Aaron's Papa Ed died yesterday. He was 101, nearly 102. That's a lot of changes he'd seen in the world. I only met him once, and that was on his 100th birthday, but he was nice to me. I didn't know him at all, but I went to his funeral for my love. It was a graveside service and my love was one of the pall bearers (it was someone's bright idea to have all the available male great-grandchildren be pall bearers) and I didn't feel comfortable being close to his family at a moment like that, so I stood on the edge of the small crowd. There was a little girl there, about 6 or 7 I would say, who did a remarkable thing. I stood close to a headstone of a married couple whose picture was engraved in the stone. I guess the grass had been recently cut for Papa Ed because there was a thin layer of grass tops covering this certain headstone. The little girl went to her mother who was standing by the stone, noticed the stone and it's condition, and wiped the grass off the picture of the couple. What a beatutiful thing for a young girl to do. And I couldn't help thinking--"That must've been what Papa Ed was like when he was that age." I think that's how most of us are at that age--kind in our hearts. There was another girl I remember. Aaron and I and his cousin and his girlfriend went to see 'Finding Nemo' last night and there was a little girl there about 5 or 6 wearing black earmuffs. Now, this is south Texas and people don't wear earmuffs here in the winter. We all kind of giggled at her for a little while (she was really cute), and then I whispered into my love's ear, "That was me when I was little. I was strange like that, but I didn't care." And he gave me a strange look. But it's true, I was one of those pecular little girls who would become attached to something. It's so hard to keep what we have when we're young, that fresh and new feeling, that feeling that people cared about you and what you did.