Marge Peters received her reward Tuesday morning. It was a beautiful, sunny morning for the gates to welcome her spirit. Among us who mourn, I’m certain that her arrival is celebrated. Her time in this world was well used.

My first encounter with Marge was as a child, lurking in the doorway of the Village Hall, watching the square dancers answer the caller. Our townsfolk, celebrating our community on a Saturday night, dancing in preparation of solemn servitude at separate churches the next day. I’m sure there were flasks and bottles among them, but it was a gathering with fancy dresses and fancy shirts. This child’s eyes only witnessed the unity of spirit. Innocent times from an innocent’s eyes.

My parents became good friends with the Peters couple; Marge and Leona bowled on the same team, Ladies Auxiliary and all those important things that women did for our village. Bill and Oscar were firemen, Lions, Legion, Rod and Gun Club. Bill and Marge, Osc and Leona. They were a couples bowling team. They played couples cards. My mother was twenty years older than Marge, my dad was nine years older than my mom. Age was only a number.

Time passed. Life changed. Marge and Bill became a grandparents again and again for three more times. Great grandparents seven times. So it goes, life was good.

Somewhere, around ten years ago, Marge asked Jammie if she could stop by. I worked. Jammie was at home, bound to her chair, unable to use her limbs. Marge visited Jammie every day around 9 a.m. to check up on the latest local news, soap operas, and make sure she was comfortable. After I retired, Jammie would call, or I’d walk with her to visit Marge and Bill, if weather permitted. She saw the advent of Jammie’s drawing. She loved Jammie. Jammie loved her. I loved their love.

In my mind, Marge was always patient, wise and kind She always had love to share. Through her efforts, she made people smart and she exercised her wisdom gently. She was a pillar in our community. She made things better. I celebrate her life. I cherish the spirit of Marge Peters.

— Chuck Anderberg, Deerfield

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