good--the BEST--at every camp activity. You won every race, on foot and by canoe on the pond. You won the title of Miss Grotonwood that summer. :)
And you could draw anything--the warmest, funniest, detailed caricatures of family scenes and family members, of Grammy MacKay in her hats & old lady shoes & glasses, her arms piled high with packages from shopping. You drew bureau drawers with socks half hanging out... You nailed it, Jean! Always the truth-teller, whether through hilarious drawings or by, umm, "correcting" my colorful imagination. Like when I described my 8' tall teacher, Miss Hedstrom. She WAS 8 feet tall, I insisted, against your guffaws. No room for metaphors. Had to be factually correct. :)
We were roommates, too, on Symphony Rd, in the '70s. I moved into the tiny room with my pet monkey with the bad manners. (Remember what he did on our neighbor's bald head?) I've been listening to that Pointer Sisters album I heard for the first time when you played it in that apartment... One of the songs is a mix: "I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair." Wow. So many memories!
The one other image I have in my head is of you sweeping the kitchen floor after Thanksgiving dinner on Stedman St. I offered to help, and you turned me down. You explained that it was very satisfying to sweep up a nice pile of dirt. That was you: Enjoying putting things in order. Cleaning up a mess.
How I will miss you, my only other "girl cousin" born in 1954.
Wish that wasn't a dream I had, Jeannie. Wish you had met me for lunch.
Love you, Jeannie!
Brenda (Frank)