Tag Archives: past

THE ROCKING CHAIR

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I admit it. I’m a collector. Oh, some people might call me a hoarder, but that’s not true. I’m highly selective in what I buy and collect, always. For the last six months, I’ve been having a reoccurring dream. In the dream, I wake up to find myself in my car parked outside a store. The name of the store is OF MEMORIES PAST. The first night that I had the dream, I woke up with a start. And I couldn’t get back to sleep. I kept obsessing about the store OF MEMORIES PAST. I try to recall if I have ever frequented such a store, but I have no memory of shopping there or even seeing a store by that name.

Monkey Rocking Chair by Bob Culver

The second time I have the dream I wake up just as I’m about to lock my car door and walk across the parking lot and toward the door of the store. The third time I have a dream I was turning the doorknob. I hear a ringing sound as I open the door I look up and see bells that are attached at the top of the door frame and jingle when the door is opened.

The last time I had the dream was two weeks ago. I walk through the door and into the store. It’s an antique store, and it holds not only antique furniture but also any kind of ephemera. As I walk up and down the aisles of the store, I see many interesting items, including a candlestick holder that’s a snake. It’s placed on a side table with nothing else on it.  Its ornate base is coiled, and the snake’s head is erect and holding a candlestick in his mouth. As I gaze at the snake, his eyes shift in my direction and stare at me. And at that moment, the candlewick lights up and starts burning brightly.

When a snake symbol appears in a dream, it usually indicates that something important is happening in the unconscious. It can be either dangerous or healing. The snake symbolizes both negative things, such as toxic thoughts, fear, worries, and running away from something, and positive such as transformation, regeneration, growth, or rebirth.

And besides, the candlestick is an antique oak rocking chair. I’m sure it’s well over a hundred years old. I can tell by the way the wood pieces are joined. The oak is quite old, and its patina is golden and cool to the touch. The seat is upholstered, and there is an image of a monkey in a jungle wearing blue and white striped pantaloons and, a red and white shirt, and a vest with a beret with a gold medallion on it. I’m immediately attracted to this chair. I know I must acquire it. And that is when I woke up.

I’m familiar with all the antique shops in the area, so I contacted all the local dealers and described the chair and the candlestick holders, but none of them owned either object. One dealer suggests contacting local private collectors, and another suggests I look into local estate sales in the area. None of the dealers has either of these objects, but one dealer, whose name is Macomb, tells me that there is a huge estate sale in three days on Saturday, and he gives me the phone number. As he is about to hang up, he tells me to get there early because the estate sale has been widely advertised.

I arrive one hour early for the estate sale, and there is already a line going around the block. I feel confident that if my dream chair and candle holder are present at this estate sale, I will be able to purchase them because there is nothing about them that should garner a great deal of attention.

As always, everyone waiting in line is somewhat excited. They all believe they will find that one treasure that will be worth a great deal more money than they have to pay for it because they alone will realize its true value. After all, going to estate sales is the modern-day treasure hunt. I have to admit I feel a bit of a buzz myself. Not because I hope to find a treasure that will make my years of searching for treasure worthwhile. But because I’m looking for something so special that perhaps I will learn the secrets of the universe. Or maybe a way to travel through time and space or the secrets from the past.

About a half-hour ago, they started allowing five people at a time into the house. At this rate, it will be over an hour before I even get to the door. But I will wait patiently because I have a deep belief that my dreams have taken me to this point, and I will succeed. And so, I wait. I think back on all of the sales that I have attended over the years. And I have found some forgotten treasures, some I have kept, and some I have sold for a profit. I don’t regret one moment of it, not the long lines where I stood outside in the cold, in the pouring rain, and on the hottest days in July and August.

Five more people, and it will be my turn to go into the house. My heart is beating hard, and I’m so excited. I start taking deep breaths.  And then I heard my number called. “Numbers 56 through 61 come in. Everyone else steps back.” We are going to take a half-hour break before anyone else comes in. A noticeable moan goes through the remaining crowd waiting behind me.

Finally, I’m walking through the double doors. And I see before me an entryway that is astonishing, to say the least. It appears to be a hand-laid mosaic floor reminiscent of Giotto di Bondone of Florence during the Renaissance. It seems to be almost a sacrilege to walk on it. It is a garden scene in Italy with grape vine-covered stone walls and idealized romantic mountains and rivers. I walk along the edges of the floor, afraid that I might damage it in some way.

