Sal had an enormous collection of costume jewelry that she would share with me.  Some of my fondest memories of my childhood were the times I spent at Sal’s house dressing up in her gowns and decorating my tiny self like a Christmas tree with her magical baubles.  She would walk me to the neighborhood market bedazzled from head to toe, and her only rule for stepping out the door was that I could wear only one pair of earrings at a time.

Although she was wrinkled, bent and arthritic, she had a magical sense of adventure, humor and imagination.  My brothers and I  would always ask her how old she was and with a twinkle in her eye, she’d always give us the same answer:  I’m 99 going on 100!  We were proud to call her our own and she was often the subject of a school paper and even a special guest for ‘show and tell’.

As time went on, we noticed a profound change in Sal.  At first we were amused by her repeated questions about boyfriends and girlfriends, but when she forgot our names, it was clear that the Sal we loved was beginning to fade.  My father was the one to take away the car keys when he found her in the grocery store parking lot not knowing how to get home.  My mother became her guardian and caretaker when she could no longer care for herself.  By the time I reached high school the woman that had helped raise me was an empty shell resembling her former self.  Back then, the doctor’s called it senility, but now I know it is called Alzheimer’s.  Sal is long gone, but I hold her memory near and dear.  I dedicate Rivet Revolution to Alice Koontz, my gal Sal.