I don’t think my two older sisters know how much I appreciate them. My mother was schizophrenic, and although she lived with me my whole childhood, her mental illness prevented her from being much of a mother. She loved me, and I loved her, but she was more like a younger sibling who always got in your stuff and caused trouble. My two older sisters stepped up and helped to fill that motherly void. They were eight and six years older than myself. Just babies themselves now that I think about it. Well, they protected me, fed me, and clothed me. They did all this without ever once making me feel like I was a burden to them. I am especially grateful to my oldest sister who carried the heaviest load.

Sisters are different flowers from the same garden.Author Unknown

When I was small, I would sit next to my Dad in church and play with his rough, callused hands. I was young enough that I could get away with not paying attention to the service. I was in awe with how much bigger his hands were than mine, and I’d interlace our fingers just for comparison. I’d rub my fingers over the thick areas of skin, and I only appreciated years later the work required in making those hands so rough. As an adult, I still love my Dad’s hands. Of course, retirement living and lots of lotion have made them much smoother. They are still nice to hold, though.

My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.Clarence B. Kelland