Harold (Brix) William Sundberg Obituary

While I realize my rewritten obituaries do not reflect what those loved ones at the time would have written, this is another attempt at giving meaning to that dash between birth and death years. My grandfather's original obituary (below) captures none of the essence of the man known as Brix. I share my new obituary for him with the full acknowledgement that it is written only from my viewpoint. His contemporaries would likely have had different memories of the rich tapestry of my grandfather's life. But his wife, daughter, and friends are no longer here. It is up to me to share my limited view, as a granddaughter, for posterity. 

                                                                    Original Obituary 

                                                New Obituary                                                  

                                            (I am still looking for a better photo.)                                         

Harold William Sundberg of 754 Juniper Street, passed away on Sunday, July 10, 1983 at St. Luke’s Hospital in Marquette after a battle with lung cancer. Affectionately called “Brix,” no one recalls how and why he was given this nickname that had followed him since childhood.

 

A lifelong resident of Ishpeming, Michigan, Brix was born to Frank and Erika Wilhelmina (Jerling) Sundberg on May 7, 1902. His parents had immigrated from Sweden and the family treasured their heritage, with Brix especially valuing his family’s Swedish cuisine. The family struggled, forcing Brix to leave school early to help with finances. This, along with the ravages of the Great Depression, left a lasting impression on him. Not one to trust banks, he dealt in cash until ill health forced him to travel to the Mayo Clinic last year when he had to open his first checking account. But he still maintained his propensity to carry cash and would often astound his granddaughters by pulling out hundred dollar bills from his wallet.

 

After meeting Myrtle Richards in high school, the couple enjoyed many happy times with their cousins, Clayton and Inez Simons. Brix was related to Inez and Myrtle to Clayton, so it seemed fitting that they stood for Brix and Myrtle when the couple married on August 12, 1925. The newlyweds moved into the Richards family home on Superior Street, with Myrtle’s parents living on the first floor. They lived here until 1963 and this meant Brix spent over 35 years surrounded by Cornish traditions and food. In his later years, he embraced making pasties with Myrtle and relished peeling potatoes and rutabagas as he told her how to make the crust.

 

Brix and Myrtle’s only child, Barbara, was born on June 17, 1929. Brix doted on his daughter and enjoyed supporting her musical and speaking activities. He was thrilled when she married Coach Bill Hart, although listening to Bill’s football games on the radio made him nervous and he often turned the dial up and down depending on the score of the game. The family had many happy times at their camp on Helen Lake, with holiday gatherings spent with the Simons relatives. Brix’s buddies enjoyed Helen Lake, too. Hunting parties meant saunas, good food and drink, along with poker added to the bird, rabbit, deer, and bear season activities.

 

Brix was delighted to become a grandfather to Kathy and Claudia and often drove to Marquette to see them bringing them savings bonds or a few dollars, which they often used to purchase “dime store” turtles. He loved this as the girls usually named these little pets Myrtle and Brix. Kathy and Claudia have fond memories of their grandfather dressing as Santa during the holidays they shared with the Simons’ clan and of Brix exclaiming, “It’s a daisy” as he watched the family fireworks displays on Helen Lake to celebrate the 4^th of July.

 

Brix was proud of his daughter and granddaughters and was sure he would have a great granddaughter. He was happy when his wish came to pass. He loved holding Kathy’s daughter, Jennifer Lynn, and was proud to be at her baptism last December as he had become more involved with church activities in his later years, which pleased his wife.

 

Brix enjoyed travel, but on his terms. Often the family would drive to Milwaukee for trips but Brix, not liking what he believed to be a long car drive, often flew. He spent time in Canada with friends hunting and fishing and liked to meet his buddies on the golf course. In later years, he and Myrtle spent winter months in Florida. He had a rich life, lived his way, refusing to give up his Camels and Brandy even when diagnosed with cancer. He was determined to enjoy his final days.

 

Brix was a lifelong employee of the Cleveland Cliffs Iron Ore Company. He served as their purchasing agent, retiring after 50 years of service. He was a member of the Elks Lodge, the Ahmed Temple Shriners, the Ishpeming Masonic Lodge, and the Wesley United Methodist Church.

 

Brix was predeceased by his parents, and his siblings, Albert, Amelia (Malloy), and Ernest. He is survived by his wife, Myrtle, daughter, Barbara, her husband William Hart, granddaughters Kathy and Claudia, and great granddaughter, Jennifer, along with several nieces and nephews.

