Saints in the basement

Down in our basement is “the Wall of Death,” so christened by my husband’s cousin, Pat. My husband and I had always kept holy cards from wakes we went to; he often talked of finding a place to keep them in view. One day he found the spot: the pegboard on our basement wall, where I had secretly been thinking of hanging our laughably small collection of tools someday.

There you’ll find cards bearing the names of aunts and uncles, his dad and mine, my brother, his mom. Cards mark the passing of friends, parents of friends, public figures. Chicago Cubs’ broadcasters Harry Caray and Jack Brickhouse sit side by side. Mrs. Eleanor Daley, wife of our former mayor and mother of our current one, keeps a respectable distance from the Cub gentlemen, being a White Sox fan herself.

Sometimes, while waiting for the washer or dryer to finish up, I wander in and look at them all, our own little slice of the communion of saints. It’s very comforting somehow. I ask for their prayers often enough.  Continue reading