The events in London and Scotland this past week reminded me, once again, of a letter I had written to a friend following the tragedy of September 11th, 2001.  I've posted it before, but it appears to have been lost.  Begging your indulgence I would like to repost it here.

Dear --------

I'm certain I've told you a little something about my Aunt Burtha, at some point.  She was my Grandmother's younger sister, which actually would have made her my Great-Aunt, but as you're well aware, I've never been large on formality.

Aunt Burtha was always a favorite of mine.  A rare individual who could speak her mind, act on her convictions, and challenge convention; her apparent disregard for approval or validation, ironically, providing the impetus for unparalleled admiration and envy.

Divorced when such a thing was not only unfashionable, but in the bible belt of our origin, borderline unconscionable in the '20s and '30s; even as a single parent she became a WAC around the time of the Second World War.  Returning from service to continue raising her son she saw no reason to remarry and throughout her working life and retirement was, arguably, the happiest person I knew.

Nothing seemed to bring Aunt Burtha down to the world's level.  Eternally upbeat, her philosophy never seemed too far ranging.  Like her older sister, she emitted a marvelous, and marveling, non-verbal aura which might have roughly translated to "So, this is life, today".  More statement than question, there was no apprehension for tomorrow until tomorrow arrived.  And whatever baggage tomorrow would be lugging was simply to be dealt with.  Usually with patience and a somewhat irreverent humor.

This past week she would have been one of the first to cry, one of the first to wipe away the tears, roll up her sleeves and dive into the rubble, and undoubtedly, one of the first to crack a smile when someone alongside her bent to lift a bit of debris and split the seat of their pants.

I hope this finds you well,
Pinhole