Technically Speaking

Are we doomed? (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

Technology is a great thing … except when it’s not. The question, I suppose, is trying to figure out when we’ve gone too far. Even harder is admitting it.

Personally, I should be livid with the advent of the digital camera, because even though I’m a professional photographer and I take advantage of all the advances in photo technology, the digital camera basically cost me my job.

I became expendable when it became clear that any Tom, Dick, or Harry off the street could buy a digital camera and take a good picture … when I say “good” I mean one that is properly exposed (let’s face it, there are a lot of folks out there toting around thousand dollar Canons and Nikons who still have no sense of light or composition).

What I’m saying is if photographers still had to buy film, meter the light, set the camera properly and then process the film and print the pictures in a darkroom … well, newspapers most likely would still be flourishing instead of disappearing, and it would actually take a fair amount of effort to get all that crap on the Internet (Bye-bye YouTube, so long Facebook!)

Then along came the technological advances in the cell phone market. Soon, it too could take properly exposed, high-resolution images - and videos! The number pad soon morphed into an actual keyboard so people could now text each other rather than … talk.

Huh?

Before long, it became a “smart phone" which pretty much does everything except act as an actual phone. I'm not sure if people actually even talk on them anymore, but they're a great way to connect to the Internet, play games, figure out where the hell you were, or tell you how much you should tip at a restaurant. We've become App crazy! (About the only thing a smart phone can't do, apparently, is save the life of the guy who invented it.) Now there is an App that lets you actually ask your phone a question and some woman named Siri will gladly answer it for you.

Really?

It got me to thinking. Maybe standing in line for hours on end to get the latest version of an iPhone isn’t the best use of our time - or our money. Maybe it’s time we stepped back a little. Maybe pull out a board game or an actual book instead of a Kindle. Let's give our thumbs a break for a while. Maybe even speak to each other face to face for a minute or two. Maybe we should think about how we're going to describe our generation to our grandchildren. (Assuming, of course, our kids will still choose sex over the latest App, and our increasingly fat asses will live long enough to even see grandchildren).

I can hear our stories now. Long gone will be the uphill 5-mile treks to school and back in a foot of snow like we heard from our grandparents. Instead we’ll be telling our grandchildren how rough we had it way back in the day when we had to fire up the microwave oven for a whole minute before we could eat. We'll lament about how our televisions were a whopping three inches thick and the high definition screens were only the size of a small car, and we had to push buttons on something called a remote control to change the channels!

We'll tell them about how sometimes we actually would have to pry our lazy asses off the couch so we could get into our cars and drive up to a window at something called a bank to get money so we could drive up to another window to get food, and occasionally we would even have to drive to some place called an “instant oil change joint” where we would sit in our cars while lesser men than us worked underneath us in a dark pit below the engine to keep them running. (It’s amazing the self-serve pump ever caught on since it’s about the only thing we do for ourselves anymore.)

Still, I'm a little confused because I'm not quite sure which generation I belong to. I guess I’m a "tweener" of sorts. I’m part of the old, but also part of the new. I can remember things from my childhood that needed to technologically advance if we were to survive. Things like the 8-track player which inevitably cut your favorite song in half from one track to the next, forcing you to wait five, maybe 10, seconds for the song to resume on the next track. Or my personal favorite, the lawn darts game called Jarts. I’m pretty sure those who actually survived playing Jarts were left scratching their heads as to how such an amazingly stupidly thought out game, where the players basically try to skewer each other with gigantic darts tossed aimlessly through the air from a distance of 20 or so feet, could have ever been invented in the first place. (Oddly, Jarts seems to have morphed into the popular tailgating game with the unfortunate name of “Cornhole” where beanbags are tossed at targets rather than heavy, pointed metal missiles).

Of course, some of the new inventions and trends from this generation are just as stupid. There are a lot of tatooed kids walking around right now who are going to be second-guessing themselves 20-years down the road when their barbed wire biceps sag and wrinkle, or their tramp stamps ... well, I don't even want to go there. And right at the top of the list, at least my list, is the mind-numbing smart phone. Is it really making our lives that much better? I mean their addictive powers have people crashing their cars, walking into street poles and mall fountains, and basically ignoring all life forms around them.

