Toby Shussin Levin , b. 1918

This is our mother on her lunch hour in June 1939. It was taken by a "street photographer" at 5 Nicolette Avenue in Minneapolis. Always stylish, she never ventured out without gloves and hat. She worked as a "movie booker" for 20th Century Fox at the time (she was 20). She married nine years later, raised six children with my father in Marengo, Ill., and worked in our store until she was 94. She died last April. This photo is on permanent file at the Hennepin County Public Library to document the famous commercial street.

The Lives They Loved: Submit Your Memories

We are once again inviting readers to contribute to The Lives They Lived, the magazine’s celebration of people who died in the past year. We would like photographs that illustrate a moment in the life of someone close to you who died in 2013. This is not a place for eulogies or obituaries, but for stories. (View submissions from 2012 and 2011.)

Your submission may run on The New York Times website or in the issue of the magazine that comes out on Dec. 29, 2013. If you would like to be featured in the magazine, it is especially important to provide working contact information and submit a high-resolution image (at least 300k or 300 d.p.i.), and that we receive your submission no later than Dec. 15. Submit by Dec. 27 to be considered for publication in the online feature.

Please understand that we can publish only a selection of all of the submissions.

We appreciate your willingness to share your stories and photos with us

Audrey Chiarello b. 1930

A goofy moment from my grandparents' wedding that perfectly embodies my grandmother's beauty, grace and biting sense of humor. She was a class act through and through, loved deeply by her husband and family. My mom and I both inherited her killer eye-roll and a very low tolerance for anything less than the best.

Chin Yew Loi b. 1927

My grandfather died in October. I'll always remember him as a car man. From selling car spare parts on the back of his bicycle as a teen to racing in the Malaysian Formula One team, cars were always a big part of his life. My fondest memories were driving with him in his big black Volvo that was built like a tank. He would always tell me, this is the safest car in the world, and I believed him. Up till five months before he passed away, he was still driving his favorite car and refused to give up his right to drive, even if it was at a snail's pace — much to the dismay of the Malaysian public. I'm sure that he's still driving around all his beloved cars, somewhere in that great big highway up the

Marilyn Dubrin b. 1918

Born in 1918 at the start of WW I, before women were able to vote, Marilyn's life came to a close as she wondered how a 3-D printer works and which smartphone would suit her best. This vast leap of history was her life span of 94 years and 8 months, and Marilyn was on the cutting edge. Enjoying fashion from an early age, she became a wholesale-clothing entrepreneur in the 1950s, when women in the workplace were barely tolerated. Marilyn eagerly grew into the Internet age, staying up late into the night in her 90s to study current events and their impact on world financial markets. She was smart, professional, eager and beloved.

Ellsworth and Dorothy Shiebler b. 1922/1928

I only saw my father cry twice. The first time was when Nat King Cole died. I had just come home from school, and I heard him crying in the bathroom. "What's the matter with dad?" I asked my mom. "It's just a very sad day," she said. The second time was when Count Basie died in 1984. My father, Jack Ellsworth, (his radio name) always opened his long-running radio show "Memories in Melody" on WALK and on WLIM, the independent station my parents purchased together in Patchogue, N.Y., with a Count Basie song. "We lost Count today," he whispered through tears. This picture was taken at one of Count's shows at the V.F.W. Hall in Patchogue that my father often M.C.'d. "I really appreciate all you and Dot do for me," he told my father. My dad thanked him, and Count grabbed his arm and said: "I really mean it man. Thank you. ..." My mom passed away on July 17, and my father died less than two months later on Sept. 12. When I pulled out an old Count Basie album last week, I fondly remembered this photo.

See Mo Poon b. 1935

This image was taken shortly after we immigrated to the United States of America. Our first stop was San Diego, where we purchased our first house. My father was so proud of coming to the land of many opportunities. Although he didn't speak much English, he was exceptionally proud and very lucky that he made a life for his family in the United States of America.