As I walk through the entryway, I see the living room beyond me. It is a room of light. It has huge ten-foot windows with stained glass in the top five feet of the windows. I stand there in awe. Even if I don’t find the treasures that I’m searching for, I know that this house and its contents are something I will not soon forget.

Most of the furniture in the living room has already been tagged as sold. This happens so often at these high-end estate sales. The antique dealers are the first buyers that get in, and they have already been made aware of what treasures are available for sale and they make offers a way out of range for the ordinary people to match.

But then, most of us are voyeurs or looky-loos who come to see how rich people live. And we pick up the odd knick-knack or souvenir. I have to say that I am truly impressed by the quality not only of the original artwork but the floors, the lofted ceilings, the marble, and on and on.

Unless I have the money and an interest in any particular piece of furniture or artwork, I never touch it. It is sacrosanct.  Not to mention that the oil and sweat from people’s hands are damaging to fabrics, paintings, and any handmade object. I hear the people around me oohing and ahhing throughout the house, so I know I’m not the only one who admires quality.

I begin to ascend the spiral staircase. The railings alone are awe-inspiring. There is a vining pattern that appears throughout the house. On the second-floor landing is a crystal chandelier that is to die for. But I can not imagine any other home that it would feel at home in besides this one. I’m sure the artist came to this home and designed it for this home and no other.

I peek into each bedroom on the second floor, and I’m pleased but not surprised to see the beauty and originality found in each bedroom. I would be hard put to pick one that I loved more than the next. I stop and walk into the main bathroom. It is black and white tiles from the floor to the ceiling. And a Victorian-footed bathtub that is immense. I have no doubt that three grown adults could bathe in it with space to spare. It looks as if the walls are a one-of-a-kind hand-painted mural of the sea off the coast of Italy. It has dolphins jumping out of the waves into the sky and swimming through the sea. Stunning.

I take a deep breath and walk on. At the end of a long hallway in which there are a least ten bedrooms, I find a small doorway with an old fashion skeleton key in the lock. I turn it. I turn the knob, and the door swings open. I see a narrow stairway. I look around, and no one else is near me, so I walk through the doorway and make my way up the dusty stairway. It doesn’t look as if anyone has been up here in a long, long time. I quietly make my way to the top of the stairway.

My heart begins to beat irregularly. I know, I absolutely know for sure that I’m going to find my rocking chair and the Snake candle holder in this room. I know I‘m meant to find it. I find a chain hanging down from the ceiling and pull it, and a dim lightbulb turns on. I find my way to the front of the room and pull open the curtains, which are heavy and purple velvet. I can’t imagine how hot and stuffy it must be in this room in the summer.

Light streams into the room. Which is much larger than I imagine. I wondered who lived in this room over the years. Was it an employee, a servant? Or perhaps a nanny for the many children that must have lived in this house over the years? Or a relative who was no longer in favor of the head of the household? Who knows?

I wonder if there is any way that I can investigate this family through historical records or perhaps a family member that likes to tell people about his family history. I believe I will have to contact the local historian for the wealthy families that have lived in this area in recent history.

I see that there are many, many storage areas along the walls. There are doors that are about two feet tall. I pull one open, and I see a Sea Chest. I struggle to pull it out. But it is so heavy. I push open the cumbersome top and peer in. There are woman’s garments. They look as if they are from the turn of the century. Maybe the 1920’s. They look as if someone could put them on today and look amazing in them. I examine the inside of one of the dresses, and I can see that it was all made by the hand of the finest silk. It is a sky-blue dress with a lowered waist and a pleated navy-blue skirt. I tuck it back in and close the lid.

I pull myself up and walk to the other side of the room and pull open the curtains on the window. And low and behold, I see a small table with a candle holder in the shape of a snake holding a candle that is yellow with age. It is sitting on a small side table with a hand-carved top that looks like mountains next to the sea.

And then I see what can only be described as a rocking chair, made of oak with an upholstered seat cushion with none other than a monkey climbing a tree wearing pantaloons and a shirt and vest and a Barret with a gold medallion on it. On the top of the chair, the headrest is ornately carved with the legend OF MEMORIES PAST. For a moment, it occurs to me that I might actually be asleep and dreaming. And that none of this is real.

