Hearing B's laughter is one of my earliest childhood memories. I had never seen her high school picture from the 1940s, but I instantly recognized her smile.
Her husband was an equally outgoing, big, Irish guy. They were raising a houseful of kids in a small town many years ago and met my parents, who were doing the same thing. They had known each other for years by the time I was born, and the friendship lasted for decades.
Whatever age I was when I was told what “godparents” were, it was too young. As nice as she was, the idea of ever having to move in with another family frightened me. And I doubt it was just a ceremonial gesture from my parents. B was already raising 10 kids and would have done just fine. One was killed in a tragic accident. I’ll never know how she moved on from that.
My parents have been gone for years, and our two families didn’t stay in touch. I lost track of B and her family. Google found her obituary from three years ago. The kids have scattered around the country. The one I knew best is living in North Carolina. I may drop her a note, if for no other reason than to say, “I can still hear your mom laughing.”