1975

I was new in town, and all of five years old. I met Kimmy first; her big, brown eyes and long, dark pigtails reminded me of one of the girls from the Mickey Mouse  Club reruns I liked to watch. We shared popsicles from a cart at Murphy’s grocery store while Kimmy’s mom did her weekly shopping. I felt safe, I had made a friend, and I was home. 

Just a few days later, I met Hallie in the alley behind my house. She had been riding a bicycle on “The Circle” at a neighbor’s house, an older gentleman who lived there with his sister, who handed out candy to any child who wanted to ride around his circular driveway. 

This girl I saw was riding around and around, as fast as I’d ever seen anyone ride a bike; her short, blond pigtails, lopsided on her head, flew out behind her as she peddled into the wind. She noticed me watching her, and she stopped. She came over, across the alley, and stood on the other side of our fence. She wore a t-shirt, shorts, and white sandals. Her hair was a mess, and she had the cutest,t chubby cheeks that had been turned pink by the sun. 

“I’m Hallie. Did you just move here?” She squinted as the sunlight shone in her brown eyes. 

“I’m Tammi. Yeah, we just moved here. I’m five. How old are you?” I asked, amazed that this tiny kid was riding a bike without training wheels. 

“I’m four. Do you have a bike?” She asked. 

I did have a bike, but I did not care to ride it. I had tried to learn to ride the bike, with my mom and dad cheering me on and encouraging me, but I fell off and declared the bike faulty, telling my parents to “sell it.” I wasn’t sure how this girl would react if I told her I couldn’t ride the stupid bike, but I couldn’t lie to her. She’d find out soon enough that I couldn’t ride a bike, so being honest was my only choice. 

“Yes, I have one, but I can’t ride it.” I looked at the ground. 

“Well, that’s okay. I can teach you to ride it. If you are going to live here, you are gonna have to ride a bike.” This child, who was reminding me more and more of a little feral kitten, tough as nails on the outside, but sweet on the inside, informed me. 

I didn’t want to humiliate myself again on the bike, but what was I to do? If I were going to live in Kentland, Indiana, I would apparently have to learn to ride the stupid bike. 

“Okay.” I agreed with great reluctance. 

“My brother and I will teach you. We can start tomorrow.”  She put her hands on her hips, “Do you want to see my dolls?”

I did want to see her dolls. I loved dolls. 

And so it began. The three of us, Kimmy, Hallie, and I, spent our summers eating popsicles, the neighbor’s candies, mustard sandwiches, and mangly cheese. Hallie had weird names for certain foods, and Kimmy and I thought it was ridiculously hilarious. Hallie and I spent time wading in the Kent Ditch looking for fish or any aquatic species we found interesting, and Kimmy and Hallie made pistachio pudding cake and brought it to my house so I could try it. I hated it, but they loved it. 

Hallie and her brother, Darren, taught me to ride my bike, and it became our only way to get around our tiny town. Now, my parents were a lot more strict than Hallie’s were, so as the sun began to set in the sky, I had to go home, but I could always bring Hallie along. There were many nights when she ate lunch or dinner with us, or ate at home, then immediately came over and sometimes spent the night. And those were the best nights. 

My dad wore black ankle socks, and when he came home from work every night, he’d put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, but he’d keep the socks on. If Hallie and Kimmy were over, Dad would chase us all around the house as we tried to hide. Hallie nicknamed him “Black Stinky,” and we would squeal with delight as my dad, wearing the black socks, would tickle us until Hallie’s face was wet with tears. 

Hallie was tough and strong, and if there was something she wanted to do, she figured out how to make it happen. Kimmy, Hallie, and I played in an old Karmann Ghia (that she called a ‘Ker Magee’, and so for my entire life I thought there was an actual car called a “Ker Magee”), that was always parked in Hallie’s driveway, pretending we were adults with boyfriends, hoarding candy cigarettes, with sticky lip gloss on our mouths, and freshly made mustard sandwiches in baggies sitting next to us in the car seats. I didn’t like the mustard sandwiches much, but they weren’t as bad as they sounded, and since Hallie made them for the three of us, Kimmy and I ate them without complaining. 

