She was ready to go. Dee was down with G.O.D. and was ready to go spend some time getting to know him even better. The final weeks weren’t great, and with just a couple of days until Christmas we decided to have her memorial in January. Her life of service had a magical, defining, final note when I handed over a “donation card” dated July 18, 1965 to the hospital staff that would send her body to the University of Cincinnati Medical school to support research and medical training. Her “giving tree” had no limits.
Paul was there. Long time friends who lived outside of Cincinnati whom I hadn’t contacted showed up in support. Relatives were everywhere. We sang some of her favorite hymns, we read some of her most-cited passages, but the real celebration was the audience. We took turns standing and telling our “Dee Stories” and they were all about giving and loving. Eight sorority sisters and lifetime friends from KKG were in the audience (many of whom I referred to as “aunt”). Six blind people who until a year ago Mom had driven around on tandem bikes were there. A woman who Dee had served as a social worker for a decade (and was a long time dinner topic) and who now lived in Atlanta had written to send her condolences but didn’t have the money to attend. We sent her airfare, hotel and a little because she was a part of the fabric of Dee’s story. Finally, a woman stood up and held up a picture of a her and my mom from 1948. “Back then,” said our guest, “little white girls just weren’t friends with little black girls, but we played and played and played.”
Dee led her life with an open heart from her earliest days and we remember her in the service we do and the kindness we share with everyone we meet. For 2018 me and the fellas have added a new habit in honor of Dee. Every time we eat a sandwich – at home, in a restaurant, in a park, at school – we are going to cut it in half. We’re going to look around, and only when we’re sure that no one around us needs a half a sandwich will we begin eating.