DeeDee is in my earliest memory. I was barely 3 years old and DeeDee, her sister Margie, her parents, and our grandparents Frank and Johanna Schmidt kept me while my mother went to the train station to meet my returning-from-WWII father, who I knew only from a picture we had of him. They came home, we were in my grandparents’ kitchen, the uniformed stranger was holding/hugging me, my mom was to his left and slightly behind him, my grandparents were in front of me to my left, DeeDee’s parents were behind their children directly in front of me, grinning DeeDee was in front of my uncle and Margie was to her left. And my aunt asked a, in hindsight probably not-so-funny but still appropriate, question of whether my daddy was the guy holding me or was my daddy the picture on the counter. I don’t think I answered. When I was 5 through 11 or 12, I spent a week or two every summer with DeeDee’s family in Columbia, and DeeDee was my friend and my big sister. I still feel that way. I miss her.
Ed Schmidt