 

Friends may call at the Bjork and Zhulkie Funeral Home on Tuesday, July 12 from 4 to 9 pm. Services will be held at 1:30 on Wednesday, July 13 at the funeral home with the Rev. George Luciana officiating. Burial will be in the Ishpeming Cemetery.

The Party

I wrote of this experience on September 26, 2010, my dad's birthday, the first one after his death. Recently I came across this piece. After several tragedies in my life since that time, it gave me an overwhelming sense of serenity to reread it so I share it here, on the day my dad would have celebrated his 95th birthday and the first one in those eleven years that my mother is once again with him. I will leave it to my readers to make of it what you will. Happy birthday, Dad!

The only grandparent I never knew, Essie Bennett Hart. After reading my account below, my Aunt Betty, Essie's youngest child, gave me this black and white image. She told me the coat she is wearing in the photo was her favorite. And was baby blue in color.

 The Party

 

             I don’t really know if it is accurate to call this a dream or to even use this word at the outset. Perhaps it will preclude more precise understanding. But, for lack of a better word I’m going to call it a dream. Sadly, that word can’t come close to describing what this really was.  

The part of me with great respect and awe for Southeast Asia would like to call it a meditative state or a transcendental experience. But I really don’t know much about these states of “being.” The intellectual part of me would like to analyze the shared banquet imagery in most of the world’s religions and offer interpretation of the metaphors. But that would take away from the actual experience.  It wouldn’t allow for the way this “dream” made me feel, for the intense serenity that washed over me when I woke.  I would like to use the word, joy, but I can’t because there was a sense that “of course” this happens. What else would you have possibly thought, Kathy? I have played with different ways to describe my feelings about this occurrence, but I can’t come up with anything accurate. I can only approximate: thankful that I was able to experience this, peaceful that I had been gifted with this view, and humbled that I had been allowed to feel this banquet.

 

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When I entered the room, I seemed to be an intruder as the guests were engrossed in the meal before them and in the conversation they shared. At first I felt this was my dad’s funeral luncheon, but nothing seemed right. It wasn’t the church basement, but it did seem to be a spiritual hall. And there was a sense of natural, muted gaiety. The lights were so dim that I couldn’t always make out the guests or what they were eating. Part of me wondered why my sister had turned the lights down so at the luncheon.  There wasn’t candlelight or any kind of artificial light and it wasn’t a fog. It was simply a quiet dim. The word quiet isn’t quite right either as I was aware there was talk and sharing.

Somewhere deep inside me, I felt a profound connection to the people in this room, but I couldn’t name them, that is until I saw my grandmother, Myrtle, and relative, Inez. Even now as I write, I can’t describe them or explain why I identified them as Myrtle and Inez, for they weren’t any age in particular. My grandmother didn’t look like her high school yearbook picture that sits on my credenza. Inez didn’t look like the matron of honor in my grandmother’s wedding photo. But neither looked like the photos of later years, standing next to my dad at the Hall of Fame dinner or posing at camp dinners together. They were neither young nor old. They were just Myrtle and Inez. As I had been working on family genealogy, a feeling of great excitement jabbed through me. I tried to get Inez’s attention. What an opportunity to ask her the name of her great grandmother. But she ignored me. She just kept chatting away and laughing with my grandmother. I persisted. But there was no acknowledgement of my presence. It was then I was aware no one in the room would speak to me. I felt they were cognizant of me, floating around them, not just above, but below, next to, and around them. The players simply went about their business.  I looked at Myrtle and Inez’s plate as I wanted to see if this meal matched what my sister had chosen to serve at my dad’s funeral luncheon. See, I was still thinking these people were gathered for my dad, yet nothing about the luncheon seemed to be the way we had planned for his funeral. And where was my sister? I looked back around at the guests. Yes, they seemed familiar. I knew them all but yet couldn’t name most of them.  They weren’t the people who had gathered in the First United Methodist Church that Friday night after his service.

Suddenly I heard a pounding at the hitherto unnoticed immense glass doors. I think it is necessary to point out they were glass. Anyone looking could see through them, if they wanted. My sister was knocking on the door. I motioned to her to come in but she refused, pointing at her blue jeans. “I can’t come to the party. I’m not dressed right.” I was confused as I knew it didn’t matter what anyone wore. In fact, I wasn’t even aware of what these people were wearing. And not because I couldn’t see it, but because it just didn’t seem to be important. For someone who writes down what she wears to work every day, that seemed a strange feeling. But, at this gathering, the clothes didn’t matter. That is all except for a woman in a soft blue coat. I could make out her coat’s hue of blue among the other nondescript or unremembered garments. I was aware that she was the only one in the room who had a deep desire that I see her. No, the verb, see, is not correct.  I think this woman wanted me to feel her deep love. For everyone else in the room, that feeling was somehow taken for granted.

