[Editor's note: this essay mentions Mr Anderson's son, Larry. That Larry is not me.]
Now I can write about it.
My beloved Fay died on Sunday morning June 7, 1987 at home in San Francisco after a brave two-year battle with cancer. I called Larry and Sheila and they said they would come immediately, as soon as they could arrage for Mark to stay with friends.
So, the male bereavement nurse had come and gone--also the coroner and the mortuary people. I phoned the church to request a memorial service. What could I do, now, while my kids were making the 100-mile drive down from Rocklin? I must keep busy!
We had on hand some fresh, cold, poached salmon, and I decided to make a salmon salad. Into a big bowl I carefully boned and shredded the salmon, adding chopped celery, onion, bickles, hard-boiled egg, salt, pepper, lemon juice, catsup and mayonaisse. It was the best salmon salad imaginable.
When they came, we all cried a little while in the living room. Then I said, "Let's have some lunch!" I served the salad with hot, fresh San Francisco sourdough French bread and Fumé Blanc wine.
Larry and I were doing what nature demanded: we were eating. When I looked across at Sheila, what was she doing? She was nibbling on Wheat-thins and Raley's Pimiento Cheese Spread!
"Sheila!" I said, "Please eat my good salad! You need it!"
She blushed and softly replied, "Can't, dear Can't! I am seven weeks pregannt!"
My grandson, Reid Steven Anderson, was born on Sunday morning, January 25, 1988.
Curtiss H. Anderson