He died peacefully on Nov. 14, 2013, in Rockville, Md., with his loving family by his side. Born in Shandong, China, in 1935, he was the last of the top chefs from the colonial days of Hong Kong, specializing in the art of hand-stretched noodle making. He apprenticed in several famous Chinese restaurants during his teenage years and endured many hardships in order to make a better life for his family. He immigrated to the U.S. in the ’70s working as an executive chef and a proprietor of several restaurants in California, Maryland and Virginia.

Mary Wells Hubbard b. 1917

My mother is on the front of the motorcycle. On the back is her best friend at the time. Mom was an ambulance driver in the Royal Air Force during WWII. She was assigned this job as she was one of the few women who drove. This captures her spirit, her toughness, her sense of adventure. It captures her before she met my dad, came to the U.S. and married in N.Y.C. City Hall the same day, the moved to El Dorado, Kan. She was one of seven and the only one to leave England. She shared many stories of this time, and though she said, "There are no winners in a war; everyone loses," there were friendships and adventures that gave her much joy. Until she was 90, she still drove as if she were in an ambulance.

Arianne Kassof b. 1932

Our mom was a knockout. Our dad first laid eyes on her when she walked around a corner wearing a swimsuit, and he was smitten. It was 1950, at a multidenominational, interracial summer camp. Three years later, our Quaker mom married our Jewish dad. She blended a liberal worldview with a traditional devotion to family and homemaking. She started at Penn but dropped out to earn what she considered a more important credential: a Ph.T., for "putting husband through" his Ph.D. She was a nonjudgmental listener whose easy rapport served her well in jobs in a mental hospital and a social center for adults with emotional challenges. She was a gifted artist and writer and an avid volunteer. But mostly she was a wife, mother, grandmother and homemaker. She was a splendid cook who hosted thousands of visitors over the years in our warm and welcoming home.

The fall that precipitated our mom’s decline happened by the backyard pool, and she went to the emergency room wearing a swimsuit. She didn't fill it out quite as she had in 1950, but our dad remained smitten to the end. They celebrated their 60th anniversary just months before she died.

David Sutton b. 1952

The length of my father's stride always amazed me. I had to run three steps for every one of his, his cigarette smoke wafting past me. Here we are in 1978, me holding onto his legs. A sure way for me to keep up was to position myself just right, hang on tight and not let go. After he died suddenly this June, only 60, I took things from his house that had his Dad-smell of smoke and Old Spice and must, the smell of his 6-foot-4 hug around me: his pillow, his flannel shirt, a book kept on his dresser — the pages inside, when inhaled, render his easy presence, the assurance of his smile and his knowledge that everything would always be O.K. This is a photo of me holding on. I'm still not ready to let go.

Louis Milton McCaig b. 1923

Grandpa was born on Valentine’s Day 1923. Growing up he lived through a house fire, his parents’ divorce and living with different relatives. He always said everything that happened probably saved his life. As soon as he was able, he joined the Navy, because he didn’t want to be a burden on his family. At first the recruiters in New Orleans denied him for being color blind. Grandpa tried to join again in Michigan; this time his eyes checked out. He enlisted hoping to get on the Yorktown aircraft carrier after boot camp. They skipped over some of the last names starting with M, and he was so mad they picked up again after his name, but like he always said, everything happens for a reason. The Yorktown was involved in the Battle of Midway and very badly damaged with many casualties. He was called to Norfolk, Va., to a destroyer and became the ship’s electrician. He taught many people different things, but what I love the most is that his attitude for life was amazing. He always told me a smile costs nothing and creates much. I will forever smile for him.

Edmund M. Reggie b. 1926

My father, Edmund M. Reggie, grew up in the small Cajun town of Crowley, La. After he was elected judge at 24 years old, he became a political insider and champion of civil rights in Louisiana.

