Glenn Alderman Herring, Jr. (1941-1987) “You showed me how to be all of me. I love you.” - Laraine

Satchmo was a Boston Terrier, born Thanksgiving 2005 , died October 4th, 2018, and he was the dog my children grew up with.

If Satchmo were alive I would let him jump into my lap and dig his little bony paws into my thighs. I’d hold him close and say into his pointy ear, “Satchmo, I miss you more than I knew I could miss anyone. You were the glue in our family, the spark of love and weirdness—how you shivered if you stood in the snow, but get you running and you’d roll onto your back and wiggle, giving it a long scratch.

“Dearest Satchmo, I miss even your farts on car trips and your tendency to eat long pieces of grass you could not begin to digest. Thank you for being exactly yourself, for making us laugh so often, and for coming back after your 28 day disappearance so we could nurse you through the cancer that would take your left eye before it spread to your brain. Had you already known you were sick? Is that why you left? You died one year to the day after you were returned, and I was grateful for every minute we had with you. I still talk to you when I walk in the woods, and sometimes I think I see you up ahead on the trail, trotting your three-legged trot around the bend.”

xoxo, Michaela Carter

Molly Sirasky Bransky

(born August 2, 1884 in Russia, died March 9, 1975 in Chicago)

Molly is the only grandparent I ever knew; she died when I was six, so I didn't get to know her well--I just have flashes of memory of her little apartment in the Chelsea House retirement home, how the hallways smelled like bologna and mothballs, how she had carrot and celery sticks in a cup of water inside her mini fridge. I can remember crawling under the dining table (one of my favorite places to be) when she came to our apartment for dinner and touching her pantyhosed leg--I didn't mean to scare her, but she screamed and almost fell out of her chair, and I felt horrible. I remember her cheek was very soft. There's so much I want to ask her now. I want to ask if she has any flashes of memory of Russia before her family fled pogroms when she was five. I want to ask what it was like for her to be president of a national Jewish women's organization, especially when she only had a fifth grade education. I learned recently that her father died by suicide--I hadn't known we both had parents who took their own lives; I want to ask her what her grief was like, how she balanced grieving and parenting. I want to ask her what my dad was like as a little boy, want to ask her what her mother made for dinner, what stories her mother told her. I want to ask her to tell me story after story after story.

• Gayle Brandeis

Frances Louise Hyden (1931-2003, born and raised in Missouri)

Leo Riley Stacye (born 1928 in Indiana, died 2003 in Missouri)

When I look at this photo of you held in pride by your husband, my grandfather, it feels as if I am there with you, folded into your coat, held in your heart. All of this was before I was born, of course, but there I was, pulsing in your future. Neither of you had an easy life. I long to know what it was like being born into the Depression, how you survived, if you knew any different? I know your father died when you were quiet young, and your mother had to take in laundry and ironing to make ends meet. The home where you lived had an earthen floor and you slept 'three to a bed,' with little to no room for comfort. I know of the sibling who died at one year, his body laid out on the dining room table with hard-earned nickels to hold down his eyes. When you cared for me, you often made food you grew up with. I can still taste the cornbread from the cast iron skillet, the pinto beans drenched in ketchup, the buckwheat pancakes.

Recently, I had a reading with a psychic. I know how it sounds. She said that I had a 'great deal of grandma energy' around me. She had a vision of you rolling up your sleeves. She asked if you did the laundry on a washboard. (You did). She said there was another grandmother trying to get through, too. This grandmother was funny and round. Did that ring a bell? (It did). She 'saw' you and the other grandmother locking your arms through mine, bookending me with your love and encouragement, as if chanting, "We've got you."

I asked about Grandpa. "Oh, he's so proud of you. He's quiet now. Smiling. The women have a lot to say." She chuckled, as if hearing something you were discussing, a whisper of the past.

Grandpa, I started writing about you. These stories of your childhood, how you were 'sold' by your family during the Depression, how you were returned because you were found to have lice. How you drove to California on your motorcycle. I want to know more about that and the friend you fondly referred to as 'Butterball.' I want to know your whiskers on my face, I want you to pull a quarter from my ear and tickle me til I fall off the couch in hysterics.

Do you know you both influence me daily? Even now? I see you but only in these photos, but I feel you, pulsing, not in the future, not in my coat, but in the past, over my shoulder, in a space I cannot recognize lest by shape.

• Leslie Lindsay

Jack! My cat! You were such a good companion in the aftermath of my divorce. When you were at the end of your time, and you climbed up on my chest, I panicked and moved away from you. I feel like I let you down, and I am sorry. Please forgive me for not being there for you as I should have been. - Keith Haynes

Grandma Susie

1921-2020

I'm sorry I missed your 99th birthday. I really thought we would have one more chance to hold hands and giggle. You were a force to behold and your love for your family lives on.

• Carolina Morton

Queenie

2003-2017

The best sugar pie, honey girl, adventure friend, girlfriend dog ever. I miss the way you made me laugh and I can't wait to see you again.

• Carolina Morton

Emeline Lavinia Eugene Cox.

This is my great grandmother. In this picture, she is about 21. The year is 1885, and she died in childbirth in 1889.

“I’ll carry you in my heart and imagine your truth.”

• Val Woolley

Chai Parker

April 15, 2006- May 25, 2020

From the moment I saw those beautiful green eyes, I knew you were my baby.

We miss you every day and love you with all of our hearts.

Thank You so much for choosing me to be your Mama.

Tiff Parker

When I remember you, Nana Muller, I remember pure love. In this photo, you were the age I am now. But because you died when I was eight, and because you were sick for so long before that, I know so little about what your life was like. What you were like. If I had one more chance, I would ask you to please, Nana, tell me your story.

• Stephanie Vanderslice

Buttermilk Rigney

I met him in uniform around 1985 - died in 2021. We were two halves
who made a wonderful whole!!!

• Robin Ferguson