Why celebrate a victory when you can check out your phone? (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

If that wasn't bad enough, smart phones are ruining my photos too! It seems that every time I take a picture of a crowd at a sporting event going crazy after an amazing play, there are always three or four expressionless people in the crowd looking down at their damn phones. It's like they're completely oblivious to what just happened on the field, or the fact that they’re at a game, or maybe even outside! And it’s not just the crowd. The other night I was shooting a basketball game when I noticed one of the young photographers down the row from me also had his head down staring at his phone, thumbs a blazing. Thank God there wasn’t a loose ball flying out of bounds in his direction or he would have been creamed, unless, of course, his phone was smart enough to put up a protective shield.

I can only imagine the lengths this technology might take us. Soon people will be podcasting their own funerals so that no one really has to travel to pay their respects. And when the funeral is over, I fully expect a lot of folks will choose to be buried with their smart phones. This will, of course, lead to an increase in the age old (and technologically absent) art form of grave robbing, as hordes of cash-strapped iAddicts will grab up their shovels, head for the boneyard, and try to pry the latest Droid from the rigor mortis grip of the freshly deceased before the battery dies.

Oh well, at least they’ll be getting some exercise.

Legacy Redefined

Not the ending Joe Paterno envisioned. (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

It wasn’t a great week to be a college football fan. In light of the Penn State football sex scandal that gets more incredibly vile by the minute, it wasn’t even a great week to be a human being.

Heads are rolling this morning, most notably legendary coach Joe Paterno’s, after his former defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky’s brutal, sexual tirades on underprivileged youths were finally unearthed after years of what appears to be a massive coverup by the university, the local police, or anyone else who seemed too chicken shit to stand up against the football powerhouse PSU, and take the side of the innocent boys who were allegedly preyed upon by Sandusky.

Penn State students rioted last night when they found out Paterno had been fired. A television van was flipped, rocks were thrown through windows, and it looked for all the world like another Kent State circa 1970 was about to happen when Mother Nature moved in and sprayed the crowd with a cold, driving rain, doing what the riot police’s pepper spray couldn’t – send everyone home.

It was ugly, but there was no way this thing was ever going to have a pretty ending. If the board of trustees had left everything as it were and kept Paterno on until the end of the season, it would have just compounded the problem, festering the boil of public opinion that had so many talking heads spewing on and on about the topic.

They did what many folks, outside the PSU student body, considered the “right” thing to do - they fired him. They also fired university president Graham Spanier, but not then graduate assistant Mike McQueary, who walked in on Sandusky allegedly sodomizing a 10-year-old boy in the football facility showers in 2002.

McQueary's actions, or inactions, also have created a big stir in the office of public opinion. His initial response was to run away from the scene in disbelief before calling his father for advice. His father advised him to tell coach Paterno about what he witnessed, which he did. Paterno then told the PSU Athletic Director Tim Curley who relayed it to Spainer, but with each successive leap up the chain of command, somehow the information fell victim to a grown up version of the telephone game where “sodomy” morphed into “horsing around.”

Sports radio hosts, their callers, Internet chatters, and just about everyone else is lambasting McQueary for not doing more. “If I were him (McQueary), I would have beat Sandusky to within an inch of his life,” seems to be a popular response from many callers or online commenters who have responded on the topic.

The truth is, none of us really know how we would react in that situation. It’s easy with hindsight on our side to say how we think we’d react, but we don’t really know. I’m pretty sure Mike McQueary never asked for any of this to happen to him, just like Sandusky’s alleged victims never asked to be sodomized in a Penn State football facility shower.

“Why didn’t he go to the police?” “Why didn’t he stop it?” People want to know. The righteous are pissed, and maybe deservedly so, but why don’t battered women leave their husbands? Why don’t people leave their shitty jobs?

It’s never as cut and dried as we’d like it to be, and suddenly we’re all experts on the situation, even when we’re far removed from it.

Early this morning, TV crews were on Paterno’s doorstep looking for his reaction. It seems as if Paterno has been itching to talk, but his attorneys haven’t let him say much of anything. His wife was at his side as he briefly addressed the crowd of reporters and students gathered at his doorstep still not saying much of anything. She looked horrified and confused. Much of the country feels the same way.

It’s hard to say what’s going on in Paterno’s mind. For the past several years the popular belief has been that Joe Pa hasn’t really been running the football program anyway, he’s just their figurehead, their messiah – a grandfatherly figure to everyone at the school, football player or otherwise.

