Lessons from a big sister last a lifetime

In the first few hours after I learned that my older sister Mary Kay died, I wondered how I would deal with a life where I couldn’t speak to her again. We lived hundreds of miles apart, so we didn’t visit in person often. But we kept in touch through phone calls and social media. It’s not that we talked frequently, but we talked enough.

I shouldn’t have worried.

I heard from her two days after she died.

That’s the thing about teachers. They never stopped teaching—or lecturing.

My first teacher was eight years older than I was

Eight years. That’s a long time when you’re talking about sibling spacing.

The entire Korean war was waged between the time my oldest sister was born and I came along. Sen. Joe McCarthy dished out the worst of his vitriol during that time. Elizabeth was crowned queen of England, Ellis Island closed as a point of immigration, the words “under God” were added to Pledge of Allegiance, and both Salk and Sabin developed their polio vaccines.

Rosa Parks refused to move, the St. Lawrence Seaway opened, Disneyland in California opened, and US involvement in Vietnam started. I Love Lucy debuted, conquered TV, and ended. Swanson frozen dinners debuted. The federal highway act was signed allowing for interstate travel on high-speed roads. Grace Kelly married Prince Rainier. The first soap opera debuted on TV. Elvis debuted. Sputnik debuted.

Mary Kay had already been in school for several years by the time I arrived. She didn’t have much use for me in the early years. Normally I was persona non grata due to my immaturity. That did not stop our mother from demanding Mary Kay take me places with her, such as the beach. I played in the water while she sunbathed and kept an eye out for boys, which I did not understand. Boys were still cootie carriers to me.

When I was about 4 and Mary Kay was 13, she became my first teacher, and I was her first pupil. She set up a space in the basement as her “classroom.” I sat in a chair facing the blackboard doodling with the pencils and paper she put on my desk. She stood at the chalkboard on the wall and lectured me on various topics, mostly English and spelling. The first word she taught me to spell was frog. Later, when she attended college for her teaching degree, she learned that starting spelling with a blend like “fr” was all wrong. Neither of us knew that at the time, but I learned it anyway.

I had no idea what she was talking about most of the time, but I thought it was a great game. It was also nice to have her undivided attention for a while. She always seemed so pulled together, so poised, so perfect. Always the right clothes, always the right response, always the right choices. I wanted to be like her when I grew up.

That was our relationship for many years. She taught. I learned.

Some lessons were quite simple. One Good Friday, our mom was delayed at church where she was cleaning the sacristy for services. She wouldn’t be home to make lunch. With Mary Kay in the lead, the three Dempsey girls rummaged through the kitchen cabinets and managed to throw together a few ingredients. It was only a tuna fish casserole, but we did it ourselves. What a feeling of accomplishment! The hard part was learning how to use the can opener and the best way to drain the oil from the fish.

I still use that dish as a comfort food, which has remained a symbol to me of our ability to survive on our own instincts.

Mary Kay helped me refine my tastes, too. On my own, I veer towards gaudy.

My high school sponsored a special dance for sophomores, Sophomore Date Dance. The nuns meant this as a night of good, clean, respectable fun for young girls.

For that event, I told my mother I was old enough to pick out my own clothes. My bosom had just filled out, and I wanted something to show the girls off. I bought a dress that could best be described as a serving wench costume for Halloween.

Mary Kay took one look at the dress and said no way.

“That’s not the dress for this occasion,” she explained.

She got our mother to veto the outfit as well. With Mary Kay as a chaperone on the return buying trip, I ended up with what could best be described as a flannel nightgown but made of jersey. It had long sleeves and a high collar, all finished with ruffles and lace. Ahead of my time for very demure, very mindful. It was, in retrospect, the proper choice for the occasion. Mary Kay saved me from the embarrassment of being hustled out of the dance by the nuns for indecency.

There were battles she fought I didn’t even know about until much later.

For example, Ma did not want us to attend college. It wasn’t needed, she said to Mary Kay. No one else in the family went to college, why should she? It was a waste of money. We were only going so we could drink and take drugs and “misbehave,” she said. Even when giving us a lecture on morality, she could not bring herself to say the word sex.

I think Ma was just afraid that leaving for college meant leaving her.

Mary Kay stood up to Ma’s tirades and won the fight her way. No dragged out fights, no dramatics. She simply refused to give in. Quiet and stoic. That was her mantra.

When it was my turn to attend college, the way had been cleared. Ma had no arguments left.

Mary Kay’s toughest fight came when her youngest child died unexpectedly two years ago. Displaying that same sense of toughness, she taught us how to keep living after your heart has died. It was hard to watch her regain her footing after such a loss, but she fought every day to be there for the rest of her family.

Stoic.

If she had a fault, it was that same stoicism. It can brace your backbone to face your troubles, but it can prevent others from helping you when you are beaten down by life.

That may not be the lesson she intended, but that’s the one I learned.

A voice in my head

Mary Kay died in August, suddenly but not so suddenly. She had been battling a declining body for a decade. We thought she still had lots of years left to fight, but her body said otherwise. Her spirit was strong, but there is only so far spirit will get you. And frankly, I think losing a child took a lot out of her.

The last time I spoke to her was on my birthday in July. Nothing out of the ordinary. In true Mary Kay fashion, she said she was having “episodes” with her health, but not to worry.

I wanted to be sure I honored her properly at her funeral, and that meant dressing for the occasion. Nothing in my wardrobe looked up to the task.

Off I went to J C Penney to find appropriate attire.

After wandering through rack after rack of beautiful clothes, I was completely befuddled by the number of choices. Making a decision required too much out of me at that moment. Maybe I wasn’t meant to buy a new outfit. I mean, who cares what I wore?

Mary Kay would care.

She was not shallow. On the contrary, she believed that dressing for the occasion showed respect and let others know you knew how to act properly in polite society.

On a strange impulse, I asked Mary Kay what she wanted me to wear to her funeral.

After sending up the request, I turned a corner and faced a rack I hadn’t seen in my first tour through the offerings. It contained a full outfit, including skirt, top and blazer.

Still unconvinced, I thought to myself, “They’ll never have my size in all three pieces.”

But they did.

Even with that encouragement, I couldn’t pull the trigger and commit to the purchase. So, I just stood there, holding three hangers, undecided, unable to buy the clothes or put them back on the rack.

A woman walked up next to me and very politely asked if she could reach past me so she could find the skirt in her size.

Without any prompting, she began to talk. “I have two funerals to go to this week. Can you believe it? I think this would be perfect, don’t you? The blazer is perfect if it gets cold, but the sleeveless top could be a godsend if stays hot. Plus, it’s cute enough to wear for a night out.”

Talk about being hit up the side of the head with a figurative baseball bat.

I bought the outfit and received quite a few compliments on it from friends and family.

I could practically hear Mary Kay chuckle, “See? You’re not rid of me yet.”