Pat was a pistol! She rallied the troops at the senior
community where she lived to sign petitions so that alcohol flowed at the
monthly functions. She loved QVC and
ordered so many shoes her closet was overflowing. She cursed like a sailor, had a sexy, smoky
voice and loved the song “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.”
Father Frances comes
every Sunday to say mass at this community.
Pat, in her words, “went all Thorn Birds,” and developed quite the crush
on the retired priest. She took the
jacket he left behind one winter day, reasoning that he would have to come to
her apartment to get it and that was her chance to get him alone. She
cackled with glee about her plan and kidded about finally having her own Rachel
Warde/Richard Chamberlain afternoon of passion.
He never did get his jacket,
and she never got her fantasy afternoon.
She grew ill from pancreatic cancer and fought a valiant fight to the
end. Even on her deathbed, Pat had something to
say. A few days before she lapsed into a
coma, weak and feeble from her illness, Pat discussed her voting choices for
the coming election. She stressed the
importance of her votes. She told her family that she received a mail ballot
but “Couldn’t remember where she put that f*&&^%$ thing.”
We all came to say
goodbye. Father Frances came
and even though Pat was in a deep coma, her eyebrow raised and she managed a
smile when he came to her bed. We all
laughed hard at that!
Her children found the
ballot. Even though Pat died a week
before the election, they broke the law, filled in her choices and dropped it
off. And she voted! Her voice counted!
I feel that you have to sell your soul to the
devil to win an office. I am jaded about
the whole thing. I missed a few
elections. To be honest, I didn’t even
start voting until well into my twenties.
I appreciate it because of Pat. I
swear I hear her cigarette voice every time I vote. Thanks, Pat.
If happy little Bluebirds fly…………
If happy little Bluebirds fly…………
