We raised a large tent in a little grassy field across the brook, which was lower than the bank on which the house stood -- you could look up from the big ttent and see the house above you about 100 yards across and up.

Dixieland from a live band played as hundreds of her friends wandered down to the bridge, over and back into the clearing. They sat on rented chairs under this high white tent, in the middle of greensward in a clearing where deers usually come out of the woods to nibble.

One by one they said whatever they could say in praise of a free spirit, a grand dame of sorts, a big heart, a maker of lives. I sang for them -- "His Eye Is on the Sparrow", which she had always loved. And "Finnegan's Wake" which was her favorite song of all time, but by then I was so broken up I dropped a whole verse. I am not sure anyone noticed.

After all those eulogies, a single trumpet player stepped out on the high bank across the creek and played the longest, sweetest Taps anyone had ever heard, and long echoing bell tones caught the rill of the brook running down to the sound ad drifted that way, too.

There was a short pause, and the other sidemen came out, and in a few minutes the brassy beat of The Saints came galloping out over the assembled guests' heads, over the creek waters, over the great sadness, and we all turned and strolled back to the house to that wonderful rhythm.

It was the kind of "So long, Mom!" she would have loved.

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