And then I felt him. My dad. Now I was confounded. Why was he at his own funeral? But, he seemed to belong here and all seemed to be celebrating him. Now, when I write reminiscing and told here, I don’t mean that I heard his voice with my ears. That’s not it at all. I mean I felt it. Dad was reminiscing, pointing his finger at me, reminding me of the time his watch had been found in Lake Superior, many years after he had lost it on the beach, in that narrow muddy place where sand gives way to water. When the watch was found, everyone was amazed. The astonishment grew when, after being wound again, the watch worked. Gordon Lightfoot’s words, “Lake Superior, it’s said, never gives up her dead” did not apply to that watch. The parts to the Timex still ticked after all those seasons enshrouded deep within the mud of the Lake that supposedly kept her dead buried. He told me to think of his watch. It seemed so important to him; important that I remember the watch that had ticked, despite its years encased in mud.

The celebration continued. The room had become so large that it ceased to be a room. The aura was a babbling brook of sharing and contentment. There was a natural feeling of blissful connectedness here.

 

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This was a dream from which I didn’t want to wake. I didn’t want to see the bright sunlight angling for my attention from behind the blinds. I didn’t want to hear the cheery sounds of my house, the tick of the dog’s nails as they clicked in ecstatic play. And even though my daily life is joyful, I wanted to remain here, in the weave of harmonious union. I was aware of my internal fight to stay at the party. I looked around in anticipation. Could one of the guests keep me here? But no one reached out to do so or even to bid me good-bye. Even my dad seemed to smile a “see you later” look as he bent over the woman in the blue coat.

I was fully awake.

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Or was I?

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 What is awake?

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Happy Birthday, Dad!

And Now The Pitfalls of Birth Certificates

Previously I wrote about the dangers of relying on only information from death certificates as memories can be faulty when a loved one is asked for grandparent’s middle names and the like at a time when emotions are fraught. This reminded me of the equally perilous point that birth certificates can also tell a story and I need look no further than my own parents for this evidence. Here is their story.

 

William (Bill) Robert Hart

Once my Aunt Betty, my dad’s sister, had mentioned as an aside to me, “Well, my mother put one over on my dad with your father’s name.” Sadly, I never followed up on that comment and now she is gone as was my dad by the time I uncovered the evidence that there was indeed something amiss with my dad’s name.

 

In cleaning out my parent’s house as my mother had moved into an assisted living facility, I came upon their strong box, the place where they “filed” all important papers. It was then, sitting on the floor of their closet that I saw my dad’s birth certificate for the first time. Right there, clearly stated, First name – Robert. Middle name – William. Huh? All my life I had not only been told but had seen my dad’s name listed as William Robert Hart. He was called Bill and no one had ever indicated William was anything other than his first name. Confused, I turned to his passport, which by the way was obtained after September 11 when security and documents required for such credentials was heightened. Sure enough, that passport, the first one he ever had, listed his first name as William. How had that happened? He must have had to present his birth certificate. I quickly rifled through the rest of the pile in that strong box. There were my dad’s naval service records and ID cards from World War II. And again contrary to his birth certificate, his name was written the way I had always believed it to be, William Robert Hart.

 

This conjures up many questions. What had my Aunt Betty meant when she said their mother had put one over on their father with my dad’s name? Had she wanted his first name to be Robert? Or had she intended it to be William and her husband completed the birth certificate? Had she then just called him William until it stuck?  In searching for an answer, I wondered if there had been either a William or a Robert in the family tree of either my paternal grandfather or grandmother that might explain what must have been a disagreement between them about my dad’s name. The closest relative named William was my grandmother’s great grandfather, William Bennett. There was no Robert anywhere. This did not seem a likely explanation for the mystery of my dad’s name order.

 

And now, they are all gone. The mystery will never be solved. If only…I had asked my Aunt Betty to explain her meaning, If only…I had seen that birth certificate sooner and asked my dad. So many questions, not the least of which is, how did he manage to obtain a passport in times of heightened security, showing his name as the one he always used, despite what official documentation of his birth showed?

 

I will never know.

