I remember her as the fiercely independent woman she became during WWII when she left her parents' house on an errand into town and returned having signed up with the Navy. Likewise, as the mother who clung more and more to her only son and his family as she began to feel the effects of age. I remember her as the fellow writer who handed me a scrapbook of newspaper articles she'd written and published long before my birth, said I should read them since I liked to write too, and then patted my hand and said "Besides, you and I were always good friends."
She was the short woman who somehow gave life to my very tall father, and had lived near or with my family since her widowhood over twenty years ago. She died Friday night at home with my parents, in my mother's arms, and we all believe she went on to Jesus.