Sandra Hill Peters was born on April 8, 1942, and died on July 18, 2024. She was preceded in death by her husband Arthur Russell Peters, on April 22, 2024. She is survived by a sister, Hilda, in Florida, and a brother, Stan, in Kentucky. She is survived by her daughter, Elise, in Minnesota, and her son, Russell, in Tennessee. She is survived by me, as well, her daughter-in-law, who loved her and respected her and appreciated her in ways I could never give words to.
The first time I met Sandy, Russ and I were already engaged. It was Thanksgiving 2001. Our wedding was set for January 5, 2002. We had spoken on the phone several times and she seemed really nice. She seemed genuinely happy for us. She sent us money each month for the phone bill because she thought we must be spending a fortune calling her to keep her posted on wedding plans. She also sent us money to go see a movie. I had a bad track record with mothers of boyfriends as an adult, though, so I was really nervous when we flew to Chicago for a few days so I could get to know Russ’ family.
When we got to the house, she met me with open arms. She welcomed me into their home like I was already a member of the family. After we sat in the living room and got to know each other better, I admitted to her how nervous I had been. She smiled her signature Sandy smile at me and shook her head. “Why would you be nervous? I knew I loved you before I met you because Russ loves you, and he’s never been serious about anyone in his life. I knew you had to be special!” I teared up and just hugged her. From that moment on, she was my mom, too.
She always supported my writing, encouraging me, asking what projects I was working on. I can’t remember exactly when or why, but I started sending her copies of everything I got accepted into publication, everything that placed in any sort of contest. And I’d make sure to send her newspaper clippings I could get my hands on, as well as my contributors’ copies of what my work was in. Although she was not Appalachian by birth, she enjoyed reading Appalachian literature a great deal, she told me on more than one occasion. (She even changed the way she pronounced the name of our region to say it like we do here at home.) When we were visiting her at the end of June, she showed me a huge box that had all of my writing in it that I’d sent to her over the years. I stood there, astounded. As much as my own mother loved me, she never encouraged my writing like Sandy did. They were both proud of me, but Sandy wanted to read everything I created and would send her way.
Sandy would send me letters and cards back through the mail thanking me for sending her my work, telling me what she thought about it, what she liked, what she maybe didn’t like or didn’t get so much, and in the case of my story that was in 23 Tales last year, what scared her about the story.
She loved hearing about the conferences and workshops I went to. She loved hearing me talk about the authors and other friends I met there. She lived vicariously through my words, and I honestly believe, on some level, she went all those places with me. And had the time of her life as we went there together through my recounting of it all.
In the end, Sandy, like her husband Art, chose to have no funeral. No memorial service. No obituary. They were cremated and their ashes scattered by a national service. To me, this all seems so impersonal. You see, I need words for closure. I need words for grieving. I need words to process this immense loss in my life and to be able to move forward. I need to give her words that she didn’t ask for – because, like a funeral, these words aren’t for the dead, I guess; they’re for the living – specifically, they’re for me. I need these words for Sandy. I need to share them, too, like I shared things with her, because Sandy was someone who needs to be remembered.
She was smart, so very smart – she loved working sudoku puzzles, which I couldn’t do to save my life! She was a teacher for many years. She taught in Montessori classrooms. But she also taught English as a second language to the children whose parents first came to Motorola in Chicago to work; she taught ESL before it was really “a thing.”
She was funny. She had an amazing laugh and a great sense of humor. She often played the fool to hear others laugh, too. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed, and she lit up the whole room with her joy. She adored stories with humor. And the Hallmark Channel, too, especially at Christmas.
She was proud of her whole family, though, not just me. Elise plays nyckelharpa, a Swedish folk instrument, and is active in Swedish folk-dancing communities, etc. And she works at Apple. Sandy always bragged about Elise and how well she had done, how much Sandy enjoyed all of Elise’s Swedish activities, how glad she was that Elise had carried on those family traditions. And Russ. She was so proud of him when he became a nurse. She knew it was hard work and worried about him, especially during covid, but she was so proud of the path he had chosen that led to his career of helping others. And of his woodworking talents, which he had taken after his father in pursuing. And she was fiercely proud of all the things Art could make or do with his carpentry skills, around the house and for others, up until the past few years, when he became too ill to work any longer with his tools. She was a great mom and a devoted wife. She put many dreams aside for later, and later never came. So she lived out many of those dreams through her children, including me, and made the best of what life gave her.
