There is an old proverb that says,
We all die twice: Once when we die and
again when people no longer speak our name.
When I was growing up in Robbinsdale,
Gladys Dahl lived three houses away from us
in the brown brick house on the corner.
She was widowed and lived alone far longer than
made any sense. She was friendly and delightful, but
was one of the few people I knew who was clearly
malnourished. She loved her cookies and coffee
and her cooking days were far behind her.
In addition to being a wonderful cook, my mother
had a real knack for interacting with the elderly.
Many were the times that one of us kids made the trip
across two yards to deliver her a plate of dinner.
We don't know if she actually ate it.
Eventually, she moved to the Augustana Nursing home
in the Elliot Park neighborhood in Minneapolis and the
house was sold. We all missed her.
I don't know about you, but I recall times in the past
like little vignettes, with an oval frame around them.
Mrs. Gladys Dahl
