Gone But Not Forgotten

I told you earlier this week about the death of my friend and former co-worker, Marilyn. Her children did a wonderful thing; in lieu of flowers at her funeral, they asked that people donate to a dance scholarship created in Marilyn's name. What a wonderful way to memorialize a lifelong passion for teaching dance!

But on a more personal level, I realized that I'll remember Marilyn with each movement that mimics a ballet position in my water aerobics routine or when I see a film clip of a child's dance recital or a great tap routine. Once a year on a Sunday Marilyn would bring in the video tape of that year's recital from her dance studio and we'd watch and critique all the performances. And laugh over the bumblings of the darling 2 year-olds trying so hard, or sometimes not trying at all!

I have time for reflection while doing my water aerobics routine and it occurred to me while thinking of Marilyn and of others that are no longer in my life that I still carry some part of them with me. My Aunt Dona who passed away last week was a reflexologist and life long believer in the healing properties of herbs. I use the pressure points she taught me to ease sinus pain and am always willing to try a homeopathic method of healing as well as a standardized form of medicine.

My father lives on when I take apart something that is broken and fix it. It was a family saying that my dad could fix anything but a nylon zipper and it was true. By watching him I became familiar with tools and their uses and saw the satisfaction Dad got when he was able to make something function properly again.

Darby's father and I spent many an hour on his motorcycle. From Joe I learned to love the feeling of the sun on my back and wind in my hair as we'd just hop on the bike and take off with no set plan in mind but to enjoy the open road. And to this day I can tell you the year of any Chevrolet from 1952 to the mid-70s just by looking at the rear end of the car, thanks to Joe.

When I pull a freshly-baked, made from scratch dark devils food cake out of the oven and ice it with caramel frosting, or make snickerdoodles, my grandma is there. Never a box mix and not even a recipe card around, Grandma's kitchen always smelled of spices, fruit or chocolate. To this day, I'm a "from scratch" cook.

I can pick out a shaggy-bark hickory tree or a black walnut tree in the midst of a grove of trees thanks to my grandfather. Because of him I've rolled in a field of wild mint, learned to look closely enough in a field of wild violets to find the one white violet in its midst, eaten a pawpaw fresh from the tree. I learned how to seine for minnies (minnows) in a crick (creek) so we could go fishing later. And weekends were for long drives in the country where Grandpa would point out birds and trees and flowers and show me which wild mushrooms were safe to eat. So today, that's why I wander this marvelous country and stop to look long and hard at what's around me.

Now I'm not so sad.