Dad first met Senator John F. Kennedy at the 1956 Democratic Convention in Chicago. Three years later, he introduced Jack and Jackie at the International Rice Festival in Crowley. The Kennedys were a big hit at the festival. But the real show stopper was Jackie; she chose to make her speech in French, and the crowd went wild.

Dad remained close to the Kennedys, managing both J.F.K.’s and Bobby's presidential campaigns in Louisiana. And in 1992, something we never expected took place when my sister Vicki married the youngest brother, Ted. In retrospect, it was entirely logical. Dad and his son-in-law Ted talked politics incessantly and strategized constantly.

Dad's interest in politics and the process never abated. He insisted that his children be civically engaged. Even in the last week of his life, he was watching cable news nonstop, cheering and jeering from his bed. As fate would have it, he was buried on the 50th anniversary of J.F.K.'s assassination.

Alex Eskandar b. 2007

We lost our dear little Alex in a school-bus accident at the end of September.

Alex loved shows. He loved music and entertaining others. He loved dressing up and telling stories. Alex always had liked horses, and this summer’s horse camp was a dream come true. The picture was taken on his sixth birthday during the camp show. He could not have spent that day in a better place, around the horses and with the people he had become friends with. Alex had learned so much. He learned about how to care for the horses and how to clean their feet and took genuine pleasure in sweeping the stables. One afternoon after a long day, he took out his Harry Potter broom and started sweeping our driveway. I let him a while and then went out to check on him, but he was still sweeping. "I am busy, Mom, I have a lot of work," he told me. Alex, our sweet little Alex, was slowly growing up in his own cute way.

We love you, Alex, we always will!

Maurine Taylor b. 1932

My mother was a complex person determined to live life on her own terms. This amazing photo of her (center) was taken when she was 16 years old and dancing with a ballet company in Alabama. After an ankle injury, she gave up her dancing career, got married and had four kids. She later divorced and became a psychologist. Although I think she struggled with the responsibility of having four children, Mom was a role model for me in so many ways. She taught me about civil rights, women’s rights, exercise, cooking, fashion, reading and having the courage to do what is right, even if it isn't easy. She was a lifelong learner, and she inspired me to be a voracious reader. In the last years of her life, she was robbed of her physical grace by Parkinson’s disease. I witnessed this inch-by-inch decline up close and personal. I will remember her beauty inside and out and her extraordinary love of life.

Donald James Shoulberg b. 1936

The image captures the scholar, teacher and healer who is living his life exactly how he showed so many to do. There is mutual joy shared in the embrace of a proud grandpa and his princess-clad grandson. Thank you, Dad, for teaching us love, acceptance, the importance of family and how to celebrate it all.

George Takao Yamamoto b. 1934

My dad's hands were always rough with callouses from the long, hard days on our family strawberry farm in Oxnard, Calif. As a child, nothing made me feel more secure, more loved than feeling my small hand enveloped in his. He had a way of joking with those around him, even strangers, touching everyone with his optimism, his joy, his compassion. I never heard him say a negative thing about anyone or any situation, even though I know that his life as a farmer was tough. He took everything in stride and knew that dawn would bring a new day, a new chance for everything to work out just fine. Although he was a very respected farmer in the community, his proudest achievement was his family: his wife of 53 years, four kids and 12 grandchildren. From him, we learned the importance of loving your spouse, revering your children and being a good person. In this photo, he holds the hand of my daughter, Dad's youngest grandchild. When she is old enough, I will explain to her just how special it was to hold her Ji-chan's hand.

Lenore Rice Hale b. 1929

This is a picture from my grandmother's last swim in Lake Washington, in Seattle. Like many grandmothers in their mid-80s, she had a host of ailments: Parkinson's disease, macular degeneration, stenosis, etc. Swimming, sometimes even just floating, in the cool water relieved all her pains.

