They fell into four categories: first the oldest, when Sadie was a schoolgirl and had a pen pal, in Argentina. In a flowery cursive, the pal wrote about horses and sheepdogs and sunsets and school.

The next pile was a collection of letters of commendation. Sadie was a WAC during World War II, stationed at the Army air base in Reykjavík, Iceland. When we were kids she would regale us with stories of the midnight sun. She obviously made a big impression on her superior officers.

The third pile was correspondence between Sadie and a kibbutz near Galilee. Perhaps this had been her great dream, to join the Zionists and pick apricots. These letters petered out in the mid-fifties.

The last twenty-one letters were from a woman in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, named Angie Demarco. These dated from 1961 to 1967. They followed or anticipated visits between Sadie and Angie. I thought of the Proulx short story “Brokeback Mountain” (now a major motion picture). The letters didn’t give anything away. It’s possible the two women were friends and nothing more. I never met this Angie, and I don’t think anyone in my family ever did.

I was happy I didn’t let them have the letters. Sadie’s life, including its mysteries, was safe with me.

December 14, 2005

Day of the funeral. Dad was strangely dispassionate about the whole thing. I noticed he had missed a patch of cheek while shaving. There was a grease stain on his overcoat. He wasn’t even dressed in black. When was the last time he got a haircut? At his age he must be thinking: I’ll be taking my own dirt nap soon. Which must be tough.

At the dinner, Dad got antsy and wanted to go home. Everyone understood. Dad’s an old guy, he can do what he wants. On the way back to his place, he announced that he was hungry. Interesting. So we stopped at a diner where they serve oversized portions of greasy pasta and meat. His rich son was picking up the tab, which put him in a great mood. Hey, whatever turns you on, Dad. Family tradition, counting our pennies to the death.