Not that you didn’t see it coming but it still hurts.

This smiling lady was my first professional mentor, Lisa.

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She was the curator at the historical society that I volunteered at while I was in college.  I started in the photo archive after a friend had a conversation with the photo archivist at the newsstand he owned for a spell.  I needed something to put on my cv, she needed help keeping things tidy, why not?  My friend knew I liked old photos.  Even had a few instant ancestor photographs that I’d picked up secondhand.

After a few months of volunteering, the photo archivist left and I got shuffled over to the curatorial dept and Lisa.  I thought it was kinda sweet that they didn’t want to lose me.

Lisa was my introductory guide to the world of working with a museum collection.

I fell in love.

Working with the stuff, doing research, developing exhibitions, you name it, all absolutely fascinating.   The sense of exploration, creativity, and trial by fire that comes along with being a curator at a small historical society was absolutely thrilling.

I loved it so much that I’m still doing it more than twenty years later.

All because she gave me a start and a decent foundation in the field.

She developed breast cancer right around the time I was graduating from college.

She fought it for twenty years.

She died last October.

Her memorial service is this Saturday.

Has it been long enough that we can celebrate her life without the tears of mourning putting a damper on the day?

We shall see.

This is Katie.

The feral blond is my youngest.
The feral blond is my youngest.

The loss of this particular ball of sunshine was completely unexpected and sent me reeling.  But statistically speaking, I’ve gotten to an age where people I’ve watched grow up will sometimes die.  It’s a horrible age to reach but what’s the alternative?

I’m so thankful my kids don’t drive.

I can only imagine her family’s pain.

This is Marcus.

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He was a friend of a friend.  We bumped into each other at bars, parties and shows around town.  He was always good for a light and a bit of conversation.  Never wanted anything more from me than to pass the time companionably.  Nothing else expected or demanded.

I had my first Irish Car Bomb with him.  But that’s a tale for another post.

When my other mother died, Marcus was the one who held my hand and got me through the funeral mass.  He didn’t shy away from my grief.  I will be forever grateful to him for that.

A while back I stopped going out and he moved away to his own personal Hell.  We still knew each other was out there the magic of social media.  He was one of those people that I just liked to know was still around even if we never sat down to have a drink together.

His time in Hell has ended.

His pain is over.

Hopefully he moves straight through purgatory, having already paid his dues.

It’s national Chocolate Chip Day.

I do love chocolate, whatever its form.

I’m going to go bake cookies with my kids.

What else can you do?

 

 

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