 

Barbara Claire Sundberg (Hart)

During that same day as I paged through the documents in their strong box, I almost carelessly tossed my mother’s birth certificate into the pile I was putting aside for my genealogy box. I would file it later. My mind was still reeling from the questions regarding my dad’s birth certificate. But, a little voice told me to unfold it and look, especially as she was alive and could answer any questions about hers, which I did not expect to uncover. But…there it was. Another discrepancy.

 

I had always seen my mother’s name written as Barbara Claire Sundberg (Hart). Here on her certified birth certificate, her middle name was spelled, Clare. This made a bit of sense to me as her grandmother’s name was Clara and this spelling of Clare seemed closer. But, again, her entire life, including that post 9/11 passport listed her middle name as Claire. When had this changed? Who had changed it? Finding at least a partial answer was a bit easier as I just needed to drive over to her assisted living apartment. When I asked, she nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders and waving her hand, replied, “I just liked the spelling with the i better so I wrote it that way.” Okay, but again, who in the County Courthouse had issued a passport to her with the incorrect spelling? I thought the country was on high alert and documents were being scrutinized. My husband and I had bought and sold two houses in this era. I knew the paperwork required and Greg had even been subjected to several rounds of affidavits swearing that he was not another Gregory James Smith with a criminal record. Our ten year-old son was once stopped in an airport over a confusion that he was another Andrew Gregory Smith on the no fly list. But my mother had no answer to my query other than, “People know us” when I questioned how it was that she had received a post 9/11 passport with the wrong spelling of her given middle name.

 

And the lessons? Ask questions. Assume nothing. Scrutinize documents but always remember we are humans. We make mistakes. We have our agendas, as my paternal grandparents clearly did. I wish I knew that story. Do you know yours?

Giving More Meaning - A Rewritten Obituary For Myrtle Richards Sundberg

 The obituary that appeared in The Mining Journal on January 20, 1989:

The rewritten obituary. This time with a photo!

Myrtle Lois Sundberg passed away after a long illness on January 19, 1989, two days shy of her 86^th birthday. Born on January 21, 1903 to Clara Jane (Millman) and Thomas Richards, Myrtle lived in the house her great grandparents purchased on Superior Street in Ishpeming after they arrived from Cornwall, England via Vershire, Vermont. This location gave Myrtle a busy life, from playing Bridge with her many cousins and second cousins to walking to the Wesley Methodist Church to bake her beloved pasties. In fact, when the Church moved to its current location off of Highway 41, many laughed as Myrtle and her husband Harold (Brix) Sundberg moved to Juniper Street and were once again within walking distance of the Church.

 

After high school graduation, Myrtle worked at various Ishpeming establishments until she married Brix in 1925 with relatives, Clayton and Inez Simons, as witnesses. Their daughter, Barbara, was born in 1929. Like many women of her era, Myrtle was a homemaker, seeing to her husband and child’s needs along with caring for her father and ailing mother who lived on the first floor of the family home.

 

Myrtle saw many historical changes during her lifetime, from women gaining the right to vote to the popularity of television and telephones. She could often be found sharing recipes and news with her many friends via phone. She prided herself on her ability to bake just the right pasty for each person, depending on their likes and dislikes. The family enjoyed spending time at their camp on Helen Lake where many happy summer days were passed playing cards, taking saunas, and eating the good food she prepared in the kitchen, which did not have a faucet, only a handpump. Cold food had to be stored in a true ice box as the camp did not have a refrigerator.

 

Despite being an only child, Myrtle surrounded herself with extended family, including cousin, Shirley Kellan and the Simons’ family. She was thrilled when her daughter married William (Bill) Hart. Bill became an additional chauffeur as Myrtle never learned to drive. She loved to tell the story of how she and Inez, sitting in the backseat of the car, were being driven to a picnic by her new son-in-law. They asked him to stop, run into the store, and buy napkins. The two ladies fell into fits of laughter when he returned to the car with Kotex.

 

Myrtle was always busy! She was an active member of the Order of Eastern Star and the Pythian Sisters along with Bridge clubs and numerous Church societies. She enjoyed creating cookbooks with the various organizations to which she belonged.

 

Myrtle was excited to become a grandmother to Kathy and Claudia. She enjoyed weekend sleepovers with her granddaughters, teaching them to play cards and Rummy Royal. At Helen Lake, Myrtle loved to watch them play in the lake and kept a trusty box of salt nearby in case a bloodsucker attached itself to one of the girls. Myrtle continued to bake pasties and loved to tell the story of how she slipped on the icy driveway, fell under the car, but managed to hold up the tray of pasties. Not a single one was damaged!