I run my hands over the smooth oak arms. It is like glass. And although it is clear that is a very old chair, it is also apparent that whomever this chair belonged to took care of it with loving hands and heart. I fondly look at the image of the monkey in the tree. He looks as if he is looking directly at me with an all-knowing look. I’m tempted to sit down in the rocker. It is such a strong impulse I decide to take a chance. I look carefully over the chair to make sure there are no loose joints and that the seat is firmly attached. It is in pristine condition. But I know that the glow of the wood indicates that many hands and arms have rested here in this chair and found peace and comfort.

I gently sit down on the seat and slide, and sit back as far as I can. I lay back my head on the back of the chair and closed my eyes. I take several deep breaths. And the chair begins to rock back and forth slowly. It seems as if the chair has a life of its own. I begin to relax, and I feel completely safe and sleepy. I nod off.

I awaken, and I find myself in one of the bedrooms downstairs. I’m standing in front of a mirror. I’m wearing an apron over a dress that falls several inches below my knees. I have heavy stockings on my legs and black boots with low heels and shoelaces tied all the way up over my ankle. I look at my face in the mirror, and I don’t recognize the face in the mirror, and yet I know it’s me, somehow.

My hair is long and dark. It is pulled back into a complicated bun on the back of my head. There is a silver hair clip holding my hair in place. I move closer to the mirror, and I see that my eyes are light blue and reflect intelligence and humor somehow. It looks as if I could burst out laughing at any moment. There are small perfect pearls on my earlobes. I walk over to the closet and open the door, and I see similar clothes as I’m wearing. Some are plain, and there are some far in the back that is ornate and in bright colors.

I walk over to the bed, and I see a picture of a younger woman who bears a resemblance to the face that I saw in the mirror. It must be a photo of her younger self. She is standing next to a young man who has his arm around her waist. And he is looking at her with what could only be described as love and devotion. And for some unknown reason, I feel deep sorrow and loss.

I walk across the room and look in the other closet. I open the door only to find that it is empty. I feel the same sense of emptiness and loss. I realize that the young man is no longer among the living.

The next thing I remember is walking to the narrow door in the hallway that leads to the attic and opening the door, and walking slowly up the staircase. And then I sit down on the rocker and close my eyes and breathe deeply and feel sleepy.

I wake up to find myself groggy and sleepy and not knowing exactly where I am or what I’m doing here. I hear someone calling out to me, “Miss, miss, you have to wake up now. Other people are waiting to come in. Wake up now.”

I slowly open my eyes to find a large woman with bright, red curly hair saying.

” Wake up, wake up, miss.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I just sat down for a moment. I didn’t sleep well last night. I must have drifted off. I would like to purchase this chair and the Snake candle holder.”

“Of course, take this ticket downstairs to the woman sitting at the card table. Tell her you wish to purchase these items. And then, you can bring the receipt up here and take your items. You’ve made a very good choice with this chair and the candle holder. The chair belonged to the lady of the house. She was given this chair when she was expecting her first child, and she used to sit there and write in her diary in the evening by a candle when she wasn’t rocking her babies.

Later in life, after her husband passed away and her children left home, she would sit here and rock in the evening and write in her diary or read books. You know, the strange thing is that you bear a strong resemblance to her, except for the fact that she had dark hair, and your hair is light. And she had those startling light blue eyes, and your eyes are dark blue.

“Thank you, I’ll go down and pay for these items and be right back.”

“Alright, I’ll wait here for you.”

Less than ten minutes later, I returned to the attic, and the woman was looking out the attic window, still waiting for me. “Oh, good, there you are. I have your two items here. I hope you will enjoy them for many years. You might want to look up the history of the family to see if you are related to the Carlisle family. There really is a strong resemblance.”

“You know, I think your right. I feel a strong attachment to the chair and the candle holder. And actually, to this house. I wouldn’t be surprised to find I am related to this family. I picked up the chair and the candlestick holder and carefully made my way down the narrow steps, and in a few minutes, I found myself walking out the back door and into the back garden. It, too, felt so familiar to me, especially the arbor covered in grapevines over the picnic table.

