dona's 365

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.”

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.

Grandma ’s youngest brother and Auntie June ’s husband Harold was often heard chuckling about something or another. I remember once, riding in his Ford on the way to a lake in Wisconsin he sang: Wouldn’t you really rather have a PEW -ick? ” Then chucked at his cleverness. We need more like him.

This past Friday, Karen was struck and killed by a car on her way to Temple a week before her son’s Bar Mitzvah. I hadn’t met Karen, but know her son who wrestles on my son’s team and have met her husband and daughter. Life is fragile. Hug your kids.

Each time Uncle Verne saw me after high school he’d ask, “Whatcha doing these days?” I’d reply, “I’m going to college,” and he’d say “College is a waste of time. Get a job like Bonnie .” Also the most racist person I’ve ever known; the “n-word” never far from his lips.

I have nothing but good memories of Nathan, Rosanne ’s son. He was a delight from the day I met him to the last day I saw him in his hospital room. He loved my kids and they loved him back. His death at thirteen was a blow to us all.

Frances took me under her wing when I first moved to the DC area. I couldn’t have asked for a better guide or friend She’d been a reporter for the Evening Star where she’d interviewed first ladies from Eleanor Roosevelt through Betty Ford. She taught me the meaning of integrity.

Kenny and Carolyn lived next-door to my parents. Whenever I'd see the two of them, I'd think of the Jack Spratt nursery rhyme . He was skinny and she obese. They had no children, only a series of identical German Shepards that barked if a child stepped on their mammoth lawn.

Sweet, young and energetic, Sheila taught first grade at St. Ann’s. Her sudden, tragic death brought the school community together more than any retreat or staff development activity ever could. Her favorite hymn, Color the World with Song still makes me cry. I’d rather have had the staff development retreat.

Sister John Kennon showed me how to make good popcorn the year I taught in the convent basement. Although she burned the first batch, the second was perfect. Shortly thereafter, diagnosed with breast cancer, she was whisked away by the Diocese. She died on her favorite holiday: Saint Valentine’s Day.

I never remember my mom ’s best friend’s husband, Larry, serious. Even early in the morning he was the “life of the party”, and when he lost his third job he laughed about it. I thought he was just a fun grown-up until he was diagnosed with cirrhosis. Then I understood.

My closest (in age and friendship) boy cousin, Jim, was always very easy going. He didn’t have the temper his brother had. Perhaps if he had vented a little and gotten some of the same support services as Bob did, Jim would not have taken the Ben Sanderson way out.

When my Grandpa Green wasn’t reading a book or completing a crossword puzzle he’d be playing solitaire. I asked him once, what kept him from cheating. His response was “You’d only be cheating yourself.” He didn’t know it then, but that advice gave me the foundation for who I’ve become.

When I told Marie ’s mom, a Marie herself, about an antipasto dish I loved but couldn’t reproduce, she smiled, nodded her head and told me in her raspy Rhode Island Italian voice how to roast a red pepper, add wine vinegar and slivered garlic to create exactly what I’d described.

Librarian by profession and by nature, Jeremy ’s father, Jack, took me on literary tours of England including the Brontë Parsonage and Watership Down . The best by far was C. S. Lewis country where we stood outside the Kilns then traveled to Holy Trinity Church where Lewis worshiped and is buried .

After Uncle Quay made a pass at me at a family gathering one Christmas, I both feared and hated him. I dreamed last night I told him how angry I still was, these 33 years later. He’s no longer here to tell though. He took his own life years ago.

A one-time professional singer, Freda lost her singing voice due to an infection. She lived next door to the house we rented in Alexandria, Virginia. Despite being an octogenarian when I knew her, she had a child-like quality about her that some people found somewhat annoying. I didn’t really mind.

One Christmas Cindy gave me a silver bracelet etched with the words: Lt Col Don Williamson 7-7-65 At the time the bracelet was a piece of fashionable jewelry – most teens had one. Years later I read Don Williamson’s history online and understood he was as real as you and me.

Of course I never met C. S. Lewis. He died before I knew of him and his Narnia. Nevertheless, he had a huge impact on who I am today. He’d probably not be pleased with what I took away from his writing though. I’m probably more pantheist than anything else.

I remember seeing him in person only once, at a baby or wedding shower for a distant relative. His mother was the hostess and he was there in the background with some other boys. This foggy and imperfect memory is what I see when visiting his name on The Wall .