A group of neighborhood women gathered last night at my house. In traveling so much, I hardly see folks that are literally close to me. So, a Christmas tradition has been to come to my house, bring an unwrapped present for a child or a teen, and some small gift to exchange. We gathered around the kitchen island, held hands and I made an announcement. "I am wearing Ginny Arthur's sweater. She is here with us." As tears filled our eyes, words of thanks came out about this amazing 88 year old, tiny sprite of a woman a masters from Stanford in Political Science--the daily swimmer who put on a white plastic swim cap and jumped in the community pool to do her regime of laps her infectious laughter and her intense interest in everyone and everything her willingness to suspend judgment and listen her avid cheering of Stanford football and basketball. (Oh that she could see them this coming year in the Orange Bowl!) Ginny died in her sleep almost 12 months ago. Her daughter called and asked me if I would consider taking some things that might fit me. I opted for this sweater. No one could wear it like her. But for one night at least--we all loved Ginny again through her sweater.