 

Myrtle was again thrilled when her family expanded in 1982 and she became a great grandmother to Jennifer. A great grandson, Matthew, was born in 1986, and she was looking forward to the birth of another great grandchild this summer.

 

Myrtle spent the last month as a patient at the Valente Medical Facility. She was preceded in death by her parents and husband and is survived by her daughter, son-in-law, granddaughters, and great grandchildren.

 

Services will be held on Myrtle’s birthday, January 21 at 1 p.m. at the Bjork and Zhulkie Funeral Home in Ishpeming with the Rev. George Luciani officiating. Burial will be in Ishpeming Cemetery. Friends can call at the funeral home from 4 to 8 on Friday and from noon on Saturday until the time of services.

* I recently began a project to rearrange and organize the unfinished space in my basement prior to it being converted into a bright laundry space, puppy area, and neat storage. In doing so, I keep getting waylaid by the many genealogical “treasures” I have collected through the years. After recently writing my mother’s obituary, I was struck by the scarcity of details in my grandmother’s 1989 obituary. I decided to rewrite it and am providing the link for those relatives who may be interested. Now I’m on a mission – rewrite the obituaries of those who have passed on – the obituaries that appeared before the detail-laden ones we Mining Journal aficionados see today. It is a way to provide meaning for the dash between birth and death.

The Pitfalls of Death Certificates

 As an amateur genealogist, I have studied death certificates in anticipation of adding to my family tree. A few days ago, I realized why it may not always be the best idea to trust the information. As with all documents, verification is necessary. This may be especially true with death certificates. Loved ones are providing details at a time of high stress. Memory lapses can occur all too easily. After the death of both my father and mother this was the case.

 

My dad died unexpectedly. Despite the fact that he was in his mid-eighties and had overcome a myriad of health challenges, the news that he had passed filled my sister and me with great sorrow. We sat in the funeral director’s office as he posed the usual questions for the death certificate. At that point in time, I had constructed an extensive family tree on Ancestry and had visited the gravesites of his great grandparents in Linkinhorne, Cornwall. But when asked for his mother’s maiden name, my sister and I looked at each other blankly. Neither of us had an answer. We had to text a cousin who reminded us it was Bennett. And yes, I had photos of me kneeling in front of a Bennett gravestone in the graveyard of St. Mellor’s Parish Church but my mind was not working properly during that time. I wondered what would have happened if we did not have a cell phone handy for surely our ancestors did not and likely were just as grief-stricken.

 

Fast forward to 2021. My mother’s death was not a surprise. She had been failing for over a year and her final weeks were difficult. Still, when we once again sat in the funeral home, we had no clue if our grandma’s middle name was Lois or Louise. I could see that L, always written with a flourish, but what did it stand for? Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “I’m fairly certain it was Louise.” Fortunately, we finally decided to play it safe and report my mother’s mother’s maiden name as Myrtle L. Richards. When I finally had a chance to look through my paper documents I confirmed her middle name as Lois. Good thing we did not go with our memories!

 

That got me to thinking. What was on my husband’s unique death certificate? He died in Beijing, China, unexpectedly, in 2014 while on government business. He would have loved his rare death certificate, for the original was in Chinese. The Embassy later provided me with a translated, notarized copy, containing none of the usual reporting details. But I did relish in handing that original Chinese death certificate to the Social Security Office and giggled a little as I did so, for I could feel Greg’s laughter. He always liked to be distinctive. But, what might this mean for future genealogists, 200 plus years from now?

 

These vignettes provide a snapshot into the pitfalls of death certificates. We need to remember that those who are reporting the facts of a loved one’s life are dealing with stress and grief. Details may be forgotten or easily confused. Or, as in Greg’s case, information may be missing or even written in a language that is difficult to easily translate. We need to check and doublecheck!  

Barbara Hart Obituary

 

Barbara Claire (Sundberg) Hart passed away after a long illness on July 29, 2021. Born June 17, 1929 to Harold (Brix) and Myrtle Sundberg, Barbara grew up on Superior Street in Ishpeming next to her Simons’ relatives who gave this only child a close extended family throughout her life. Summers spent at Helen Lake and holidays with Charlotte, Colleen, Claudie, and Chuckie provided wonderful memories for Barbara. She enjoyed her childhood and teenage years as part of the Methodist Church and could play many hymns by heart on the piano and pump organ.

 

In the late 1940s, Barbara enrolled at Northern Michigan College of Education. After graduation, she taught for several years in both Marquette and Ishpeming, often reminiscing about her former students. She later enjoyed substitute teaching in Marquette.

