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My aunt

Of late, I have been to a funeral of my 89-year-old Aunt Jo in Cottonwood, Arizona conducted by a pastor with a tendency to repeat himself and rely on a karaoke machine, despite which he sang off key with great gusto.

Nonetheless, I suspect my aunt would have approved. She was surrounded by as much family as could be expected to show — all of whom thought the best of her and wished her happy trails in her journey of great reward. My and my sister’s presence emphasized my aunt’s and uncle’s effort to provide the support we needed at the time, and do all this with unflagging love and good humor.

My mother and father were deaf. I communicated with them using sign language. My use of speech was limited, if non existent. They brought me to a starting point and my first encounter with language.





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