Hallie could find humor in any situation, and her smile was never forced. She had gorgeous, straight, white teeth, and her giggles were infectious. There could be a tornado heading straight for our homes, and she would find a way to make us laugh and forget about the impending disaster. She gave everyone a chance to be her friend, but the minute you broke her trust, the door was shut, locked, and you were not allowed ever to enter again. 

She wasn’t interested in boys (until she met Jamie, who later became her husband), and if boys showed interest in her, it literally made her sick to her stomach; she did everything she could to avoid anyone rumored to be interested in dating her. She had no patience for the nonsense, and she made that clear. 






She sang in the choir because back then, you either had to sing or play an instrument. She had a lovely voice, but she wouldn’t let anyone know. My sister sat near Hallie the year the choir director assigned a solo for Hallie to sing at the Spring Concert. My sister, Jan, said Hallie told her there was no way Hallie was going to get up in front of anyone and sing. On the night of the concert, Hallie didn’t show up. Nobody could make her do something she really did not want to do. You could try, but you wouldn’t win. Jan said, “I think Hallie failed choir that semester, but she didn’t care!” 

We had lemonade stands and baked cakes (we had no recipes; they were terrible), and tried to charge inflated prices for our creations. One neighbor called us out on our price gouging, and thus we were forced to accept 50 cents per bar for some sort of cookie bar we’d invented, instead of the $5.00 per bar we had originally agreed on. I can’t even remember what we wanted the money for, but we had big dreams of becoming rich, baking awful cakes, and charging high prices. 

We shopped at local garage sales and came home with other people’s junk, but our prized possessions. We ran from boys who liked us, and picked mulberries from Hallie’s parents’ trees. We ran into Boots and Satchmo, Halllie’s dogs, while riding our bikes uptown, and we’d try to guide them back home so they wouldn’t get hit by a car.

We swam in Hallie’s above-ground pool until our skin was pruned and pink from the sun, my freckles coming out all over my face, Hallie’s chlorine-infused hair turning green and brassy. Darren was always trying to drown us. We huddled together in the attic of Hallie’s house whenever Darren and his friend, David Gross, locked us inside. I was terrified, but Hallie was never scared, or if she was, she certainly never let us know. 

We ate sno-cones at the park, watched baseball, ate Jumbo Burgers and fries at Don’s Drive-In, and sometimes swam in the Kentland Pool. Sometimes, my parents would take us to the Nu-Joy for a Sunday lunch. If there was a very fancy occasion, we spent it at the Colonial Inn, where Kimmy and Hallie later worked, earning minimum wage, and stealing spoonfuls of peppermint ice cream when the owners weren’t looking. 

When my parents were out of town one weekend, which rarely happened, I had Kimmy, Hallie, and K.C. spend the night. We, along with Jan, slept in our basement because that’s where our television was. In the summer, the basement was the coolest place to be. After a long game of “Dorms” (a game we made up in which we would pretend to be college girls who lived in dorms and had boyfriends who were handsome and wealthy), and after we had performed the entire movie of Grease (where I played Sandy, of course, and the rest of the squad played the Pink Ladies, except for Jan. Jan had to be Danny), it began to rain. It rained for hours, and we all fell asleep. We awoke to at least two feet of water everywhere. Everything was wet. I’d never seen our basement flood like that before, and I had no idea what to do.

K.C. and Hallie ran up the stairs to find buckets to remove the water, both slipping, falling, and scraping their legs along the way. K.C.’s wounds were bloody, and a very large portion of her leg skin had been torn off. Hallie came up with the idea that we would wrap K.C.’s leg in gauze, then put plastic bread bags around the leg. I think we used duct tape to secure the bread bags. For a couple of hours, the bread bags kept K.C.'s leg dry, and we were able to get a lot of our toys, some furniture, sleeping bags, blankets, and Barbie Dolls out of the water to dry. Throughout the ordeal, Hallie kept us laughing; even K.C., with her skinless leg, laughed that day.

We grew up together. We shared secrets, and we knew both the good and the not-so-good things about our family situations. We had an unshakable bond as very young children, and although we didn’t realize it or say it aloud, we truly loved one another. 

In middle school, we all loved Duran Duran, and each of us had our favorite band member. Hallie loved Nick Rhodes, and we spent many hours watching MTV just waiting for our favorite band’s videos to air. We performed concerts in my basement and dressed up as our favorite Duran Duran band member, carefully applying eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. At the same time, we ratted our hair and used tennis rackets as guitars. We did allow Jan to join us, but she had to be Andy, the band member we all thought was the ugliest. Poor Jan.

