Kate b:w

“You’re always a happy camper,” my kid sister, Kate, says to me, frequently. “Even from back when. I’ve seldom seen a photograph where you weren’t. Whereas, the rest of us…”  She sighs as her claim tapers off; the ‘rest of us’ being our four older siblings.

     I’m in her Florida home, fifty-eight miles southeast of mine, enjoying faded photographs of her and me during childhood, a monochrome to Kodachrome procession of us aging over the years, corralled in silver and brass frames crowding the desktop in her den.
     “You’re smiling in them, too,” I insist. 

     “But even when you aren’t you’re happy.”

She’s right. In every print I stand guilty as charged, picture-proof that regardless of the rocks life hurled at me, I caught them as stones and skimmed them as pebbles across a body of blue. Setbacks, solutions, and silver linings have ruled my world in that way.

     Kate triumphs, too; but does it differently. Unlike me, be it a word, a look, or an action, she wounds easily and holds onto the hurt as lifeblood. She can recite the time, place and reason for every slight she’s perceived from others, intentional, or not. She suffers the “slings and arrows” of both fortune and misfortune. Her self-esteem rarely rides on an even keel.

     Most of that is reflected in Kate’s self-deprecating sense of humor where she casts herself as the ugly duckling and also-ran. 

     Until she turned 12, she shadowed me like a stray puppy inviting approval — but as a tall teen, she began rolling her shoulders forward and slumping down to avoid attention. She took a back seat in all her outings with friends. She never challenged authority. She catered to the wishes of others. She refused to go to her junior prom with a boy she had a crush on unless I agreed to find a date and go with her. (I did.) She always worked harder to strive higher because she felt, in doing so, maybe, just maybe, someone would love her.

I don’t think she’s ever accepted that everyone does love her — not because she played a great game of league softball for nine years, or bested those at any table where board games ruled, or succeeded at every task she undertook, or graduated from college summa cum laude, or even when she became an executive at Columbia Pictures in Hollywood, rubbing elbows with celebrities, daily — but because she is without guile. She’s soft spoken and generous. She’s never late for anything, ever. She’s decisive and dependable. She is the first to answer the call, to offer her time, and provide for others whether asked of, or needed, or not.  Her meek demeanor matches her downy curls and wise eyes the color of a Russian Blue.

She’s also a coincidental copycat. Although Kate lived 3,000 miles away for a decade, she’d somehow manage to buy the same label slacks, sweaters, and shoes that I wore, paint her rooms the same colors as mine, be partial to the same movies and songs, plant the same flowers, and even managed to select the identical holiday cards for my mom, with both hers and mine delivered in the same mail, on the same days for seven years running. 

     When she moved to Florida eleven years ago, she arrived in the make and model of car I drove. Eventually, she gave me that car, and added my name to the title of her next one so I could have it someday, without any fuss.

     It’s what I’ll be driving, soon — and what I’m driving at.

     Kate visits regularly, making the trip from Deland to spend the day with her gal pal, my Elizabeth. They leave within moments after she arrives to scan pawn shops and scour garage sales, saying when they’ll be back bearing gifts, and what they want to eat upon return. I’m chief cook, baker, bottle washer and decider of the games we’ll play into the night. 

     Sometimes she stays over, but more often, twelve hours of each others company is one hour shy of perfection. Before she leaves we belt out a chorus of,  “Happy trails to you, until we meet again” as we did while in our matching cowgirl outfits, sitting on the floor in front of the Sylvania set during the 1950s, joining Roy Rogers and Dale Evans in their signature song.  Then I wait by the phone until she gets home and calls to say she’s safe and sound.

     My dear, sweet sister, Kate.

     So, imagine my surprise when, after a splendid celebration for her 67th birthday on January 22nd, followed by wishes exchanged for Valentine’s Day, and plans made for Elizabeth’s birthday on February 24th, she called to say, “I’ll be there. I’m looking forward to it. But…”
K&M& Andy Car

     She’d felt nauseous with a sharp pain in her side so, assuming it was her gallbladder, she visited the clinic, which ordered the ultrasound, that revealed the liver cancer. The following week an MRI found pancreatic and bile duct cancer. A PET scan upped the ante to bone and spinal column cancer, after blood tests confirmed it was everywhere.