 

While at Northern she met Marquette native William (Bill) Hart and thus began many years of attending football games and other sporting events as she cheered for her husband’s high school teams (and, of course, the Packers). Barbara and Bill built a home on Kaye Avenue in Marquette where they raised their two daughters with Barbara involved as room mother, Sunday School teacher, advisor to her daughters’ Jobs Daughters Bethel, supporter of her husband’s Masonic activities, and avid bridge player in her Wednesday night club. Later the couple moved to West Avenue where they enjoyed their bird carving business and the company of their grandchildren. She valued her time at the family’s camp on Lake Superior in Big Bay. During the last 8 years, Barbara resided at Mill Creek Assisted Living, where she was known for her fashionable dress, down to her matching shoes. She relished taking part in their many activities, especially Bingo.

 

She adored her grandchildren, Jennifer Hart (Jeff) Scaggs, Matthew Hart Orr, Melissa Claire (Tim) Yeh, and Andrew Gregory (Julie) Hartsmith. She loved being a part of their lives and carefully constructed many photo albums throughout the years to document their adventures. Barbara was thrilled to become a great grandmother to Bennett Gregory Hart Chander, Hudson Hart Orr, Clara Jane Yeh, and Rory Kathryn Hart Scaggs.

 

In addition to her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, Barbara loved the dogs that had been an important part of her life. She asked their names be included in her obituary, but as there have been so many throughout the years her daughters have chosen to name only the dog that Barbara doted on throughout their childhood, the Wire-Haired Fox Terrier, Candy. She even kept a statue in honor of Candy in her Mill Creek apartment.

 

Barbara was preceded in death by her husband Bill, her parents, and her son-in-law Gregory Smith. She is survived by her daughters Kathy Hart and Claudia Hart, her son-in-law Mark LeBoeuf, her grandchildren, great grandchildren, and several nieces and nephews.

 

The family is grateful for the wonderful care she received at Mill Creek. In her final days, Barbara was always served her favorite foods and the staff made sure she was dressed in her best clothing. She was treated with love and respect throughout her stay. We appreciate their kindness.

 

Given her love of dogs, memorials may be directed to Upper Peninsula Animal Welfare Shelter (UPAWS).

 

 

Written by K. Hart 

A Meditative Walk

 

This morning I did a thing…so tired of the statements from the FG about Senator John McCain, I decided to take advantage of my proximity to his grave and pay my respects to this hero. He is an example of what this staunch Democrat respects in the Republican party. I will always remember that late night (or was it early morning?) when I gleefully clapped at his thumbs down, thus saving healthcare for millions. I was fortunate enough to meet Senator McCain at an embassy gathering having something to do with Vietnam. Yes, there were so many of those back when my husband was working diligently with that area of the world, it is sad I can’t recall specific details now. But I do know I was impressed that after being held captive for so long, Senator McCain was now working to bolster the economy and environment of Vietnam.  

 

While I did not vote for Senator McCain, I always respected his service. My dad, a Navy man himself, was torn in 2008 but finally voted for President Obama (yay dad!). He first ignored my pleas and arguments to vote for Barack Obama. It wasn’t until another military man, Colin Powell, endorsed President Obama that my dad declared his intentions. “If General Powell is voting for him, then that is the endorsement I need." So much for listening to your daughter! But I knew he was conflicted and had great admiration for John McCain. In fact, my dad wished he could have attended the Naval Academy himself.

 

Back to my stroll this morning. Like many who live in historic areas, I often forget to appreciate what is all around me. Walking onto the Naval Academy grounds made me immediately swell with pride, for those who served, for those who love this country enough to protect it (and yes, that means getting vaccinated, too!), and for my dad who served in and respected the Navy throughout his life.

 

The walk to the Senator’s grave was just as promised, beautiful and serene. As I sauntered over the footbridge, watching the billowing white sails on the Severn River, I thought of not just Senator McCain, but of Greg and his love of sailing and Annapolis, of my dad, so devoted to the Navy, and of all those buried in this cemetery. Taps cut through the air, as another burial was taking place. This added to the sensory experience that enveloped me. The walk almost seemed like a meditation.

 

I stood alone in front of Senator McCain’s unassuming headstone and murmured my thanks, my apologies for how the FG treated him, and my belief that history would honor him. I am not posting photos of his grave. Somehow that feels intrusive. The photos above were taken on my walk through the grounds. I encourage anyone who visits Annapolis to share in my experience of the morning.