Hallie never called Jan “Jan.” She called her “Jannie,’ and she called me “Tam.” Only the closest of my friends ever called me “Tam” instead of “Tammi,” and Hallie established right away that she was one of the closest. And she was. She was a treasured and integral part of my childhood. She helped me to learn to be brave and to try new things. And there were a lot of things that frightened Hallie, but just like the little feral kitten I thought about the first time I met her, she just kept clawing her way back to life, finding her way through the hardest and darkest of times. She just never gave up, and it was an inspiring thing to watch. 

As time moved on, we grew older, we dated boys, and Kimmy and I went off to college. Hallie stayed in our little town, and as friends do sometimes, we grew apart from Hallie, although Kimmy and I stayed in touch and remained very close. Every so often, Kimmy and Hallie would talk, and Kimmy would let me know how Hallie was doing. We’d sometimes send messages back and forth on Facebook, and I enjoyed seeing the pictures Hallie shared of her beautiful family.

At one point, during the Covid outbreak, Hallie contracted the virus, and it nearly killed her. Kimmy and I sent cards and hoped Hallie knew that we were thinking of her and praying for her recovery. Being the fighter she was, Hallie survived Covid. 

I never thought, after her battle with Covid, I’d get an early morning call several years later, from Kimmy letting me know that our little, beloved, street-fighter, Hallie, had died. The memories came flooding back.

I know this much is true: I was blessed to know her. We were lucky to have her. I’ll never forget her.

Rest in peace, my dear friend.

​

We awaken. It begins. Incoherent babble, followed by self-grandeur boasting, continuing with meaningless fodder and derogatory comments directed at rivals, enemies, female journalists, world leaders, immigrants, and people of color.

The stories trickle in along with videos shot by bystanders trying to prove that those around them are just trying to help, to fight, to resist, to not conform to misogyny, racism, fascism, and hate. The beatings begin, the shouting. Pushing, shoving, screaming, then the inevitable: the shooting. The maiming, the killing. The ending of life.

Blood runs red in the streets as the wounded speak last words, grasp at the air, remembering their loved ones they are about to leave behind, voices fading, tears falling, mixing in the red, flowing toward the feet of those who have murdered them.

The name-calling, the laughing, the cursing come next. The back-patting, the chest-puffing, the rush of heat as they watch their handiwork with admiration and dream of the next one they’ll overpower, maul, destroy, kill.

The jackets are buckled, firearms holstered, masks put back in place because the cowardice is so enormous they can’t let us see their faces. It’s not shame; it should be. It’s the spinelessness of a madman who revels in others’ pain and who refuses to recognize the person standing before him is also a human being.

They move along, pushing their way through the crowd of those who are astonished by what they’ve witnessed, more tears falling, the blood still following, boots sticking to the ground as the red liquid begins to freeze.

And the face of the dead, frozen in time, looking toward the sky, the winter wind whipping across faces, as eyes search the Heavens for a God who is weeping.

​

I said goodbye to my grandmother today. I didn’t actually say the word, but I knew, as I was talking with her on the telephone, it would more than likely be the last time we spoke. My Grammy is ninety-five years old, and her body is failing her. As much as she would like to be able to get up and out of bed to walk down to get her mail, or bake a lemon pie, or walk on the treadmill, her body will no longer obey. 

I’m fifty-years-old, and I am very aware that I’m so blessed and extremely lucky to still have my grandmother in my life. I know many people my age lost their own grandparents long ago. I do feel lucky. I feel happy that I have been able to spend so much of my life with a woman who loved me, spoiled me, cooked for me, and played with me. I can honestly say I couldn’t have asked for a better grandmother. 

When I spoke with my Grammy, I told her that most of my very favorite and best childhood memories include her. She made me feel special and loved, even when I was being a disagreeable three-year-old, or a pouting, somewhat selfish teen. I told Grammy that she was the best grandmother and that I loved her. And I do. I love her. Which is why it’s so hard to say goodbye. 

