12:07 p.m.
Julia Maldonado Terry
01-19-1955 to 02-03-2017
The world has been rocked in my little corner of my hometown.
When you grow up in a small town, there are people you meet at a young age who continue to be an intergral part of your life over decades.
When I was a little girl of six we moved to this little town in Wyoming and were immediately made welcome by the Maldonado family. They had two daughters, Julie and Esther, and I literally cannot remember not knowing them.
They were a little older, which for me made them all the more appealing. Plus, they were lovely--they looked lovely, and more importantly, they were lovely human beings. To an often lonely little girl, there was nothing better than being accepted in the way they accepted my siblings and me.
There were visits to their house, visits at our house. There were camping trips. Lots of camping trips.
We'd all head up to the cabins--don't ask me where, I was a little girl with no sense of direction, and literally no interest in watching the road. No one ever stayed in a cabin, of course. They were just there, falling apart and a little spooky.
There was a pond up there, and this crazy boat, and we'd ride around in that thing for hours, going in circles and giggling. Julie and Esther got really good at manuvering that contraption, but Melanie and I never seemed to get it right.
Esther and Julie, back
Paula and Melanie, front
As we got older, Julie became the "big" kid; she was allowed to babysit us. I soon learned that telling a good scary story at bedtime assured that I would be allowed to stay up with her while the younger kids went to bed. We'd watch TV and talk until she fell asleep.
(You didn't think it was me who would fall asleep, did you?)
We grew up, we did school, we built lives. Julie got married and started her beautiful family.
We didn't get to see each other much. Life can be crazy busy. But when we did, it was like we hadn't been apart. We could still chat and laugh, compare family stories, share our children's achievements and later, those of our grandchildren.
I always loved her. I love her family. It is one of the constants in my life.
I've lived away from here for over two decades. I don't get to see the people I love as often as I would care to, and when one is lost, all I can do is regret that. I can't make excuses; life is just that way. We get busy; we move away; time passes quickly and we grow older, and then suddenly, a decade has gone by.
It takes you by surprise, doesn't it?
I visited with Julie last summer at a fund-raiser that was being held to help her defray the financial cost of her illness. She was gracious and smiling, often laughing. It was good knowing that being ill did not cause her to lose the essential Julie, who was warm and caring, and more interested in hearing all about everyone else than in talking about herself.
I fully expected to see her again, look at pictures of grandchildren and share a laugh or two. But it turns out that last summer is going to be my last memory of spending time with her.
And now, I'm just...floored. I don't know what to say. I never know what to say to anyone when someone who is so loved and so precious and so sweet just has to take that final journey. It always seems unfair, it is always too soon, and it always hurts.
I just want to extend my warmest sympathies to her husband, Rick, and to her children and grandchilren. You were so blessed to have her in your lives, and her legacy lives on in you.
My heart goes out to her sister, Esther. I love you, lady. God bless you.
To Lucille, God bless you, sweetheart. I miss you and love you, and I am sending hugs and prayers.
It's so hard to say goodbye, Julie. You have reached the clearing at the end of your path, and there is open sky ahead. Take flight. May you fly high.
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Next time we'll go back to our reguarly scheduled blog. Today my thought are with Julie's family and friends.
Good afternoon.
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