June 28, 2001

Dear Jer,

So, Donald the Duckman took you to the hospital. Well, you probably didn't want to go, but it sounds like you look and feel a whole lot better! Since we can't talk on the phone anymore, I thought I would write a letter and have Don read it to you. This is the first letter I've written in ages. I use phone and e-mail because they are so convenient, so letter writing isn't something I do anymore these days. I'm sorry it's so long, but it has to be. Maybe Don can read it to you sections at a time so you can take potty breaks.

This is the most difficult letter I've ever written, because there are so many things I want to say to you, and I can't find the words. But for you, I'll do anything, so I will try my best to let you know what is in my heart. I also know how sentimental you are, and I don't want to make you cry. But I think crying is good to do now and then because it cleanses the soul, and reminds us how human we are.

Remember when I used to call you Gigi when I was little? I always used to think Maurice Chevalier was singing about you when he sang his songs from the musical, "GIGI." When I was little I thought they made that show just for you! Remember you used to sing me the song, "Thank Heaven For Little Girls?" It used to make me feel so special. You've always made me feel special. I can still picture us singing our little duet, "Didja ever see a dream walking? Well, I did..." And you used to sing Un Beldi from Madame Butterfly and pretend I was the audience. And I used to sit at your rehearsals when you had the lead in "Brigadoon" and watch you on stage. You were the most beautiful thing I ever saw and heard. You had the voice of an angel. No, I take that back. Angels don't compare with the sounds you made. If I close my eyes and concentrate hard, I can hear you singing and imagine the sound of your voice. I can hear the quality, the tones and the lilt in it, and how well you controlled it. All that voice instruction from Louise Colvin sure paid off, because you sang like a meadowlark. That was all yours and nothing or no one will ever take those accomplishments away from you. Not even this insidious disease. Please don't cry because you can't sing anymore. You shared your gift with so many who were fortunate enough to have heard you. Your gift will forever be in their hearts. It certainly will be in mine.

Whenever I hear all those songs and others, like "You'll Never Walk Alone," I think of you and always will. And especially whenever I hear a recording of Liberace!

I remember how you and Jack used to sit and cry when you listened to opera and other beautiful music. When I was younger, I thought you guys were weird. Now I do the same thing, especially when I hear aurias that you used to sing. Amazing how all of that comes full circle, isn't it? Now my kids think I'm weird when I cry at "Un Beldi." It must be that Irish blood in us that makes us so dramatic and emotional. That's all I can figure.

One thing I know for certain. You are the reason I became involved with music and theatre. I was never much good at playing or singing music, but I sure developed a deep love and appreciation for it. You taught me that from the time you bounced me on your knee as a wee babe. All those musicals you guys used to sing songs from, all the records, the 45's you had of Elvis and others. I can't begin to list them all. You were always so passionate about music. I was mystified how you could get so emotionally involved in the songs you liked. I didn't understand it back then, but I do now. Time does funny things to you, doesn't it? Every time I do a show now, go to an audition, or open my mouth to say lines or sing on a stage, I think of you and thank you from the bottom of my heart for those gifts you gave me....the love of music, singing, & performing.... Please know that. It's important to me that you know that. I don't think I've ever thanked you for it. Have I?

And when you came to see me in "Fiddler On the Roof," in Missoula at the University. You were loathe to hear "Sunrise, Sunset," and said you couldn't stand to hear that song! I told you to just plug your ears when that part of the show came, and just watch my lips move. You sat through that show, even though you didn't care for the music. But you did it for me, and I've always loved you for that. Thanks, Jer.

There are other things I want to thank you for. The years I lived on Excelsior Street in Butte was a period of time that you were my salvation, although you never knew it. Mom was going through a rough time then, and you would always let me "escape" to your house up on Quartz Street in the evenings and weekends. You told me the facts of life over making pasties one Saturday, told me all about my puberty, Mom's menopause, and where babies did and didn't come from. You were straightforward and blunt about it, but not crass, and you did it with style, like you always did everything. Mom never did get around to "THE TALK" with me...But...Between you, Taylor's dirty magazines, and the nuns at St. Pat's, I got my sex ed. So Jer, thanks for telling me everything I always wanted to know about sex, but was afraid to ask. But more than that, thanks for spending so much "quality" time with a screwed up junior high kid. Believe it or not, you helped me get "centered." Because of all that time you spent with me, I was less screwed up than I would have been. It's true.