Against the advice of her nurses and to the horror of her friends, she would wheel her walker—towel and goggles stuffed in the carrying compartment—to the front stoop of her downtown apartment building. My mother would pick her up, throw the walker in the trunk of the station wagon, and like two bandits getting out of Dodge, they’d tear down to the lake shore, windows down, sunglasses on.

Bringing her to the water was a slow and precarious process, sometimes involving two people on either arm, until she waded deep enough to tip over and be held by the cool waves.

As a self-identified rebel with a hint of traditionalism, my grandmother sought joy and reprieve from her pain in the waves of Lake Washington, against the stricture of her community. During her last summer, she swam more than any other summer. She passed away on Oct. 5, just after the swimming season.

Ernst Prosser b. 1932

Born in German-occupied Sudetenland shortly before WWII, Ernst moved to N.Y.C. as a carpenter apprentice after he was orphaned during the war. There he met the love of his life, Helga, on a blind date, and the two spent many happy years living in the city and raising two beautiful daughters. A multifaceted man, Ernst had a great love of politics and international affairs, was a life-long fisherman and was also a gifted craftsman, creating beautiful furniture in his basement. Although a quiet man, Ernie had an inquisitive nature and great love of adventure, and he and Helga traveled quite a bit, through both Europe and the States. Known as Opa to his two grandchildren, he was known by all he met as one of the jolliest, sweetest people, and his friendly greeting of "What's cookin'?" will never be forgotten. This image, while not the Opa I knew and remember, reflects his hard work, determination and resilience throughout his life — as well as his impeccable fashion sense. I love his stoic expression and the calm focus in his eyes — an unforgettable image of a wonderful man I will always admire, respect and dearly miss.

Steven J. b. 1954?

Steven J. was my A.A. sponsor for 14 years. He overcame a 25-year addiction and now walked with alcoholics through their own recovery. He brought self-confirmed alcoholics to A.A. meetings or brought meetings to them in hospitals. Often he just listened.

Our relationship became a close, long friendship. We shared a passion for photography, and when he retired from Georgetown University Library after 20 years, he began photographing beautiful floral portraits, some of which were purchased by the District of Columbia, others licensed by Getty Images. When I was interning at a NY photo agency, I sold all of my photo gear to afford living in NY. Steven gave me one of his Nikons and a lens and reminded me to “keep your eyes on the prize.”

Luningning Benito b. 1943

As a child, I thought that if there was someone who could hang stars in the sky, it would be my Lola ("Grandma" in Tagalog). Potential and possibility were her fuel, and belief was her vehicle. Having grown up in poverty in the Philippines, she knew the importance of perseverance and the value of dreaming big. In this photo, she and my grandfather are celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary. Little did she know what the future held for her — being the first in her family to have her children graduate college, crossing oceans and continents to start life in a foreign land, realizing the immigrant’s dream of her family living the life that she had hoped for them to have. She was a woman who made things happen. Above all, she possessed a belief, a light within that became a driving force, which would become a flame imparted unto each of us. It’s in moments when I miss her most that I'm reminded she isn’t gone. She gave me her light ... not a distant star in the sky, but one close to my heart, where I'd rather have her always be.

Sidney Herbstman b. 1921

My father, Sid Herbstman, enlisted in the U.S. Army soon after the U.S. joined World War II. While stationed in Fort Dix, N.J., one weekend he was charged with writing passes for his fellow soldiers. When he asked for one for himself, to meet his newborn daughter (his first child, recently born on Governor's Island), he was denied one by his commanding officer. So he went AWOL that weekend to see her and his wife in New York City.

He became a master sergeant assigned to weapons training. Stationed in Paris in 1945 and eager to go to the front, he was more valuable to the Army as an instructor at the base, and so he survived. A cabinetmaker, loudspeaker inventor, patent holder, art lover and early Bob Dylan aficionado, he was much loved by his family.