Maybe he didn’t know the full context of what was going on, but if it turns out he did (and we may never know) then the people in State College, and the rest of the country for that matter, will have lost a lot of faith in human kind, and Happy Valley won’t be very happy at all.

Getting There

Welcome to Anamosa, Iowa. (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

Maybe it was the sun beating on the side of my head. Maybe I was trying too hard. Maybe the vista was too dead this time of year. I’m not sure, but whatever it was that was keeping me from finding it, it was pissing me off.

Some people drink to find it. Some people take drugs. Not me. I take an eight-hour road trip to Iowa to find it. But dammit, this time it wasn’t working.

The mental peace I get from driving long distances by myself can be intoxicating. It’s a chance for me to unleash my brain and let it roam without interruption. I don’t even try to rein it in, I just make sure to cool it down and wipe it off before I put it back in the stable. But no amount of radio flipping or CD playing was doing the trick. My mind wasn’t wandering. I wasn’t getting there. I was irritated, not calm, and to make matters worse, my cruise control had gone belly up and now my ass was starting to throb with four more hours of highway staring me in the face.

Shit.

Normally the bowels of northwestern Indiana don’t bother me much, but this was different. Now I was wishing I’d have flown to Iowa. If not for thoughts of Buddy Holly and Richie Valens smoldering in a cornfield, I might have.

Double shit.

I became depressed. And why not? Who else could derive pleasure from driving to Iowa? Now I was just like everyone else, slugging along expressionless, mile after dead straight mile on westbound I-80, just like Henry Ford intended, but Iowa came quicker than I expected. I guess I was going faster than I thought. I had been banking on a third of the day behind the wheel, but when I arrived in Cedar Rapids early in the afternoon, only six and a half hours had elapsed from the time I left Michigan.

I wasn't hungry because I’d already eaten lunch on the road, and my room wasn’t ready for check in either, so with an hour to kill and nothing to do I stood in the hotel lobby and looked blankly at the wall.

Triple shit.

The last thing I wanted to do was head back out on the road, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there looking at the wall for another hour, so I put my luggage back in the car, pulled my cameras out of the trunk and headed east on the first country road I found. Maybe, I thought, just maybe I might be able to find my peace somewhere off the beaten path, or at the very least, a secluded spot where I could piss.

The road I chose was hilly and the corn was dead. Barely another car passed me as I continued east until I saw a sign for Jones County – birthplace of Grant Wood, the man who painted “American Gothic.”

This seemed promising. The last time I was in Cedar Rapids, I had driven to the Field of Dreams movie site in Dyersville and some amazing things had happened. I found it that day, that’s for sure. A few strolls through the magical corn rows in centerfield and I felt like a kid again, not to mention my car radio, which had been broken for two years, started working again the minute I left the parking lot. Maybe a visit to Grant Wood’s birthplace would fix my cruise control and save my ass seven-plus hours of agony on the trip home?

Local farmer's ode to Grant Wood. (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

Wood was born just outside the town of Anamosa, about a half hour from Cedar Rapids. I pulled into Anamosa and drove around a bit. It was small and quaint, but it had the most amazing state penitentiary I’d ever seen. I pulled into a small parking lot in the middle of the town and began to stroll around on foot, stopping to photograph things that caught my eye – an old VW van painted with clouds, a ball diamond across the street from the slammer, and the prison itself, which was very old, but definitely occupied because I could hear the inmates through the open windows.

Their talking started to loosen my mind a bit. Who’d have thunk criminal chatter would have done the trick? But it did. Not the turn-your-brain-loose-for-hours-on-end deal like a road trip gave me, but it definitely got me to thinking about more than the normal, mundane this-is-your-lousy-middle-aged-life-stuck-in-a-major-rut bullshit I was used to.

I started thinking about Iowa criminals. Were they just as evil as Detroit criminals? Crime isn’t the first thing that pops into your head when you think about Iowa, after all … farmers and pheasants maybe, but certainly not murderers or rapists. But there they were; chatting away not 20-feet from my trespassing self on the other side of a concrete wall built in the late 1800’s.

I asked a lady raking leaves across the street what kind of prison it was. She told me it used to be minimum security, but it had changed and now there were some pretty bad people in there. I asked her if it freaked her out to live right across the street from the prison. She shrugged her shoulders as if she hadn’t really thought about it much. But I thought about it.

