My mother taught me to darn socks; I haven't practiced it much, though (;o). She also taught me, as my good brother Amos said at her memorial service in '87, that singing was always appropriate -- in the car, at picnics, in the living room, and while sitting on the roof. (I have tried to pass that on; my son sings at the drop of a pin, and my daughter, who's almost 26, isn't embarrassed by me anymore.) She taught me by example that social activism was important--she went on the march on Washington and heard MLK speak, and we all sang "We shall overcome" a fair amount after that. She taught me to have tea parties in the afternoon, with sugar and lemon or cream, and cinnamon toast. She taught me to read poetry, and she taught me the differences between trochees, iambs, and dactylls. You have my condolences, Wesley. I have been relatively lucky in my life, and the death and loss of my mother was, is, the hardest thing I've been through. I still miss her. The world still seems a thinner, poorer place without her. When a dear friend of hers (and of mine) moved away I asked her if she wasn't going to miss him a lot, and she said, "You can't think about it that way; you just have to thank God that there's been someone like that in your life."