Every year at Christmas, she sent Russ and me stockings. Stockings filled with little things she’d pick up throughout the year that made her think of us. My stocking was typically filled with anything purple and cats, most of which I couldn’t or wouldn’t use, and she told me that each year at some point, but the items still reminded her of me, so she got them, anyway. And I accepted them with love.
Every trip we made to Chicago, we went to Ikea together, a tradition that began on that first Thanksgiving when she, Elise, and I took the store by storm together the day after Thanksgiving, my first time in an Ikea. I immediately fell in love with everything about it – it was, after all, Swedish, and so was my new family, Art’s father coming to America from Sweden and his mother, although born in Chicago, being born to parents who were both born in Sweden. Sandy was like me, a “mutt” of DNA assemblage, so I think we were impressed by that significant slice of culture held by the family, and it being so recently brought to America (the story goes that her mother’s family came over on the Mayflower, but I’ve never seen documentation to prove this story). So, like me, her family roots in America were deep and varied over many cultures. Including some Swedish, apparently, because when we had Russ’ DNA tested, he came up 53% Swedish. I, too, have some Swedish in my DNA, which thrilled me because I was already so much into that culture. Sandy and I shared that Swedish enthusiasm, although we were mostly on the outside looking in from our own DNA’s perspectives. That never stopped us from declaring our Swedishness, though. We married into it, so it was ours.
She was so good to me. She never treated me like a daughter-in-law, just a daughter. I remember, too, on that first Thanksgiving visit, she told me, “I hope it’s okay. I didn’t clean the house. I figured you were here to see us, not the house.” And I loved that about her. Her forthright honesty, no pretense. She loved drinking the little drinks at Outback that have the koalas floating on the tops of them, koalas being a favorite animal for both Elise and me. We went shopping together at Torrid in January and picked out the same lovely sweater. Her size was out of stock, so we had it shipped to her. It arrived the day after we left. We had big plans to be twins this coming fall or winter when Russ and I visited. I’ll certainly think of her every time I wear that sweater and miss those twinning opportunities, knowing we would have had such fun doing that.
I’ll miss everything about Sandy. Even when she kept the thermostat at 80 degrees, and I needed a fan to sleep at night. I will miss her stockpiling canned goods in the bedroom where I slept. I will miss her love of birds and watching those and the black squirrels in her backyard. I will miss knowing she is a text or phone call or letter away. I will miss her quiet elegance and absolute class. I will miss sharing cardinals with her, as I bought them for her every chance I could. I will miss her working jigsaw puzzles and encouraging me to help her, even knowing that I lacked the skills and talent to do so. I will miss her organizers and hair accessories. I will miss her always being on the lookout for a good buy in the as-is section of Ikea, whether she needed it or not. I will miss her love of dalahasts, the Swedish horse, and will forever treasure my collection of them that Elise gifted me after her death. I will miss her signing every card, “Love, Us,” and never their names. I will miss her hugs. I will miss her.
I could keep talking about her for page after page. She meant so much more to me than words can capture, yet I want to pay respect to her through all the words I can. Because she deserves those words. She deserves that respect. She was a phenomenal woman, full of grace and poise, educated and polished, witty and wise. I will hold her in my heart forever. Until we meet again, my friend. I love you, Mom. I’ll end with a Golden Shovel I wrote for Sandy during the workshop with Marianne.
I’ll See You Again
(Golden Shovel, from Jim Wayne Miller’s “Brier Sermon” – “You must be born again.”)
For two days, I have sought you
felt your presence — you must
be near — believing you’d be
waiting, because death is born
on birds’ wings, and I’ll see you again.
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