My mother was very sad, but to my pre-adolescent mind the airplane ride she got to take was worth whatever calamity summoned her to Pittsburgh. Sometime later I realized that my grandpa would not be in Waynesburg to give hugs in 1965. Sometime later I felt the sadness: My mom’s daddy, Donald Corbley Minor, was dead.
This yellowed newspaper announcement was carefully preserved by a relative, and sent to me when they cleaned out their clutter. Fortunately. My parents divorced when I was a young adult, and their wedding momentos became casualties of the fight. I am grateful to pack rats who unload their goodies to subsequent generations of pack rats. And to those of you who are divorced, a tiny plea to preserve memories of your relationship’s beginnings. Someday your children and grandchildren will want to see where they came from.