James Depczynski b. 1954

This is Jimmy D. Warm, cheerful, always on the go, always upbeat — always working hard to provide for his two beautiful daughters, Abby and Elise. These pictures really show what words will never be good enough to say. His daughters were his whole world, and nothing brought him greater joy than making sure they were happy. Whether it was laughing hysterically about cow-tipping with his Abby-oski or showing off his legs with the girls before prom, he was always smiling. He would drop everything to help a friend or family member — and would talk until your ears fell off in the meantime. It seemed like the world had stopped turning for a moment when we lost Jim, and our hearts will continue to ache for some time as we mourn the loss of this bright, wonderful man. It is a tragedy that he was taken from us so soon, but he will always have a spot in our hearts and never truly will have left. Rest in peace, Jimmy D.

Kelly Bowes b. 1936

She was charming, glamorous and elegant, and her favorite city was New York. In the '60s, she was Kelly Richardson, the well-loved TV host Miss Kelly on "Romper Room," who made the children feel special through the TV by calling their name while looking through the magic mirror as if she were talking only to them. I got to be the replacement child on several shows when someone couldn't go on because they were sick and on the "Romper Room" Christmas parade float; I was so proud to be with her. She believed that every person was special and treated everyone so throughout her life, imprinting an incredibly powerful and positive effect on those she met.

Christmas was her favorite time of year, and my favorite part was giving her a rare "Romper Room" collectable that often took months to find — she always shrieked with delight, adding it to her prized collection. There isn't a present this year. because she has left this world. I miss you Mom and hope that you are watching through your magic mirror.

Hilda Kaunitz b. 1918

This is me and my Grandma on my wedding day sharing an intimate moment caught on camera. She always did what she called "busha-busha" with us — pressing her forehead to ours and gently rubbing back and forth and saying the words. I really don't know where that came from, what it meant or who started it, but it is something I always remember when thinking of her. In the years before her passing away, she slowly lost her memory. In the mix of the loss of her remembrances and the actually loss of her I have held on fiercely to my memories of her.

Jason Blum b. 1968

When our son, Jason, passed away in January, we heard stories from people worldwide about his heroism and generous heart. One in particular from an old friend hit us as especially meaningful. In high school, he reached out to a fellow student who was having a difficult time. When this young man lost his beloved father, he dropped out of school. Jason supported him and encouraged him to finish his last two years in one year's time so that he could graduate with his class and bring a sense of accomplishment to his life. He said that Jason was always there with positive energy pushing him. In his words: "Jason was an outstanding character. He was a good friend that gave so much of himself to those around him. I can truthfully say that I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for him." This pre-prom photo (Jason is second from the left), full of beautiful young people on the brink of adulthood, shows a true "mission accomplished."

Bonny Fandrich b. 1950

My mom, with the purple feathers in her hair. These were good years for my family. Those idyllic, sun-soaked summer vacations days were the absolute best. We were barefoot, wearing our favorite clothes and playing with my aunt's furry pets. The bunny was such a novelty, and Mom was so calming and gentle with her.

I remember the excitement of the three-hour car ride it would take to get to my aunt's house. Mom would stash chocolate bars and new comic books for us in the car, everything freshly cleaned and perfectly arranged for the trip. We would listen to the radio station play the best songs of the 1980s. If the sun was shining in our eyes, she would lean over from the front seat and roll our blanket up into the window to block the sun. She would hand back perfectly buttered bologna sandwiches.

She took such great care of us. My dad, me and my sister.

Without her, we've had to trust that we can take care of ourselves. Most of the time we can, until that moment when the hole she left is bigger than anything. We miss her so much.