Although I couldn’t recall ever being here before, I made a promise to myself to investigate the Carlisle family. I know that somehow, I’m connected to them and that the young woman in the mirror was a relative that had reached out to me and wanted me to have her precious rocking chair and the memories that it held.

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THE DAY WILL COME

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Fortune Teller from Sheroes Entertainment.com

Once every couple of years, my siblings and I get together, and we hire a psychic to predict our futures. I know it sounds ridiculous. I’m a skeptic of the group, but still, I go along with them every time. We rarely get together, so I prefer to think of it as a family outing.

And however slim, there’s a chance we might actually find a real psychic to tell us our futures. My sisters truly believe if they find the “right psychic,” they will hear whatever it is that they need to hear.

Personally, I would like to hear good news for once, even if it is fictitious. The psychics in the past have told me I will develop a nerve issue and even that I will get Lupus. Thank god those two things never came to pass. They told me my daughter would eventually decide to have children and have twins, a  boy and a girl. My daughter is now past childbearing years and never wanted children. So, I take everything they say with a grain of salt.

Not that I believe in a god any more than I believe in psychics. But I do understand why people want to believe in god. It’s reassuring to believe that there’s this Supreme Being up there watching over us and keeping us safe. And he’s offering us an eternity of happiness after we pass away and that we will see all our loved ones that have passed again.

I do not try to talk anyone out of their beliefs because what is the point? For one, they won’t believe me, and two, who am I to take away their hope? Even if it is false hope.

The day finally arrives when we’re all going to see the psychic. It’s being held at my oldest sister Irene’s house in her living room. The rest of us sit in the kitchen, awaiting our turn. And even though I do not doubt she is a fraud, I know that no one has psychic ability. I still sit there waiting my turn to talk to her somewhat anxiously. And in addition to that, I believe if anyone were going to have any psychic ability, it would be me. Yes, I know that is a ridiculous statement to make,  considering I have said there are no “psychics.”  But even I have my moments of being illogical.

I’m a  sensitive person. My feelings are easily hurt. In addition, I am sensitive to how other people are “feeling” even if they don’t say anything. I can tell when people are not truthful. Yes, I’m able to read body language,  but it’s  I feel what they’re feeling. That is the ability I think these psychics have, the ability to sense what others are feeling. They don’t have the ability to foresee the future. And I think people give “psychic” hints by the questions they ask. And if all the participants are related, they will tell the psychic things, and she or he can put all this information together and make predictions, not unlike creating a quilt from different patches.

The psychic arrives as we all patiently sit in Irene’s kitchen. We share pleasantries and drink coffee or tea and eat homemade cake. It’s my favorite yellow cake with white icing and shredded coconut. I could eat a couple more pieces, but I stop at one.

She walks gracefully into the living room. It almost seems like she is floating. She’s an attractive thirty-something. Her hair is long and wavy, halfway down her back, and light brown with blond highlights. She has the palest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s hard not to stare at her. Her eyes are mesmerizing. And her smile could light up the darkest room. She stands in the middle of the living room and introduces herself, “Good afternoon, my name is Aislee.  I’m from County Down Patrick in Northern Ireland. I’m from a family with a history of psychics going back over hundreds of years. A gift that was inherited from my great, great, great, great grandmother. All the women in my family have this gift.

She has a beautiful voice with an Irish lilt to it. It’s wonderful to hear. I could listen to her all day even if everything she said were full of malarky, as my mother used to say. She scans the room and makes eye contact with each one of us. I have the urge to look away from her, irrationally feeling she might look deep into my psyche and read my deepest thoughts. I know I’m being illogical, given the fact that I don’t believe in psychics. She is convinced I give her that.

My older sister, Irene, is the first person she “reads.” All of us bring paper and a pen with us to write down her “predictions.” We never discuss what the “psychic says until after she leaves, and not everyone wants to tell others what was told to them. I have recorded all the predictions told to me over the years. And not one of them came true. I can’t speak to my sister’s experiences.

I’m the last one to go into the living room to sit for the reading. I say, “Hello.” And she says, “Good afternoon, Kathleen. How are you feeling today?” No, she didn’t miraculously know my name. She has a list of our names. And since I was the last one, it was just a matter of elimination of who she already spoke to.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“So, Kathleen, you’re the youngest in the family?” Again, she knew that ahead of time.

“Yes, yes, I am.”

