Dan’s mother, Bertha, died Wednesday morning.

Photo taken in April by Dan.

As a young woman.

Twenty years ago, shortly after Dan and Linda were married. I dropped by Sunnyside Lane to see Dan’s visiting parents. It was summer, it was humid and it was hot. That morning I’d grabbed a pair of white pants that were no longer work-worthy and ripped off the legs at mid thigh. I thought I looked pretty good in my new shorts.

As I walked up to Bertha in the living room, flattered to be in the presence of this woman who taught Dan about emotional strength, I said, “Welcome to Lincoln.” She greeted me with a broad smile and an open heart as she had the first day we met, some ten years earlier. With Emerson I sometimes felt I had to prove myself, with Bertha I only felt I had to be myself.

She sat upright, with her perfectly combed dark hair, her hands crossed on her lap, and exuded elegance. I suddenly felt that maybe these new white shorts with the frayed legs weren’t so nifty. Bertha must have sensed my unease because she said, “Take off those shorts and I’ll hem them.”

I slipped my pants off in front of her and then, fifteen minutes later, back on, newly hemmed. I looked down for the third time that day and I thought, “Bertha made a better me.”

Bertha, you made all of us better. We’ll miss you.