Bill Trainor b. 1949

This is my dad as a young man, singing on the steps of the house where he grew up with 10 siblings. He and his brother Francis, the guitarist, would kick our family parties up a notch with their classic-rock covers for many years to come. When Dad sang — in the car, while barbecuing, in his Man Cave in our basement — his passion for music was evident and contagious. His strong voice was a natural gift; its soulfulness was earned through the hardships he faced, including his time as a Marine in Vietnam. A man of few words (though he knew many — one of my proudest moments is beating him at a “friendly” game of Scrabble), he made them count. His maxim to my brother and me was “work hard, do good,” and he led by example. He worked at the N.Y.C. Department of Buildings for 28 years and assisted in the recovery efforts following 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. At the "End of the Line" (one of his favorite Traveling Wilburys songs), he was surrounded by the loving presence of his wife of 32 years, his children and many family members, as some choice tunes played in the background.

Karen Lee b. 1942

My mother, Karen, was once featured in our local Ohio newspaper before I was born, under a headline describing her as the "Lady Bail-Bondsman." She still held that job at the time this photo was taken. What is remarkable about my mom is not that she was a woman working in law enforcement 50 years ago, but that she secretly battled bipolar disorder most of her adult life. Our mom cycled through manic highs and fathomless lows. Spending sprees, boundless enthusiasm, starting new things but rarely finishing them; these were the norm. She once bought me an entire drugstore display of mini-shampoos for Christmas. But despite her illness, our mom took great pride in her children, her life story and her many adventures. We lost her to cancer at age 71 in March. I love this photo of my mom, because it captures her spark, her verve, her strength, her style. She was quite a lady.

Kathy Kueneman b. 1949

My friend Kathy was truly a woman of many talents, and this photo shows her in one of her favorite roles; as a loving, playful child whisperer. We can only imagine what she might be saying to her captivated godson. Although she had no children of her own, she lavished love, attention and guidance on the children of her family and friends. This was also the photograph that her future husband, Ghassan Habib, carried in his wallet and looked at daily during their long separation while he worked in Nigeria and Kathy made beautiful books in Manhattan and Berkeley, Calif. They had one of those marriages — the inspiring, supportive, lasting ones. She was a dear friend and wise counsel to so many. Some of us came to call her Our Kathy. In truth, she was Ghassan’s Kathy, but he gladly and generously shared her with us. We all hold Our Kathy close and miss her deeply.

Peter Bellucci b. 1962

My brother Peter was one of the most complicated people I have known. On any given day, Peter was doing the best he could to connect with those around him, sometimes with blessings that only he understood, or he might recite ancient words of wisdom to those who would listen. On most days, he would greet everyone with a hearty hello before sinking into an argument with his unseen tormenters. Peter was schizophrenic. He taught us patience. I love this picture of Peter and Fred, on a warm summer day on Wilson’s Mesa outside Moab, Utah, on a mesa green with summer and tall aspens. Peter, carefree, no shirt on, a smile on his face because he and Fred had just caught trout for dinner and fetched drinking water for the night. No tormenting voices then — just the vast indigo sky and later pan-fried trout over the camp fire. I remember Peter, Fred, Wil, and I looking up at the dizzying array of stars that night, Peter pointing out the constellations to Wil who was almost 3-years-old. I remember Peter's patience and thoughtfulness with Wil’s barrage of questions. I choose to remember Pete this way.

Scott Alan Atiyeh b. 1963

My best friend and partner in life died two days after his 50th birthday on Feb. 3, 2013, after a nearly two-year battle with glioblastoma multiforme IV, an aggressive and always terminal form of brain cancer. This photograph encapsulates his insatiable spirit and love of life. Just five months after his diagnosis, craniotomy and debilitating chemotherapy and radiation regimen, he rejoined his running club for the annual Red Dress Relay for a local charity, Via of the Lehigh Valley (Pa.). As a father, a teacher, an artist, a husband and a friend, Scott's exuberant enthusiasm, the irreverent, the bold, the spontaneous and the unlikely inspired us all to find more joy in life. He sure did relish any opportunity to run in that red cocktail dress! I have had the dress dry cleaned and have put it away so that perhaps one day our daughter will find an occasion to wear it. That would surely make Scott smile as only Scott could.