I thought about Grant Wood too. He’d painted “American Gothic” 81-years ago, but he may as well have painted it last week – at least in Anamosa. If Facebook, Twitter, smartphones and computer games have taken over most of America, they somehow glossed over Anamosa.

Old neighbors stood at the ends of their driveways shooting the shit and drinking beer out of a can. Their laughter echoed off the walls of boredom. It was the kind of laughter I remembered hearing from drunken adults in my own small hometown in Ohio when I was a kid – a raspy mix of filterless Camels and Pabst Blue Ribbon guffawing out of their cancerous lungs, stomachs and wind pipes. They might die tomorrow, but Goddammit, they’re having a hell of a good time right now.

One of the neighbors gave me a friendly wave as if to say, “Drop them cameras son and crack open a beer with us.” I waved back and nodded the universal nod that says, “You keep havin’ your fun, you don’t need any son-of-an-Ohio-redneck intrudin’ on your good time by suckin’ down your stash of liquid gold – but thanks anyway.”

The friendly neighbor acknowledged my nod and turned back to his crew at the end of the driveway. Up the street, a young girl and her brother were roller-skating up and down the sidewalk in front of their house. Every now and then a motorcycle would pass by, but for the most part it was quiet, except for the chatter of the prisoners that wafted out into the street through the open windows of the state pen.

If these walls could talk - Iowa State Penitentiary in Anamosa. (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

After an hour or so it started to get dark, so I ended my brief excursion with rural America and headed back to Cedar Rapids. For the next day and a half I would switch gears and become a sports photographer at a major university. But I left Anamosa somewhat excited, because after eight hours on the road, my mind had finally switched on and I couldn’t wait for the drive home on Sunday.

The football game was a good one – nice and controversial with an exciting ending, but the one thing that stuck with me was how far off the weatherman was. A forecast of low 60’s and sunny skies gave way to a high of 39 with mid-day skies as dark as the bottom of a manhole cover. That was okay with me. I like gloomy skies and it never rained, so I didn’t particularly mind that I pretty much froze my balls off the entire duration of the game.

The other thing that stuck out about Saturday was that I left Cedar Rapids for Iowa City in the early morning dark, and I returned to Cedar Rapids in the evening dark. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worked from sunup till sundown, but I imagined there were a lot of folks in the state who could.

When Sunday morning arrived, it came with cloudy skies and 40 mph winds coming straight out of the south. Since I was driving due east, and Iowa’s cornfields don’t offer much in the way of protection from the elements, I knew this would make for some pretty interesting driving.

I decided to forego I-80, at least for a while, and take a road less traveled as I headed out of the state. It proved a wise decision. With little to no traffic, it didn’t really matter if a sudden wind gust blew me a little left of center since there was nothing for me hit head on but emptiness.

It was that emptiness that really hit home. I drove past field after field of dead, brown, bristly corn waving to me like the beer-swilling dude at the end of his driveway in Anamosa. I passed through small town after small town - each a carbon copy of the other – one gas station, a grain elevator, a pizza joint and a church, but not a human in sight. I half expected tumbleweed to be blowing down the street, but all I saw was an endless stream of freight trains, some a mile long I’ll bet, crawling parallel to my path heading westward, as if Manifest Destiny beckoned those coal carrying Conrails to a place where the grass was greener, and their payload burned cleaner.

The lines of the Iowa country road met the railroad tracks at the very same point well off in the distance. Maybe Grant Wood saw the same thing. Maybe every art teacher who ever taught perspective drawing stared out on the horizon from this exact spot in eastern Iowa, where all things come to a point on the horizon –roads, railroad tracks, cornfields, telephone lines ... and thoughts. They all started right there in front of me, just out of reach – always out of reach.

Off to the south the sun sliced through the clouds from time to time like a laser beam, blowing up distant silos in the middle of the fields with its bright beam of light that looked very much like an alien abduction was about to take place. When the sun hit my car, I wondered if some farmer looking out his window a mile away in that same field saw me in one of those same brilliant beams of light and found it just as amazing as I did? Or maybe he just kick off his shit-encrusted boots and poured himself a cup of Folger’s instant coffee without giving it so much as a second thought?