I understand in my head that she’s old and frail now, and that maybe it is true that she will move onto a better place. Maybe she’ll follow a beautiful light that leads to a place in the clouds where she will get to see my aunt, her daughter, who sadly died before her. Maybe it’s possible she’ll pass through golden gates and my grandfather, Pappy, will greet her with a smile and a hug. He’ll hand her his eyeglasses, ask her to clean them, then request that she cook him a well done hamburger accompanied by a side salad with only mayonnaise as a dressing. Isn’t it possible she could finish cooking that hamburger, then turn around and greet all her brothers and sisters who left this world before she did? I can’t even imagine how happy she would be. 

I know she lived a good life. I realize that when she told me she doesn’t think she’ll make it until Christmas, it was her way of telling me it’s time for her to go, she’s ready, and everything will be okay. I believe there is an angel sitting next to Grammy, holding her hand, and who will be there when she finally takes her last breath. When I close my eyes, I can see that angel, her brilliant white wings sparkling in the light, as she guides my sweet, spunky, and exceptionally special Grammy to a place where she can be healthy and lively again. This is my hope. This is what my grandmother deserves. 

My grandmother has been a light in my life. She’s been all that is good and kind in the world. She has loved me all the time, even during the times when I wasn’t very lovable. There’s no other love like the love you get from a grandmother. It’s the most unconditional and pure love, and it’s one thing in life you can always count on to be there when you are searching for something you can’t quite find. It grounds you and makes you realize what is really important in life- having family members who love you, and loving them back. 

I have no idea how I will react or feel when my grandmother passes away. I want to be happy that she’s no longer in pain, no longer worried about being a burden, and no longer frustrated and upset she can’t do all the things she used to do. But my selfish side wonders how I am going to navigate the rest of my life knowing my beautiful Grammy is gone. I’m going to miss her and miss all of the special things we did together. Most of all I will miss the little things- how she would give you a good pat on the arm when she would greet you, her off-key, operatic singing, her bright, blue eyes, and her loyal and unwavering support. 

I don’t know how to say goodbye, I don’t want to, but I know it’s coming. I hope I’m strong enough to do it well and do it the way Grammy deserves. I wish I was there with her, but this isn’t the year to make another trip. 2020 has given us all too much, and taken away even more. I guess it’s only fitting that this will probably be the year that my grandmother goes to Heaven. I hope the rest of my friends and family up there now are all waiting at the gates to guide Grammy through and make her feel at home. 

Goodbye, my sweet Grammy. You will be so missed, and you are very loved. 

XO






​

This morning a Facebook “friend” posted a very offensive picture of an ugly, crazed-looking woman, who was supposed to be a liberal, with some stupid quote about how liberals whine and cry and how we “unfriend” anyone who doesn’t agree with us on any issue. First of all, if that were true in my case, I’d have about two Facebook friends, not hundreds.

This person then went on to pontificate about how if liberals think something is wrong, then we need to back it up by doing something rather than complaining, posting things on Facebook (funny, like he was doing?), volunteering in our own neighborhoods, and making a difference.

Well, let me tell you right now, this liberal, and many others I know, ARE doing things to make this world a better place. We are out there in our communities and beyond volunteering, working, and fighting to do what is right for those who are less fortunate. And I’m sure there are many conservatives out there doing the very same thing.

Let me give you some idea about what this lazy, whining, crying, snowflake is doing and has done, and you can decide for yourself if all we do is sit around and cry about how we live in an unfair world, and do nothing to try to change the situation.

Each year, my family and I adopt one or more families for the holidays. We make sure that family (or families) have a full meal, extra groceries, gifts, necessities, bedding, pajamas, and more. We deliver their gifts prior to the holiday, and we make sure they have everything they want to make their special day just a little bit brighter.

Many weekends, my two sons volunteer their time at local homeless shelters serving food, taking care of children, planning parties, and playing games. They don’t ask to be somewhere else. They don’t go to parties instead of volunteering. They volunteer because they genuinely like the children and their mothers who live in these shelters, and/or the homeless veterans who reside in some of the others. They don’t do it every weekend, or even every other, so they are not saints. They are not perfect. But they are good-hearted kids who believe in making a difference. They care.

There are several kids who volunteer with my sons who do more than my kids do- they go above and beyond week after week helping those less fortunate and they love every minute of it. I have no idea whether these kids are from conservative or liberal families, and it doesn’t matter. All I know is they aren’t sitting around doing nothing. They are making a difference in the lives of those who need it most. And I’m damn proud of all of them, especially the kid who started the whole organization in the first place. Caleb White was six years old when he first saw a homeless man sleeping on the street. He was upset and decided then and there to start an organization to help others. You can’t force that. He was BORN to lead and he was raised to care about others. It’s just who he is. He is his mother’s son, because she’s the reason he is who he is.

