Memories of Charis
By Julie Ann Locke
It’s difficult for me to write about my sister Charis. When I wrote the seven-part song cycle Charisma in 1978 in her honor, I thought her death was a well-healed wound, but over the years, I realize how much that hurt was buried and left unexpressed. Going to France for the first performance of Unfinished Fragments (the tribute by Patty and Michael, musically based on my song cycle) was a chance to revisit her life and the influence she had on our family. I am so grateful to Patty and Michael for the gift they have given us.
In Charis’ final days while she was living in Pittsburgh, Jack and I were married students at BYU living in Orem, Utah. Mom had written to us about Charis’ failing kidneys and the dire state of her health, and I remember writing, in my naïve youth, a sort of desperate letter urging an effort to get her a kidney transplant. Within days, maybe even before the letter arrived, I got a call in the afternoon from our bishop who was, coincidentally, an old missionary companion of Dad’s and also worked for US Steel (can’t think of his name). He began the conversation with something like, “I’m so sorry to hear the news. Is there anything we can do?” I hadn’t heard the news yet. Those words told me that Charis had died. He had heard the news through the company grapevine. Mother and Dad were in such a state of shock, they couldn’t yet face the task of informing the family. It was, of course, a terrible shock to me, and I have sorely missed her throughout my adult life and to this day.
As young children in Utah, Charis, Don and I slept in a double bed upstairs in a large ‘attic’ bedroom because Dad and Grandpa were finishing the building of the downstairs rooms of the house. Charis, the eldest, would tell us stories as we fell asleep; even then at the age of 8 or 10, she was the leader of our pack.
Charis and I shared a bedroom from my earliest childhood until she left for BYU. As our family moved to California and then from one house to another, growing in numbers, Charis and I always shared a room. I remember lying in bed at night in the dark, quietly talking with her about this and that as we settled into sleep. As she grew older, our conversations turned to boys, and she would talk about the boys she was dating or gently advise me through one of my crushes or heartbreaks. Ever beautiful and popular, she had numerous boys who wanted to date her. I would have loved to borrow her clothes as we got older, but they were always too slim for me though I was 5 years younger. What came across to boys as her movie star slimness was really ill health, and when they came to understand that and withdrew their attention, she was left time after time with a broken heart. We shared some tears during those difficult moments for her, but she shielded me from her pain most of the time, suffering in silence. I do remember times when she was crying quietly to herself, thinking I was asleep.
Charis loved dancing, and I loved going to ballet lessons at her side. Teachers always said together we would make a perfect dancer… with her feet and my arms. We enjoyed practicing at home at the barre Dad had installed, and spent many hours together dancing in the living room to one classical record or another, improvising our own ballets, scenarios, and costumes, and later we were joined by Patty and sometimes even the boys.
So many hours were spent sitting around the kitchen table with siblings ‘playing clay,’ a play activity Charis led, probably giving Mom a break to get the washing or grocery shopping done. Long before Fisher Price figures, we made small pedestals with a rolled ball on top…a male… or a flared pedestal being a female, with a flat flap of clay on the head for long hair, all inspired by Charis’ creativity. Then we rolled thin lines of clay to form floor plans. We shaped everything from furniture to cars to food, and spent hours in our world of clay. Of course, we considered ourselves to be experts on the best material to use, and every time we moved to a new place, the search was on for Kleen Klay, our brand of choice.
Charis also instigated many other play activities. She made me paper dolls then taught me to make them myself…drawing the figures and cutting them out, then using the figure to create the elegant fashions in the head of a child. We were doing this as early as our house on Greenwood Avenue so I was as young as 3 to 5 at the time. In California, Charis also wrote skits for us to do on Family Nights, and while in Arizona, she had a brief stint as a newspaper publisher under the pen name of Cherry O’Stone. Together we kids put together copy that she printed on a gel mimeograph in a pan using a kit she had received as a gift. She always had a knack for finding us fun and creative activities, and with her example we learned the joy of creative play with our siblings. She was most interested in writing, drawing, and dance, subjects our parents loved, artistic endeavors that inspired the rest of us throughout our lives.
While a young teen, I once visited Charis at BYU. I don’t recall the circumstances, and I can’t remember whether she and Bill were married at the time or just engaged. Maybe Mom can recall the details. Mother and Dad had given us matching outfits for Christmas, lavender pencil skirt-and-sweater sets. The tops weren’t actually sweaters but were made of an early mod-acrylic knit fabric, cardigans that buttoned in front. Charis hatched a plan for us to go to a student dance. She borrowed a student ID for me from a friend, and we dressed alike, like twins. Accompanied by Bill, we went to the dance, me pretending to be a college student. I was very nervous, but they made sure some of their friends asked me to dance. What I remember is Charis’ smile. She was so delighted by her ruse, so happy to give me that experience. She knew how thrilled I felt, a young girl among college students, pretending to be a college kid. I didn’t fool anyone, but it is a cherished memory, a small example of her generous and loving spirit.
I’ve tried to recall the last time I saw her. Jack and I did go to Rapid City to visit them after Paula was born so that might have been just before they moved to Pittsburgh. I recall how frail she was but how joyously she watched her beautiful little daughter and how she radiated the love she felt for her.
I didn’t go home for Christmas in 1969, three months before Charis died—something I’ve always regretted. Jack and I had Christmas in our little apartment. On Christmas day we opened our gift from Charis and Bill, a puzzle… actually, two puzzles that she had combined in one box. On the tag she wrote something like, “I think you’ll find this puzzling.” I still have the tag somewhere.
Charis was always such a gentle, generous and loving big sister. In the house on Deodara Drive we shared our private bathroom, for a time with Shalimar, her pet skunk, a gift from a neighbor. Friends and neighbors were always bringing her gifts. She was loved by all who knew her. I cannot remember a single moment of unkind or mean words or behavior from her. For her siblings, she was our beacon, our inspiration, and our leader in so many ways. I miss her still.
In 1974, I wrote a two-part poem called Snow Portraits…the second part is about her death in March 1970.
- March snow
with dismal blizzard bleakness
crushes crocuses and
spreads with crystal ice’s glaze
the sprouting leaves
and tender blades of grass—
March snow, the coldest snow of all.
In 1972, I wrote a simple poem about her…a ditty, really, but it expresses how I feel about her.
My sister is alive and well
She walks beside my thought
Her gaze is on me every hour
She talks to me a lot
We used to live so far apart
We greeted and goodbye
I meant to write a note to her
The day before she died.
I still have her kitchen curtain, one she made of fabric she loved, hanging over my kitchen window as a daily reminder of her.