I’m sitting on the platform at the Bryn Mawr train station on an impossibly beautiful spring afternoon. I came down for the day to attend the burial and memorial service of my step-grandmother, Betty Young. The urn with her ashes was placed in a plot next to her husband, ‘Dizzy’ Macleod, who died in the sixties. I’m very sorry to see her go — she was tremendously tall, extremely intelligent, and always spoke her mind.