My family and I donate a considerable amount of money to charities, our sons’ previous public schools, their now private school, and other causes that are important to us and to those who benefit from our giving. We are lucky. We realize it, and we want and choose to give back.

I’m not saying any of this to toot my own horn, because clearly, there is more I could do. I could volunteer more hours, give more money, and I could fight harder. I’m laying all this out there because I am sick and tired of people generalizing groups of people and judging others simply because of which political party he/she chooses to join, or which way that person chooses to vote. It goes both ways.

I don’t post pictures of supposed “conservatives” who only care about rich, white people and who believe that all immigrants are criminals. Because it isn’t true. I might have different opinions and ideas than my conservative friends, but I don’t believe all of them are the same, think the same, do the same, and I certainly do not put them all together in ONE big group and slam them all on social media because I think they aren’t doing, saying, or believing the “right” things.

Not long ago, a woman blasted me on Facebook for choosing to send my son to a private school rather than sending him to our local public high school. To make matters worse, she was an employee of one of the schools in the district, she called my husband “ignorant”, and she posted disparaging comments about the non-profit organization in which my sons volunteer and serve on the Board of Directors. She made a jab about how all of the Board Members are private school educated kids (they are not all privately educated, actually), and that it was a “conflict of interest” (which makes no sense, so I don’t think she actually knew what that term means).

I was offended and shocked, as I don’t think it’s anyone’s business where I choose to send my children for high school. I also think it’s horribly wrong that a grown woman would attack a bunch of kids who donate their time to help people in need. As much as I wanted to at the time, I didn’t tell the woman that the organization had a few previous Board Members who were children attending public schools, and they were the ones who all stopped participating for one reason or another. It didn’t have anything to do with whether or not they were public or private school educated. Many of them simply had full course schedules, some had to work, others were playing sports, playing in the school band- these kids are busy. They can’t do it all.

So her judgements about ALL of us were wrong. I was sad that my son saw her comments and couldn’t believe that this woman who was barely an acquaintance, had felt it necessary to attack his mother, his step-father, his dad, and the organization he cares about publicly simply because he wanted to attend a private school. He is a great kid, I know I’m biased, but he came to us when he was in eighth grade after doing research about schools in our area. He told us that he was 35% more likely to get into the college of his choice if he attended and did well at a certain private school. He told us he wanted smaller classrooms, to meet people from different places, different cultures, and he wanted a change. He asked for a chance to prove himself, and we decided to give it to him. We haven’t been disappointed, and he loves his new school. This fall, his brother will attend the same school, and I do not feel one bit of guilt over it. It’s my choice where to send my kids for school, and it doesn’t make me a better or worse person. I’m still me, and I’m not going to change.

My point is this- STOP judging others. Stop throwing us all into groups and assuming we all act the same, do the same things, feel the same, and do NOTHING to change things for the better. Do not post a picture of some disgusting looking woman and tell the world that this is all liberals- we cry, we whine, we name call and we do nothing to help the world. Just stop. And to my fellow liberals- you STOP, too. Everyone needs to grow up. Treat others as you would like to be treated. Give a positive example for your children and grandchildren to follow. Have a heart. Take care of yourself, your family, and take care of others.

I’m absolutely, completely, and unabashedly sick and tired of the mentality that so many people have that as long as they and theirs are doing well, then everyone else can be forgotten. That’s not okay. It’s not right. It’s NOT AMERICAN. We are made up of a country of people whose ancestors were born elsewhere and worked long and hard to get here to live the American Dream. I get that we need to protect our borders. I understand we can’t let everyone in, but arresting people seeking asylum (not illegal, by the way), and taking away their children is beyond reprehensible. There has to be another way to do it, and it is NOT this. There are children now spread out all over the country in shelters, toddlers, babies, who may never see their biological parent again. What a nightmare and a cluster of crap that SHOULD HAVE NEVER HAPPENED. Not here. Not in America.

