My late husband Jerry was born in 1942, so he’d be 75 this year. I can hardly imagine it. One of the things that happens when people die is that they become frozen in memory at the age they were.
My father was 49 when he died; from my perspective now, very young. Years later, visiting Bloomfield, Iowa, where he went to high school, I stopped by my cousin Colleen’s hair salon and barber shop, which she ran with her husband Louis. Louis was cutting an elderly man’s hair, and he asked me to tell the man who I was. In Iowa, I’m Wendell York’s daughter. The old man climbed out of the chair, hair half cut, and came to shake my hand. “I went to high school with your Dad.” I was startled, never having thought of my father as old. In truth, he never was.
Friends Nicki and John have invited me for dinner, and Nicki is making lemon meringue pie — which was Jerry’s favorite. I’m not a great pie baker but I learned to make a great lemon meringue pie, extra tart just the way Jerry liked it. I will enjoy Nicki’s pie, and the lovely memories it brings.