“Do you have any issues that you would like to ask about or anyone who has passed over that you would like to ask a question?”

I stare at her for a moment and wonder what I should ask her. I know it seems disingenuous to speak to these mediums or psychics, anticipating that everything they do or say is some trick. Maybe I want them to have this ability on some level. Maybe, I would like to know the future. I have many experiences in the past that could have turned out better if I had known in advance how I could avoid them or mitigate the problem before it happened.

“Well, I don’t know if you can answer this question,  but I often think about my older sibling that disappeared when I was relatively young. Can you tell me what happened to her? Do you know if she is still alive somewhere? Or if she suffered before she died?

Aislee closes her eyes and becomes quiet, almost too quiet. It seems as if she has gone to sleep. And after a couple of minutes, she opens up her eyes as if she’s waking up from a dream. You know when you begin to wake up from an afternoon nap. And you’re not sure where you are or what day it is, like that. She keeps blinking her eyes as if the light is too bright. And then her eyes open really wide as if she’s surprised by something unexpected.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, but I have something to tell you. Your sister, Carol,  ran away from home with some boy. When she was in high school, she was no longer alive now,  but she passed away recently from an illness of some kind. I’m sorry. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

“You’re kidding? Did any one of my sisters tell you her name? Tell me the truth.”

“No, no one told me her name.”

“Can you tell me where she was living after she ran away? Or who she ran away with? Was she still with the same person until she passed away?”

“No, she was alone when she passed away. That’s all I can tell you right now. Maybe I will be able to tell you something more at another time.”

“Alright, I guess that’s all for now. I walk out of the room in shock. And when I return to the kitchen, I grab a glass and fill it with cold water from the tap and gulp it down. I rinse the glass out, walk over to the kitchen table and flop down in the nearest seat.

My sister, Terri, stares at me for a moment and says, “You look like you saw a ghost. What happened?”

“I’m not ready to talk about it right now.”

“OK, but now I’m really curious.  I thought you didn’t believe in psychics. What have you so spooked?”

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it right now. I have to think about it for a while. I know there has to be some trick to it.”

After Aislee left, my sisters and I sat at the kitchen table. I still hadn’t said anything about what Aislee said to me. And then my sister, Irene, said, “Spill Kathleen, what did she say to you? You’re not leaving here until you do. And in unison,  my sisters said, “spill.”

“OK, OK. Aisling asked me if there were any questions I wanted to ask or anyone I wanted to contact that had passed. And I said no, but I would like to know what happened to my older sister, who disappeared when she was a teenager. We never heard from her again. And then I asked if she was still alive. Aisling said, your sister Carol ran away from home with a boy. But she’s no longer alive. She passed away recently from an illness. And then I point-blank asked her how she knew my missing sister’s name. I asked her if one of you had talked about her. And she said, no.”

“She also said it was possible she would be able to tell me more sometime in the future. And now I want to know if any of you told her about Carol, or did any of you even mention Carol’s name?”

They all sit at the kitchen table with their mouths hanging open and say in unison, “I didn’t mention Carol or another sister.”

“Irene, you are the oldest. Do you remember anything about Carol’s disappearance? Or do you remember anything that our parents believed happened to her?”

“Honestly, Kathleen,  I don’t remember many details. That was a long time ago”, said Irene. And Mom and Dad didn’t talk to any of us about it. I do remember Dad seemed angry for a long time, and Mom cried and cried. Even years later,  I recall hearing her cry in their room at night. After a year or so, neither of them mentioned the disappearance or Carol at all, for that matter. I don’t think either one of them ever got over it. That’s probably why they were so overprotective and controlling of all of us when we were teenagers.

How about you guys? Kathleen looks at her remaining sister. Terri looked at Kathleen and said, “No, I don’t really remember much at all. Maybe I blanked it out. And you’re right. Kathleen, Mom, and Dad were never the same again. And they were extremely controlling with us as we got older.”

“I’d like to know how come the three of us never talked about this before. Did either of you ever ask the other psychics about Carol?”

Both Irene and Terri shook their heads no.

“Wow, that is really weird. We all acted like Carol never existed. We are really messed up. And I think we started this psychic thing because of Carol. At some subconscious level, we all wanted to know what happened to her. But none of us said it out loud.

