Clara September 21, 2025

My sister died, today, in Austin, Texas. Younger than I by four years. When she turned 80, she said she was only going to be 79 the rest of her life. September – that’s when she was born, so she was actually 83 years old, this year.

In our youth, I called her my little sister, but she was never really smaller than I. Easily four inches taller than I with arms and legs that go along with the heighth. She was a seamstress, making clothing or herself, her husband, and boys. Every pattern she used for herself required that she add several inches to the sleeve and leg length of the garment.

Of course, I was in high school before she showed up for that school and, at that time, we could take clothing classes; which meant that we made garments. Do THEY have those classes today? I don’t know. I was a good seamstress, making most of my own clothing, which at that time was far less expensive than buying clothes “off the rack.” But, Clara far surpassed my ability to sew. In our later years, I would send garments to her because I knew that she would do exactly what needed to be done.

And, quilt! That woman could quilt! In addition to making clothing and quilts, she owned a “long-arm” quilting machine; a “Cadillac” of quilting machines, if you will. She was so good at quilting that she had customers locally, as well as in other parts of the country. I remember a time when she was in the process of making a quilt that was mostly green. Green is NOT one of my favorite colors. We discussed the color and the quilt; I told her it wasn’t my favorite, but she continued to work on it.

She had occasion to travel from her Texas home to mine. She pulled a quilt from a package to show me – it was that green quilt. By the time she had finished it, it was beautiful – still not my favorite, but beautiful! Then, she pulled another one out of the package – a gorgeous blue quilt – I LOVE blue. After I finished extolling the virtues of the beauty of that quilt she said, “I’m glad you like it, because it is yours.” Today, that same quilt graces the deacon’s bench in my front room. Will it ever see the light on a bed? Probably not. It’s way to beautiful to have someone sit on it.

She chose to be a stay-at-home mom for many years as her two sons grew. She had a whistle that could be heard for blocks. When her sons were playing away from home, they knew that when they heard the whistle, it was time to head home. When she thought it would be alright, she worked at various jobs, still allowing herself every opportunity to be the mom that she wanted to be.

Growing up when we did – in the late 1940s and the 1950s, life was not easy. And, certainly it wasn’t easy for her, the last child at home. Because my mother could make something out of nothing, their life was not altogether unpleasant. When, years after the death of our mother, I learned exactly how difficult it was during those times of Clara’s high school, I felt ashamed and angry. My three older sisters and I could have – SHOULD HAVE – been sending money to them each month. We could all have afforded helping our mother and little sister! Did my sisters know of the situation? I know that I did not. Today, I’m still ashamed that we did not help our mother and sister.

Clara worked from the very moment when she could legally go to work. She worked in a town hospital and, then, at the state’s hospital for the mentally ill in their town. When I had my first child, she came to the town where Larry and I attended college. I had my teaching degree and a young daughter and rode the school bus thirty miles to the school where I was employed; she came to be that child’s nanny while I taught school. She worked at the local hospital in the evenings. It was through another member of the hospital staff that she met her husband Ray.

Clara’s husband was a scientist working at Sandia Labs in New Mexico; mine worked in retail in our metropolitan area. They were hospitalized at the same time  – for two very different reasons. Ray had a mass on his brain; Larry had a pacemaker installed in his chest. Ray did not make it out of the hospital; Larry did.

Recently, I posted a blog article, “The Largest Unorganized Organization In the World.” She became part of this widowhood organization twenty years before it became my lot. Her son told me that his mother’s death (today) was within a few days of the date of his father’s passing so many years ago.

She moved from New Mexico to Texas to provide care for her grandchildren while their parents worked. I remember that she and her grandson would cook; especially, it think, they liked to make bread that he liked to take to his teacher. One time she told me that they had baked a loaf of bread for a teacher, and he wanted to have a slice. When she questioned him, he said he had to make sure it was not poisoned! He got his slice and still took the bread to his teacher. She watched her granddaughter grow into a really good swimmer. Her grandson played high school football with a team that won accolades.

For years, my sister and I have talked every day. Sometimes, for two hours or more. We “solved world problems,” talked about politics – rarely religion – discussed our health, advised each other about important matters, argued (but not much). She would get frustrated with me when I told her that I’d lost something important – my wallet, a document, anything I really couldn’t live without. She would tell me that I needed a keeper – more than once I’ve heard that; now, never again.

And, now we, family and friends, will go on. We will live as we are capable. We will remember times with her and be glad and sad. As Langston Hughes, poet, said in one of his poems, “life is for the living,” and we must carry on.

But, sitting here writing this, I realize that our conversations are over now and wonder, who will I talk with?
Be Safe and Be Well

The Cranky Crone

Thoughtful comments are always appreciated.