     No, this is not the kind of diagnosis that responds to clinical trials, chemotherapy, or radiation. Hers is the type that robs you of 25 pounds in 25 days and makes you hope for enough time to get your affairs in order.

     Nothing seems real now. We act on automatic, listening to orders we don’t want to hear and filling out forms we’re forced into finishing, as if any of it matters more than these last precious days spent together.

     When she asks me to translate the results of her latest tests I relay a bowdlerized truth, and she listens with an editors ear, both of us trying to alter the inevitable.

     If it were me, there would be levity. 

Instead, it’s Kate, who counts on me to be there for a final cowgirl singalong.

     Yes, I smiled when she asked it of me.

     But I am not a happy camper.

#    #    #

Marguerite Quantaine © 2015


22 thoughts on “HAPPY TRAILS TO YOU . . .

  1. Theresa Wellstein

    Losing the ones we love the most is the hardest part of life. My heart goes out to you.

    Love and only the best of thoughts.

  2. Cheryl Cusson


    I somehow missed your earlier-this-month blog. Such a beautiful and loving story about your sister. So very sorry to hear the news. Light, love, thoughts and metta to you and yours. Thank you for sharing.
    Cheryl Cusson

  3. margueritequantaine Post author

    Your prayers have been answered, Sally. We’ve shared such joy these past few days (in-between doctors visits and pathologist reports), and have planned on only more of the same. I know you know how precious sisters are — making us all pretty blessed by the powers that be, yes? Can’t be sad for that. Thanks, Sal. Way.

  4. sallybellerose

    Love to you and Liz, and, of course, sister Kate. And tears, too. Oh, these bodies, what vessels of love and sorrow… I pray, in my way, and I will pray for you and yours tonight and will have the hubris to ask for a good slathering of rest and joy to wash your way. ooosallyb

    1. margueritequantaine Post author

      I know you are, Kathy, and truth be told — she was always Kathy to us as kids, having only opted for Kate as a forty-something adult. So, each time I’ve seen your name pop up on my newsfeed I’ve been reminded of her. And, will continue to be. Thanks, kiddo!

  5. Lida Berner

    {{{ HUGS }}} from me! Gentle tail wags from Káva and rusty healing purrs from Leprechaun, Dusty, and Tarzan!! Remember …. no one fights alone.

    1. margueritequantaine Post author

      You are so right, Lida, and I must say, without the cats and dogs by our sides, it would be all the worse for wear on our hearts. They are calming and steadfast and earth angels helping us along. Thank yours for us and you, too, dear friend.

  6. RJ Layer

    Life is such a precious commodity, and we must it embrace with every breath. “In remembering we keep what is best and dearest as treasures forever.” Marguerite, sending love and virtual hugs to you, Elizabeth and Kate at this difficult time.

    1. margueritequantaine Post author

      It is, indeed, precious, RJ, and we’ve had the good fortune to have each other through the thick and thin of it all. Until she’s gone we have no regrets. Nary a one. Thank you for reaching out.

  7. Yvonne Heidt

    Once again, your words travel across the miles and through the computer. I was smiling nostalgically, reliving, and wondering about family similarities I call “tribe.” Marguerite – I’m crying genuine tears for you and your family, and I stand in awe of your ability to convey your love so eloquently that me, as a reader could “see.” Sending Angels and love to you all (across the miles, through the computer) and hugs to all. ❤

  8. Ann

    Marguerite, I am so very sorry that you’re losing such a beautiful woman, sister and friend. Life just rears up and stomps us at times, but I know that you are doing all the things you can to let Kate know your love and make her transition as comfortable as it can be. Please know that I, and all who love you and your insights, hold you close at this time.

  9. Rogena Mitchell-Jones

    I only ‘liked’ the blog because that’s what you do to show you ‘read’ said blog. But my heart breaks for you, Elizabeth, and Kate. Hold on to the memories. I feel the love in every word. Praying for all of you and your family. ❤


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