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Probably a few words about myself are needed to set the full flavor of this story. I am a bit south of 40, just over six feet tall, no glasses, brownish hair, and I am starting to lose the battle of pulling out gray hairs. I must have a good genetic heritage, for my weight stays around 170, whether I skimp meals during summer months or eat heartily from Thanksgiving to New Year's festivities. I am branch manager at two decent-sized banks in nearby, also decent-sized, villages, and I cannot go in local bars or taverns because inevitably someone will recognize me and later gossip or seek investment tips or want help with a loan or mortgage application. And, of course, bank executives do not buy drinks for or make passes at lovely ladies sitting on barstools in those taverns. Which is one reason why I haven't remarried. Or maybe I am just a bit gun shy, for my future wife and I met in college, the marriage lasted not quite seven years, and I should have realized the quiet beauty of an upstate village could not overcome the glamour of the affluent suburbia that had been her home before college. We still send each other Christmas cards, not that it matters.

On both sides of the family, I am first-born of the generation, I do have one brother, and a number of cousins. It was the funeral of a cousin's in-law that I had attended, and because that in-law, an older woman, had been very gracious in the aftermath of the car accident that killed my parents, I felt I should be present at her funeral. So I drove the several hundred miles to another small town, this one east of ...

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