Aunty Mary b. 1931

The smiling face on the right belongs to my Aunty Mary (circa 1950) showing us how to make your wimple into the regulation-shape of a laundry tub. Clearly, she thinks it’s a lark. Professed as a Dominican of King Williams Town (in the far reaches of the red dust of the Eastern Cape, South Africa), it didn’t take her long to convince the powers-that-be in the Catholic Church to allow her to roam veil-free. It makes no sense to dress up like that, she explained, it frightens little children, plus it’s very inconvenient for playing tennis. My aunt had no time for mindless rule-following. Her actions were unwavering in their commitment to only one directive: to love one another as she believed her mother/father/creator God had loved her. In defiance of apartheid’s rules, she was at the forefront of opening whites-only schools to Black pupils, firmly explaining to those who didn’t share her revolutionary rule-breaking – even Black children need an education, you know. At the end of her life, she was still pushing the limits, educating young inner city Johannesburg children of all races and nationalities, striving to heal the wounds of disillusioning urban poverty and xenophobic violence. As a fighter, she never gave up hope.

David Sutton b. 1952

The length of my father's stride always amazed me. I had to run three steps for every one of his, his cigarette smoke wafting past me. Here we are in 1978, me holding onto his legs. A sure way for me to keep up was to position myself just right, hang on tight and not let go. After he died suddenly this June, only 60, I took things from his house that had his Dad-smell of smoke and Old Spice and must, the smell of his 6-foot-4 hug around me: his pillow, his flannel shirt, a book kept on his dresser — the pages inside, when inhaled, render his easy presence, the assurance of his smile and his knowledge that everything would always be O.K. This is a photo of me holding on. I'm still not ready to let go.

Donald Crummey b. 1941

We love this photo of our dad because it brings together two great loves of his life: Family and Ethiopia, where it was taken in 1970. His lifelong commitment to education and activism began in London, where he earned his Ph.D. in African History and picketed the Rhodesian Embassy. It continued at Addis Ababa University and the University of Illinois, where he established an international reputation as a scholar of Ethiopia. In spite of this acclaim, he once remarked that being a parent was the most important and fulfilling work he had ever done, a feeling that is obvious in this picture. His furrowed yet contented brow, the faint smile on his lips and the obvious joy on our sister's face encapsulate so much of his character and our family life, which was full of thoughtful, generous love. He died of prostate cancer on August 16, the day after his 49th wedding anniversary.

Dillard Proctor b. 1921

It was my wedding, but he stole the show. Everyone said he looked like Brad Pitt that day. I agreed.

In World War II, he fought in the Battle of the Bulge. After the war, he settled in California as a carpenter. He was an original builder of the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland. His adult grandchildren still tout this every time they visit.

He would describe himself as a father/grandpa. My precious Grandpa was the quintessential meaning of the word "love." He loved seven girls and one boy, but hundreds loved him back. In his piercing blue eyes was a patience and kindness that can never be replicated. He was always as happy as he looks. We never saw him in a bad mood, or angry, and we knew we were loved. He whistled "Amazing Grace" and rocked us to sleep. Ironically, he was also the man who taught his grandchildren their first curse words, and you only tried his orange juice once, he preferred it with vodka. He might tell you that he was lucky to have his family; I disagree, we were incredibly lucky to have him.

Bill Trainor b. 1949

This is my dad as a young man, singing on the steps of the house where he grew up with 10 siblings. He and his brother Francis, the guitarist, would kick our family parties up a notch with their classic-rock covers for many years to come. When Dad sang — in the car, while barbecuing, in his Man Cave in our basement — his passion for music was evident and contagious. His strong voice was a natural gift; its soulfulness was earned through the hardships he faced, including his time as a Marine in Vietnam. A man of few words (though he knew many — one of my proudest moments is beating him at a “friendly” game of Scrabble), he made them count. His maxim to my brother and me was “work hard, do good,” and he led by example. He worked at the N.Y.C. Department of Buildings for 28 years and assisted in the recovery efforts following 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. At the "End of the Line" (one of his favorite Traveling Wilburys songs), he was surrounded by the loving presence of his wife of 32 years, his children and many family members, as some choice tunes played in the background.