Call me a socialist (I’m not). Argue that we don’t need to be that concerned about others, that it’s enough to take care of our own. That’s fine if that’s what you believe, but it’s not what I believe and I shouldn’t be called names or made fun of because I want to help take care of others. There’s nothing wrong with that. You go ahead and take care of yours, and I’ll do what I want to do for myself, my family, and anyone else who needs me to offer assistance.

If everyone would just take a few deep breaths and vow to treat each other with just a little bit more kindness, what a different world it could be. Find your heart and use it. We all need a little more love right now.

For more information about The Caleb White Project and how Caleb’s story began, visit www.tlandrygilder.com and check out the book, Everything Big Starts Somewhere Small. To learn more about the Caleb White Project, or to donate to this very worthy cause, visit www.calebwhiteproject.com.







​

When I’m upset I find that writing helps. My family and I have recently suffered a tremendous loss. My ex-husband’s nephew, a man I had known since he was a very little boy, suddenly passed away just a few nights ago. My heart is broken. My children have lost one of their favorite cousins. We were all very close. I am still very close with my ex-husband’s family, and I make it an effort to be sure my boys spend a good amount of time with their dad and his big, wonderful, loving family.

I’m so lucky. I am lucky that my ex and I are on good terms, and we still raise our boys together despite living apart. I’m lucky my current husband is secure and strong enough to love my boys, to understand my need to remain close with my ex’s family, and to give my boys the space and time they need to have a relationship with their father.

Most of all, I am lucky to have known this boy I once knew as “Shane the Bird”, grow into a loving young man, who, despite his many struggles, has taught me the meaning of unconditional love, acceptance, and what it means to be a family.

​This is for you, Shane.

​Dear Shane,

I am walking around my house all morning with a roll of toilet paper in my hand. I can’t find any tissues. I’m pretty sure you would have thought that was funny.

Something happened to you last night. We don’t know yet what occurred, but we now know you are no longer here on earth. Our hearts are broken.

I met you for the first time when you were probably only three or four years old. Cute as can be, with dark brown eyes and hair, and an attitude that matched no other.

You weren’t like any other child I’d ever met. There was a sensitive vulnerability you possessed that wasn’t typical. You cared deeply for so many, for so much, from such a very young age.

You were smart, smarter than a lot of kids your own age. But you could be hurt so easily by words or by actions of others who didn’t seem to understand you.

I remember a day at Uncle Bob’s house. I had just recently begun dating your Uncle Mike, and I was outside with you and your cousins playing. I was pushing you on the swing. I pushed too hard, and you fell and hit your head on a large piece of wood under the swing set. You cried and I felt awful. Somehow you knew I felt horrible and embarrassed that I’d just hurt this little kid I hardly knew, so you made yourself stop crying and you told me repeatedly that you were okay. I know it hurt you, but you didn’t want me to feel bad, so you pretended the big lump on the back of your head was nothing.

You would sometimes spend the night with us, back when Mike and I were first married, before we had Grant and Luc. You were always “Christopher” to Uncle Mike. The two of you shared a special bond. You liked watching cartoons and playing games. As you got a bit older, Pokémon was your game of choice.

You were gentle to animals and babies. When I had Grant, you always had a way of making him laugh. You got down on the floor and played with him. When Grant was a toddler, you babysat for him while I worked from home. You pulled him around the neighborhood in a wagon and you did everything he wanted you to do. You barely flinched when he threw a toy at you when he got angry because you didn’t allow him to do something (dangerous, I’m sure).

When you became a teenager, and your troubles began, I didn’t know. I thought that of course you’d pull away a bit as a teen, as most teens do. When your Uncle Mike and I divorced, you still called me “Aunt Tammi”.

You still visited us. You still loved us. You still watched over Grant and Luc the best you could. The boys loved all your visits.

When times were very bad for you, you still loved us- you loved all your family. We all knew you weren’t perfect. None of us are. Despite your mistakes, we all loved you. Despite our mistakes, you still loved all of us.

When you fought your demons on a daily basis, we were in awe of you. None of us could imagine how hard it must have been for you to have to fight every single day. We were proud of you, Shane. We are STILL proud of you.

I don’t know what happened last night, and whatever it was, it really doesn’t matter. You are gone, and the world is a much sadder place without you in it. We’ll miss your smile, your jokes, your gentle hugs, and your sensitive soul.

I pray you are now never alone, always smiling, and at peace.

I will love you always.

Aunt Tammi