And you always told me about my Dad, Mervin Paige. Through the stories and little tidbits you told me through the years, I knew that my Dad loved me till the day he died. And I know he thought the world of you. Everyone told me how he loved you so much, and loved to hear you sing. You know, a true Irishman always appreciates a good singer! Mervin held a special place in his heart for you. Thank you for the gift of making my Dad seem real to me. I don't think I've ever thanked you for that, either.

Then there's the swimming. What can I say, you turned me into a fish! Remember when I drove both of us to the Twin Echo Resort in Rathdrum, Idaho for Aquatic School that one summer in the early 70's? We made an agreement before we arrived that we would keep secret the fact we were sisters. We figured we could easily pull it off since we didn't look much alike anyway. You didn't want people thinking you were showing me favoritism. You wanted me to go through that school because you were hiring me for your lifeguard and water safety instructor that summer at the Y in Butte. You always held me after classes were over to practice my strokes, over and over and over till I was frustrated, in tears, and wanted to give up. God, I was pissed at you. Everyone kept asking me, "Why is she SO hard on you?" And I could never say anything. But, you demanded perfection, and I was determined to give it you, because I wanted to work for you so bad. I've always said you were my first real boss in the work world, and you were the hardest on me. But because you were so hard on me, I learned a good, solid work ethic at the Butte YMCA, for which I have always been grateful. I've taken it with me to every job I've ever had. You taught me to work hard, be honest, accept responsibility and be accountable for my actions. You were an outstanding role model for me as a teenager learning my first real job. It sounds cliche, but it's true. I learned so much more from you than swimming that summer in Idaho. I had always worshipped and adored you, but that's when I first began to respect you and your professionalism. It's true.

I loved watching you move through the water. Without much effort you covered a length of the pool with just a couple of strokes. You moved through the water like a dolphin. Remember when you and I worked out my routine for "Poor Parisienne," my synchronized swimming number I did for one of the YMCA competitions? I can hum the tune in my head, but can't think of the name of it. You were so creative in thinking up those water ballet routines. Which reminds me of Swan Lake, when you choreographed the routine for Cathy Bender to perform at a State competition. You performed it one night in the Butte High Pool, and I remember everyone's reaction. They were dumbfounded that you could shoot up out of the water into the air as high as you did, like the swan who was flailing around in the water...the dying swan....then you would submerge and shoot out of the water again and spin in circles in a frenzy. It was awesome. After watching you Cathy said she could never do it as well as you., and how could she get in the water after that amazing performance? You were awesome to watch in the water. Please don't cry because you can't swim anymore, Jer. The gifts you gave to me and countless others will last a lifetime of forevers from your passion and love of swimming. Which reminds me, isn't that how you met a certain Duckman we all know and love??

I remember other times....you sending me into the pool at the Y to fish out turds from the little beginners....another time you let a bunch of goldfish go in the pool to entice the wee ones to put their face in the water, and the fish all headed for the deep end...something we didn't consider...that was a head-scratcher...how would we catch them all? Guess we didn't think that one through. So then we threw money in the pool. No problem getting the kids to dunk their faces to get the coins! Remember Pat Domme stripping down naked? I can't remember why he did that, but I bet Don can! I think that was at a fondue party at your house, wasn't it? Remember the cheese and chocolate fondues? You perfected the art. To this day when I see a fondue pot I think of my sister Jerry and how she perfected fondue into its own gourmet art form. Martha Stewart would have been proud.

Remember you started the swim program for the physically handicapped kids, the first of its kind in Montana? You had a picture and an article in the Montana Standard for working with kids with disabilities and getting them out of their wheelchairs and into the pool. You were so patient with those kids and so proud of that program because of their smiles and the joy on their faces to be out of those damn chairs and in the water, even if someone else was moving their arms and legs. Don't cry, big sister, be proud of your accomplishments.

.....Another time we were swimming in Georgetown Lake and something brushed your legs and we both panicked and tore off for shore like Jaws was after us. Of course you beat me to shore, and you turned to see if I'd get eaten by some weird lake monster as I flailed in behind you. You were always so smug because you could beat the pants off anybody in the water. And made it look effortless. I loved and hated that about you. But you encouraged me to compete, and even though I was slow with my short stumpy legs, I swam in the meets, started diving and took home a first-place diving trophy from Billings because you told me not to be a quitter. Even though I only won it by one-half of a point! Who cares, you said, "You won the damn thing, that's all that counts!" Thanks for that, Jer. You taught me not to give up. Each time I enter a pool I think of you and I'm grateful for the time we spent together around the pools.

