A couple years before my father's passing I rolled into my home town of Keeseville. I was sporting a fancy Ford Mustang convertible. It was one of those sparkly teal blue cars that turned heads with adoring and envious looks.
It was mid-summer in the Adirondacks. Warm, green, lush, mosquitoes and flies, all mixed with the smell of barbeque and celebration in the air.
Mom had been an early graduate of Keeseville High School decades and decades before; I believe in the first or second class to graduate.
The night after my drive through town the school, that had long since closed due to declining condition, was celebrating a combined reunion of all the classes that had ever attended. My brother, eldest among the seven children, was there to attend with mom. She enjoyed the event while being recognized as one of the oldest to show up. And, so to speak, she would arrive on the arm of my brother.
During the day my sisters cared for her and fussed about her appearance. She, with an attempt at humility, would chide them to "stop fussing, it's just another reunion." It was far more than that and rightly so.