dona's 365

Scruffy, old, and perpetually tipsy when I encountered him in Chetek, he was the black sheep of the of the Leinenkugel family . He’d buy anyone a beer as long as it was a Leinie . It was said that he was being paid good money to stay away from the brewery .

First close person in my life who died, Uncle Don called me “Little Miss America”. (He had high expectations for my appearance). He was a short man who worked for the railroad and raised Dobermans. His love for me was genuine and he gave me a lasting gift: my name. Note : Don is the one on the left - the shorter of the two. (the other man was abnormally tall)

I met Tillie Olsen at an intimate reception after she spoke at AU in 1999. When I told her that her story I Stand Here Ironing helped me raise my daughter more than any professional advice could, she took my hand and said, “You must write a story about that.”

When blond, beautiful Julia came to visit the US from England she liked it so much she overstayed her visa. We became roommates and ceased to be friends. I blamed her consistent reluctance to clean up after herself; she blamed my insistence that she pay her part of the rent.

Red haired, chubby baby body; laughing Marie was adopted by the family across the street. Not yet a year old she caught the flu. Back then, doctors prescribed aspirin to infants. Marie’s mom called my dad from the hospital and said, "Marie’s not coming home. Please take the crib away." Note : Marie is the baby with her hands in the air.

Yves, a French Canadian friend from Pittsburgh, seemed very sophisticated to me. He owned an espresso maker in 1983 and could cook pears flambé . He once told me I dressed like a French housewife. Coming from him, that was a compliment. Although he lives nearby, we've lost touch. Pity.

The summer I taught Robert , I taught Jackie, too. Jackie was what was once called a savant. He couldn't add, subtract or comprehend text, but he memorized the telephone book and could tell you the day of the week on which you were born if you gave him your birthday.

Ok, so I never actually met Fred Rogers , he still was an important person in my life . Too old to have been a part of his neighborhood through TV, I ended up living in his real-life neighborhood as an adult. Ok, I lied. We lived in the neighborhood right next door .

My crush on Jeff began in 6th grade and continued into college. He always seemed more comfortable with girls than boys. He dated Betsy and fell in love with Vilma . I could never get him to notice me. The last time I saw him he'd been arrested for shoplifting at Zayre.

Marcia 's parents, Jack and Joan, loom larger than life in my memories. As a child I feared their exuberance, as a teenager, I dreaded their crowded parties, as a young adult we exchanged few words. Now, in my middle age I've grown fond of them and look forward to our meetings.

My mom always said, "If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all." Not quite following her advice about my aunt 's narrow minded husband who hurt my mom with his judgment far more than she could have hurt him by the actions of which he accused her.

One of the most memorable emails I’ve ever received was from Howard Rheingold , granting me access to his virtual community (a term he coined). Since that email, I've met him three or four times. Once I drove him from Fredrick to Arlington via (accidentally) the Pentagon parking lot & Arlington Cemetery.

Short, plump and blonde, Georgianne taught 4th grade at the same Catholic school I taught for a few years in the late 1980's. She had a secret past from her teaching assistant days in the public schools. We spent countless hours after school talking, but she never revealed that one secret.

George and I had adjacent cubicles the first year we worked for Caliber. When I told him he reminded me of someone he said he hoped it was Bill Cosby, his hero. It wasn't though. It was Howard . Was it because both were handsome African American men, married to beautiful women?

I don't really remember my Grandpa Patrick. He died when I was only 3. My dad says he used to hold my bottle at an angle and I'd walk up and drink from it like a calf. He was a farmer all his life. That’s about all I know about him.

On my first day of work, Don, a ColdFusion coder sent me a form and instructed me to "break it". Being new to the IT field, I didn't realize that breaking something in the testing phase could be a good thing. Don’s military background was obvious. He sometimes frightened me.

Tanned, trim and handsome, Bonnie 's husband, Paul has the looks of a TV star. In addition he seems sweet and kind and caring. Bonnie says, "I done right this time." The fact that Paul is her former brother-in-law is just a small footnote. I do wonder how awkward family gatherings are though.

Larry 's daughter, Bonnie, moved to Hawaii 20 years ago where she works as a manicurist and, on the side, grows coffee. She married Paul , her first husband's younger brother. She brought leis to drape over her father's casket, saying, "Dad never made it to Hawaii so I brought Hawaii to him."

Steve, Larry 's middle son, works for a company that owns and imports alcohol -- the good stuff: Smirnoff, Tanqueray, Guinness -- to the United States. Don't ask him how it tastes, though. He doesn't drink. He's the proud father of two children he never sees and two adopted children by a better marriage.

Larry 's youngest son Phil's quietness seems almost deafening compared to his three siblings' constant chatter. It's perfectly understandable though -- he probably gave up trying to get a word in long ago. He now has 7 children, so his world continues to be filled with talk while he sits back and listens.