The first and only time I ever visited with Nellie Cummings, I was late.

She had invited us to dinner, us included myself and my husband. He was the grandson, and I the new wife.   Being nice suburban kids, and not wanting to be late, we arrived about 4 p.m.  Much to our dismay and her irritation, we were expected at noon. For lunch! Our lunch; her dinner.

To make matters worse, it was 1972; we were “hippies.” She was 78, and not amused by beards, long hair or jeans. Happily, she graciously invited us in, and she did feed us. It was the family favorite, a casserole made with noodles, hamburger and tomato sauce, and known to this day as  “American Chop Suey.” Very tasty, even warmed up.

For the rest of the visit, she and my husband reminisced with pleasure and gusto. I was still too embarrassed for any conversation. I only remember a tiny, dark lady in a tiny, dark apartment, who seemed to assess me with piercing eyes. Probably a memory of my own making — more to do with my discomfort, rather than to any reality.

This visit would prove to be our last time with her. She lived in Bethel, Maine and our home was out west. She was many years buried before we ever returned to the area. And, now, I have so many questions to ask her.