Roy Byrum Bolt II b. 1950

I took this photograph of my grandfather in Astoria Park, Queens. It was taken only a few days before he passed away. We were having a conversation while watching my mom collect pieces of colored glass that had washed up along the shoreline of the East River. He was only in New York visiting. We were one of the stops along a solo cross-country motorcycle trip that he had begun earlier in the summer. His journey started in Florida, where he headed west along the southern part of the U.S., through Monument Valley (we have proof, he had a GoPro camera attached to his helmet!), up to Seattle and back to the East coast. Though his trip ended too soon, he was still able to visit every one of his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren along the way.

Bon Tha Phoung Beckwith b. 1975

I’ll never forget the first day I saw her. Happily drawing, she sat alone in front of the grade school in New Hampshire where I was starting my new job as an art teacher. I can’t explain it, but my heart fell to my knees. I felt like I knew her. Maybe it was because she was the cutest kid I had ever seen. It turned out that I would know Bon Tha Phoung Beckwith for the next 30 years. After teaching her in grade school, I later had her in my class for her four years in high school, and after she graduated, we remained close. Born in Battambang, Cambodia, in 1975, Tha and her family suffered under the brutal regime of the Khmer Rouge. Tha lost her father and brother, but she, her mother and two sisters made it out and were brought to the United States. In 1994, when Tha was a senior in high school, we traveled together to Cambodia. Despite the continuing turmoil, we successfully reunited her with relatives separated during the war. This photo of her was taken during our trip. Despite her traumatic early years, Tha had a peaceful, light spirit, a ready smile and a wonderful sense of humor. She was killed in a car accident on Nov. 27, the day before Thanksgiving, her favorite holiday.

Anita T. Solomon

That’s my mom, Anita, on the right. She died this year on Oct. 25, and as you will see, she was one heckuva woman. That’s my sister, Lynne, on the left. She died in 1975. And oh, yes, that’s Jayne Mansfield in the middle. This 1962 photo depicts a grand opening event for the Detroit Thunderbirds bowling lanes that my mom organized. Taken at a time when Motown was hitting its stride and before the notorious Detroit riots, this snapshot captures my mom as a single, working mother of two who had recently moved to Detroit from the East Coast after her parents and former husband had all died untimely deaths and her New Jersey home had tragically burned down in a fire. In the years following this photo, my mom would marry, have three more children, lose Lynne to a car accident, survive breast cancer and, at the age of 50, earn the college degree she’d always wanted, which she would then use to become a top financial planner at one of the nation’s most pre-eminent financial-services corporations.

Anna Greither

This is my mother, Anna Greither, before she emigrated from postwar Germany with her husband and 10-month-old me. She couldn’t know that here, she’d face more challenges: abandonment with two children; inability to return to family abroad, because she had given up her citizenship; undiagnosed mental illness; and persistent poverty, while struggling to impart to two troubled daughters: belief in themselves and a solid education; willingness to embrace life’s challenges with a sense of humor and determination; and to fight for social justice.

An invaluable role model, she created masterpieces from nothing every day. A brilliant self-taught linguist, creative homemaker and gardener, she found therapy in nonstop knitting and handwork. “Knit us a train Madame Defarge,” I’d say to the insomniac parked in front of the "Late Late Show" with whirring knitting needles, filled ashtrays, and plenty of strong black coffee.

At 5 feet, she first took up tennis in her 40s; then later painting, winning prizes for still lifes and landscapes.

Her last 10 years with advancing dementia belonged to just the two of us, but you’re never ready for the end. I miss you so much, Mommy.