An epiheny? Or just a field? (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

It was that moment when I began thinking about my dead mother. I hadn’t missed my mom in a while, but I was really missing her now. I don’t think she’d ever even been to Iowa, but I felt like she was there, and when I say there, I mean inside my head.

I thought about my dad too. About how we don’t really have a whole hell of a lot to say to each other these days. Never really did. He’d been to Iowa plenty. He used to go pheasant hunting there every fall with his work buddies from Ford. I wondered if he’d ever traveled this same road, if he’d ever seen the brilliant shafts of sunlight blowing up the dead fields, or the railroad tracks and the highway coming to a point in the far off distance, or if he just slept the whole time while his buddies did most of the driving.

Whatever it was that had blocked my brain on the trip out, it had certainly been dislodged now.

“I gotta write some of this shit down.” I thought to myself. “There’s no frickin’ way I’m gonna remember all of this – hell, probably none of it.”

Everything seemed profound. Everything seemed real. My thoughts were flying around my brain so fast, I almost had to pull over. I was in mental overload. It was so overwhelming, I felt like I might actually cry and I had no idea why. Was it the corn? Was it the light? Was I happy? Was I sad?

Fuck if I knew?

I peeled off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. I put on my sunglasses even though it was mostly cloudy. Ten miles ahead was civilization. Before long, I’d be crossing the Mississippi River and leaving Iowa behind in the rear view mirror. The next exit was my southbound turn back to reality. Back to the painful cramp in my ass and the continual formation of a blood clot in the lower half of my right leg as I cruised eastward on I-80 with its semi-truck traffic and zoned-out-latte'-junkies texting themselves into the medians and ditches of the world on an otherwise perfectly clear, dry day.

Author on the road. (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road: Aunt Dorothy Goes Home

Aunt Dorothy's burial on Wednesday afternoon in the rain. (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

If there truly is no place like home, then Aunt Dorothy should be plenty happy now that she’s finally there.

After 97-years roaming planet Earth, Dorothy Demske was laid to rest at Michigan Memorial Park in Flat Rock on Wednesday - a perfectly gloomy and rainy October day that seemed fitting for a funeral and burial - if nothing else. And when I say Dorothy roamed the planet, I was being literal, because before she died, Dorothy trotted her wee frame across the globe to more than 40 countries and nearly every state in the U.S. - her latest venture in 2002 when, at the age of 89, she went out west to Colorado and Oregon to not only see what Mother Nature had to offer, but also hit the casinos.

She lived life like a rock star, or at least she kept the same hours. She was the most anti-geriatric person I ever met in that department. She’d sleep until the middle of the afternoon most days, and stay up until the early hours in the morning. I’m not sure how she made any friends at the American House, a senior home in Riverview where she lived the last decade or so of her life, or if anyone there even knew she existed since she was living in an opposite universe, but she did. In fact, everyone loved Dorothy … and why not?

Dorothy lived the way most of us wish we could. She had no fears, either about living, or dying. She was sure she would live to see 100 - she even looked forward to it, going so far as inviting everyone she knew to her century birthday party up to five years in advance! Well, she didn’t quite make it. Lung cancer, of all things, derailed her plan. Ironic given the fact she was a non-smoker. But at 97, or any age over 90 really, shouldn’t the cause of death always be listed as … old age?

Dorothy at peace. (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

It’s funny that the last time I would see Dorothy would be at funeral, because it’s also the first time I met her – at my wife’s father’s funeral. That was 16-years ago, and I’ll never forget that meeting because at the age of 81, Dorothy stepped off the back of a makeshift platform set up at the gravesite, and did a backwards flop into a snow bank. She was perfectly fine, and in fact laughing about the whole episode, which not only brought levity to the situation, but also stole the show.

At the time, all of my mother-in-law’s siblings were still alive (save for two, who died at infancy). Dorothy was the oldest of those siblings, Marge, my mother-in-law, was the youngest. In between were sisters Mildred and Helen, and a brother, Jud. Within a year, Helen and Jud would die. Mildred joined them four years ago, leaving only the bookends of the Demske clan left to reminisce.

I’ve been lucky enough to be around for those 16-years to eavesdrop on some of that reminiscing, and it’s been fascinating.

