You all (George very much included) inherited your passion for aesthetics from your mother. (Are any of us surprised that some of Katie’s last words in her increasingly aphasic twilight months were “Candy, that’s a cute outfit.”) But you took it to a whole new level. Just the way you would wrap each Christmas gift was a wonder, not only thoughtfully chosen paper and beautiful ribbon or string, but adorned with small lovely things from your home or garden, with old Christmas cards cut up and refashioned as tags. I came to appreciate that your devotion to such aesthetics went far deeper than a mere concern for appearances. It was an expression of utmost care for those of us lucky enough to enjoy your home and your hospitality. From my own experience cooking, I know how preparing a thoughtful meal is a way of expressing love. Your love language is much broader: delicious family meals (carefully catered to so many different allergies and preferences!), beautifully set tables, jars of jam from your fig or plum tree, exquisitely wrapped and thoughtfully chosen gifts, artfully arranged flowers – these were all your expressive way of making the world more beautiful and delicious for all of us.
You were also thoroughly down to earth. Much as you loved a cute pair of shoes, you were perfectly happy with no shoes at all, bare feet in the sand at Balboa Island, or just in your garden. You were proud to be a farmer’s daughter. I only knew your father after his stroke, and wished I’d known him before, because everyone always spoke so highly of him. I remember on one of our many weekends packing up the house in Lodi, you were telling me about your father — his service on so many community boards, how they valued his even temper and down-to-earth advice. In those stories you were telling, the resemblance struck me, and I said “you really are your father’s daughter.” You just lit up, and said “oh, you don’t know how happy that makes me!”
When your father passed, and I reflected on what I’d learned about his life, I observed that he was not just a farmer of grapes, but a farmer of community institutions — he helped grow a school, a hospital, and a church. In reflecting on your life, I think you’ve been not only a great gardener of fruits and flowers, but a gardener of family and friendships. You carefully tended the valued relationships with your extended family (as we can see by so many cousins here today). And when you planted a new home in Paradise, you set down deep roots there, nurturing new friendships and connections through the school, the hospital, and the church. I was always amazed at the exuberant abundance of Christmas cards you received, and you could tell me all about all of those people because you’d taken the time and care to keep up with them all. In raising your children, you instilled in them the value and practice of maintaining relationships, and they flourished, developing their own deep-rooted friendships, some going back to their school days. You watered your friendships with regular phone calls, cards, and visits, and you fertilized your family with rituals like Thanksgiving and Christmas, annual Balboa Island weeks, and Lodi visits. You showered your grandchildren with care, and it’s wonderful to see the joy it brings you to spend time with them. George and I are profoundly grateful that you rooted us so deeply in your family garden.
There are so many things that will always make us think of you — a beautifully set table, a well-wrapped gift, homemade jam from backyard fruit. But for me, the epitome of you will be those gold-dusted acorns, humble and down-to-earth yet extraordinary and thoughtful. Like those gold-dusted acorns, you were ultimately ephemeral and gone too soon. Like those acorns, you are imprinted indelibly on our memories and in our hearts.