“But at the time, did you two talk about it at all? Were the police involved, was her disappearance publicized? Did the neighbors or the townspeople look for her at all?”

“Honestly, the only thing I remember is one night Carol didn’t come home, but I didn’t hear about it until sometime the next day. Which was a Saturday, and I used to sleep- in since it wasn’t a school day. I heard a loud knocking at the front door, and then Mom and Dad let them in, and I heard them talking to the person at the door. I got up and looked down the steps, and there was a cop and a guy in a suit standing in the vestibule. I tried to hear what they were saying, but it was kind of muffled. And then I heard what sounded like Mom crying, and Dad sounded angry. “

“What about you, Terri?” I had my radio on pretty loud, and I didn’t hear anything. When the cops left, one of them slammed the door hard, and that’s when I came down to find out what was going on. Mom and Dad looked really upset., Mom was crying. Irene was in there with them,  and tears were running down her face. She looked over at me, and I started crying even though I didn’t know what was going on.”

“Yeah, I remember that because that’s when Dad said Carol didn’t come home last night. We called her boyfriend’s house, and he didn’t come home either. I guess they ran off together. We called all of Carol’s friends, and they all said they didn’t see them last night and don’t know anything that could help us. That’s when we called the police. The police just told us that they would put an All-Points Bulletin out. And they suggested we start posting pictures of Carol around town to see if anyone had talked to her or her boyfriend and might know where they planned to go. I guess the police are going over to the boy’s house now to talk to the parents.”

Mom and Dad kept calling the police every couple of weeks, but the police never found them, Nor did they have any idea where they went. The officer contacted all the police in the state, and then later, the FBI got involved, but as far as I know, they never found any trace of them.

We didn’t talk about it anymore because Mom got so upset. And Dad would be angry for days when we did. So, after a while, we all stop talking about Carol. As if she never existed. Every once in a while, one of the kids at school would say, “Hey, did you ever hear from Carol?” We never did, and after a few years, no one asked anymore.

“So, life just went on as if Carol never existed. And now we hear from Aislee that up until recently, Carol was alive. Why the hell wouldn’t she contact us? What happened to her? I can’t believe this. On the other hand, I’m glad I finally talked to you guys about it. Sometimes I used to think Carol was a figment of my imagination since no one ever talked about her. Even when Mom and Dad grew old, they never mentioned her. And I couldn’t find any pictures of Carol in our photo album.”

“Oh, Dad got rid of all the pictures because Mom would spend whole days staring at the pictures of Carol and crying. After Dad died five years ago, when I went through his personal items, I found a picture of you, me, Irene, and Carol when we were young in Dad’s wallet. I still have it.”

“You have it. Do you have it with you?”

“Yes, it’s in my wallet in my purse. Hold on; I’ll go get it.”

“Here, Kathleen, here it is. That’s Carol holding you in her lap.”

I took one look, and tears started streaming down my face. “Yes, yes, that’s her. She looked just like Mom. Then we all started crying and hugging each other. Kathleen said, you know, we could post this picture on the internet and see if anyone recognizes her. I don’t know how helpful it would be since she was just a kid in this picture. I could post a picture with the story of her disappearance and see if anyone knew her. It couldn’t hurt.”

“You know, it feels better to talk about Carol out loud. I thought of her so much over the years. And I wondered what happened to her. Why didn’t she try and contact any of us in all these years since she only died recently? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree, Terri. It doesn’t make sense. But we were all really young back then, and we didn’t really know what was going on with her. Maybe she got pregnant or something, or she was doing drugs. Let’s try and see if we can find someone that might have to know her. And you know what else? I bet some of her old high school friends might have pictures of her in high school, and then we can post them. What do you say?”

“I say, let’s go for it. Tomorrow I will call the High School office and see if they have records going that far back and get a list of the kids in her class. And then I’ll check out the internet and see if any of them are still living in the area or maybe some of their relatives still live in town, and I can talk to them. What do you say?”

“Let’s go for it, Kathleen, do it. I’ll help. Once you get the list, I’ll take half and start making calls.”

“Hey, me too, you guys, we’ll all do it.”

And that is how we began our search for our long-lost sister, and in the end, that was what brought us all together more than once a year. We realize that we were a family, and we needed one another through thick and thin. So, our sister, Carol, was the reason we are now a more loving and caring family.

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