Only one person texts me that late

“A sister is someone who knows everything about you and loves you anyway.“

— Author unknown 

– – – – – – –

It was just a few days ago.

November 14. 11:04 p.m. “Ding.” A late night text.

My bedtime routine is … well, routine. With the best of intentions, I plan to be sound asleep by 10:00. When around 11:00, I’m reading, cleaning house, or sometimes simply struggling to improve my guitar skills, I know I will be midnight getting in bed. Again.

Only one person texts me that late. My baby sister, Sylvia. 

“What are you doing,” her message inquired. That’s her cue for me to call. Sylvia already knows I’m reading, cleaning house, or struggling to improve my guitar skills. If I’m awake.

“Hello,” she always said with that melodic tone of voice. Her clocks were chiming in the background. She had a wall of them. Some on tables. Some on shelves. They made her happy. Most days, Sylvia was a happy camper any time of the day. Especially if she’d been working on crossword puzzles or making something good to eat. “Made some of mom’s pimento cheese today. You should be here.”

Thinking about eating anything my youngest sister prepared in her kitchen made me wish I were there. Mom’s pimento cheese. Kentucky Snappy Cheese. A cheese sandwich. Anything. 

November 16. 3:26 p.m. “Ding.”

“I had a Reuban at the Anvil.” 

“I’m jealous,” I replied. “So, you went to Pittsburg today? Are you moved in at Mount Pleasant?”

Sylvia was in the middle of a move from Longview, her home for the last 30 years or so. She was moving to Mount Pleasant where my sisters and I grew up and graduated from high school. I’m the oldest, Sylvia; the youngest. Leslie fits somewhere there in the middle. 

Mom always said she didn’t feel old until all of her children were in their 40s. When Sylvia turned 70 earlier this year, I wondered how Mom might have felt when all of her children were in their 70s. We lost Mom on December 10, thirteen years ago.

“Not yet,” Sylvia responded about the move. “It will be a slow process.” 

My sisters and I talked frequently at times, infrequently at others. Sometimes about nothing in particular, others about specific problems. I was lucky. I could confide in both of them, confessing my fears and concerns. They knew everything about me and loved me anyway.

And they were always compassionate. Leslie is typically quick to offer, “It will be OK. Everything will work out.” Sylvia was equally encouraging with words like, “Well, that was dumb, Bubba. So, how’s that working for you?” But she said it with love.

Anytime Sylvia and I weren’t solving a crisis, we talked about food.

November 25. 4:34 p.m. “Ding.” 

“Eating at Nicky’s in Bossier City.” A picture of the sign followed.

“Great place,” I replied. The food is still just as good as when we ate there many years ago with Joe and Mary Greene.”

November 19. 10:36 p.m. “Ding.”

“Can you call me when you get a minute?”

“What’s up,” I asked. 

“Are you still coming for Thanksgiving?

“Yes. What do you need me to bring?”

“Just a dessert.”

Thanksgiving at her house this year was small. Just me, Sylvia, her daughter Diana, and grandson Aiden. Aldridge gatherings that once numbered a dozen, 15, or 20 are smaller now. Kids grow up and move away. Older generations might not be able to attend. Sometimes, it’s another family member’s name in the family Bible with that second date added after the dash.

We all talked and ate. Diana and Aiden left for another round of Thanksgiving at someone else’s house, and we talked some more. Just Sylvia and me. Settling on the couch and talking is usually all I’m suitable for after Thanksgiving dinner. 

Her clocks had struck two when we started. I left just before they chimed six. “That’s as long as we’ve talked in a long time,” she said. “It was nice,” I agreed. “Let’s do it again. Soon.”

December 13. 4:04 p.m. “Ding.” It wasn’t late. There was no small talk. No questions. One message. “In the ER.” We exchanged short messages until she wrote, “They are keeping me overnight,” adding that tests found nothing other than “abnormal bloodwork.” Whatever that means. 

“Keep us updated,” I responded. “Let me know if there is anything I can come up there and do. I’m not that far away. Love you!!!”

“Thanks,” she replied.

The phone call came early the next morning. One of those you know when it rings — you just know. Good news seldom comes that early.

Sylvia Anne Aldridge Crooks’ life spanned 70 years, six months, and 23 days before she became the most recent name in the family Bible with that second date added after the dash.

It was just a few days ago. My phone has fallen silent after 10. No clocks chiming. And we will have to wait for that next talk we were going to have.  

Sisters are the best. I love how they’ve always known everything about me. And how they’ve loved me anyway.

— Epilogue —

Christmas columns are often random recollections of the joys of Christmas, past and present. Like everything in life, however, periods of joy and grief intersecting show no respect for time or circumstance. However, those who believe in God accept all seasons of life knowing He is in control. Because we also believe that time here on earth is little more than a period of preparation.  And because we are truly thankful for the many Christmases we were blessed to share with Sylvia.

My sincere wish for each of you is a Merry Christmas with family, friends, and loved ones. Cherish every moment.

—Leon Aldridge

– – – – – – –

Aldridge columns are published in these newspapers and magazines: The Center Light and Champion, the Mount Pleasant Tribune,  the Rosenberg Fort Bend Herald, the Taylor Press, the Alpine Avalanche, The Fort Stockton Pioneer, The Monitor in Naples, and Motor Sports Magazine.

© Leon Aldridge and A Story Worth Telling 2023. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided full and clear credit is given to Leon Aldridge and ‘A Story Worth Telling’ with appropriate and specific directions to the original content.