At the outdoor municipal pool in Butte, you poured lemon juice and water over my hair to let the sun bleach it out. I was 15 then. I went around telling all my friends, "Yeah, my sister does my hair," cuz it looked all "cool" and shiny blonde. I remember that same day I had on a two piece and dove into the deep end. My bottoms came off, and you stood on deck and laughed your ass off, not offering to help me at all. There my bikini bottoms lay at the bottom of the deep end, and you sent in one of the lifeguard hunks to fetch it. I just wanted to die!! The humiliation was unbearable! I was so mad at you. But I got over it...eventually.

Your love of the ocean brushed off on me. You always loved seascape pictures, and when I gaze at them, I think of you. There are so many things, so many memories, funny stories, laughs and good times. Like the time you chloroformed the racoon at Doc Wheeler's by accident. Ooops. At least, I think it was a racoon and I think it was choroform. Don remembers that story better than I do. Although it was a sad story because someone lost their pet, when you told it, everyone cracked up...

Then you introduced us all to garbanzo beans back in the 60's, when no one else had heard of them. I remember we had dinner at your house one night, and you put garbanzo beans in a salad, and we all just leaned over our plates and stared. What in hell were those damn things? You always loved new adventures in food and cooked some fabulous meals. Garbanzos in the 60's were unheard of , and SO foreign. You were ahead of your time, girlfriend. Every time I eat a garbanzo, I think of you. Which brings me to pasties. Well... you will always be the master pasty maker in my life! (Sounds nasty, doesn't it?) I remember when you made a batch with Crisco-with-butter and you were shattered when they became watery and got soggy. You had such hope for the crisco with butter. You were always on a quest for the better-tasting pasty.

Remember the trip we took to Yellowstone when Paige and Tina were junior high age? You let me tag along with you guys on a family trip. You had made a batch of sour cream brownies and I ate the WHOLE panful on the way to Yellowstone, cuz I sat in the rear seat of the Blazer and just pigged out...you were incredulous that I could down the entire batch of brownies. Not to mention no one else got any. All the way down we all laughed so hard because we were singing Ray Stevens songs and I did my John Wayne and animal impressions (I trained Paigie very well, she does a FABULOUS chipmunk to this very day...A family tradition she can pass along to Jared) We laughed through the paint pots...we laughed through Old Faithful....we laughed at the tourists. And Paige and I freaked out when the tourists chased an elk and her baby into the river and we were scared the baby would drown. You thought we were weird for getting so upset. And we didn't understand why you weren't more concerned. But it didn't matter. We were back to laughing till late at night in the motel room, when we had munchkin voice competitions, and each time you'd try a "Follow the yellow brick road," you'd crack up and say you were going to pee your pants.

When I flew down to Billings one time after I first moved to Alaska in the early 80's, you drove all the way to Billings from Powell, nervous as hell because you hated to drive on the highway. Especially alone. But you did it for me, and I was always so moved by that. And you got all dressed up and looked like a million bucks. Thanks for doing those things for me when you were scared shitless to do them. I've always known my entire life that you loved me. You'll never know how happy I was when you flew to Alaska when my first baby was born. You came all that way to see my baby Katy and me. Did I ever thank you for that? Did I ever tell you how much I loved you for that? I'm so thankful to this day that you got to come up to see us. I've always been grateful to Don for helping you do that. It meant the world to me. You mean the world to me.

I want you to know that Marc, Becca, Katy, and me will always love and take care of Don. He will always be a part of our family no matter where we go or what we do. I hope someday he comes to Alaska and I can share with him what I shared with you when you were here. He will always be our brother. It is important that you know that.

Jerry Rae, I love you, I adore you, and that will never change, no matter what. Because when it comes right down to it, in the very end love is what we have. It is what matters, it is what will carry us through anything. Words cannot express the feelings I have for you, but maybe we aren't always meant to express things in words. It's the feeling itself that is powerful and makes the heart full. Please don't cry. And I'll try not to cry too. Somewhere we must all find the faith and the strength to believe we will see each other again after this life. It has got to happen. That's all there is to it. It has got to happen. I guess I have to have the faith that it will.

I will see you in August. Marc, the girls and I still plan to come see you. I love you and think of you every minute of every day. I know you feel alone, but you're not. See you in a month or so. Do what the doctor says or he'll kick your ass! Or the Duckman will!