Dorothy Demske loved to argue, but near as I can tell, she never really complained. She embraced the world around her like no one I ever met at any age. She didn’t care that her body was failing her, I guess because her mind was still razor sharp. Her stories were amazing; not only in their subject matter, but also in the way she told them. She was kind of like Yoda (certainly in size anyway) to all her nieces and nephews and their children, who would gather around her on holidays as she would tell stories about her childhood or her worldly travels.

Her life story was pretty amazing. She was born in 1914, and when the Great Depression hit, it hit the Demske family particularly hard. Living in Wyandotte, MI., her father, like many others at the time, had lost his job and eventually the family home. With five kids to feed, and no way to do it, Dorothy suddenly found herself taking over as the breadwinner in the family, working a job at the welfare office in Wyandotte shortly after she graduated from high school.

Photos from Dorothy's childhood.

“She would have loved to have gone to college,” her sister Marge reflected, “but there was no way back then – no money, no way to get funding.”

After the depression, Dorothy would stay in the working world at a time when most women got married, stayed home and had kids. She stayed single her entire life, going on to work at GM for 34-years before she retired in 1974. And where some folks struggle with what they should do with the rest of their lives after retirement, Dorothy never had that problem.

The world was her oyster, and at the age of 60, she was hell bent on seeing as much of it as possible, and sharing it with as many people as possible. Despite never marrying or having children, Dorothy made it a point to take her nieces and nephews (of which there were plenty) to Washington D.C.

That trip to D.C. was a real bonding experience, not only for Dorothy and her nieces and nephews, but also for the many cousins who made the trip. Cousins who often didn’t see much of each other and were brought together by Aunt Dorothy for a memorable visit to our nation’s capital. They were still talking fondly about those trips at Dorothy’s funeral.

And it wasn’t only this world that Dorothy loved to visit. She often talked about seeing visions of the dead. When she was a little girl, she vividly remembers seeing a little boy walk down the hallway outside her bedroom door. She told her mother about the little boy, and her mother told her she was dreaming. The next morning it was learned that Dorothy’s uncle, a young boy named Floyd, had died the night before. Dorothy insists the young boy she saw walking down the hallway was Floyd shortly after his death.

She would continue having visits from the afterworld her entire life, most recently from a pair of trousers and shoes belonging to her brother Jud. They never frightened her; instead, she was always calm and relieved by them. Dorothy considered herself something of a medium – and the visions were a way of letting all her loved ones know that the deceased were giving Dorothy a sign that everything was all right. Most people stop believing in ghosts when they grow up. I think Dorothy started believing in them even more.

St. Patrick's Church in Wyandotte where Dorothy's funeral was held. (Photo by Lon Horwedel)

In the last five years, I’m not sure if I ever saw Dorothy dressed in anything other than a bathrobe. She made it a point to come and visit Marge at least a couple times a year and she would always stay for a week during her visit. For a woman who probably weighed less than 100 pounds, she sure loved to eat. And listening to her argue with her younger sister about the silliest things made me realize that siblings never really leave their childhood habits or birth order behind, no matter how old they are.

But Dorothy was also a magnet - a world-class storyteller - a walking history book. She had a way of taking over a room, even if it was filled with kids who normally don’t give older folks the time of day. Thankfully, my brother-in-law Terry had the foresight to recognize this gift and he decided to bring a tape recorder with him on a visit to see Aunt Dorothy one quiet afternoon about four years ago. Terry interviewed Dorothy for several hours about her life that day, and he brought that tape to her funeral where we all were blessed to hear Dorothy tell some of those stories one last time.

More amazing than the stories was the fact that there were more than 50 people gathered, both old and young, on a cold, rainy Wednesday afternoon, to hear those stories told by an old woman who never got married or had any kids of her own, but who easily had the biggest family of any of us. Even in her death, Dorothy had a way of holding the room as we all sat there silenced and entranced by her tape-recorded voice talking about the first time she and her dad went out for a drive in his brand new car, or the time she rocked her baby brother to sleep when she was five years old, a month before he died.

I was looking at a picture of Aunt Dorothy that was sitting on our table as I listened to her tell those stories. It was like she was there. In some ways I wondered if she was. Either way, I got the feeling we’d be seeing her soon.

In the end, maybe the Priest presiding over her funeral said it best when he said, "I never once heard her say, 'I wish I would have done something different.'"

How many of us can say that?

R.I.P. Aunt Dorothy.