When I met Carter Taylor Seaton, we were in her hometown of Huntington, West Virginia. I’d driven down from Ohio with my wife Cathy because Eliot Parker had invited me to do a reading and an interview with a show on local cable television. He introduced me to Carter, a wiry, white-haired woman who reminded me just a tad of the actress Barbara Billingsley (the mother on the old sitcom, Leave It to Beaver) in her later years. My point is if you sent a request for a grandmother to central casting, Carter would be the one you’d get.

At dinner after the reading, I learned that Carter, who must have been nearing eighty at the time, was a writer, a sculptor, an activist. She’d been an event organizer, a concert promotor, a marathon runner. She’d had, in short, a remarkable life. Over the short time, I knew her, I’d find out exactly how remarkable. If you’d like to find out, too, you can read her recently published memoir, Wednesday’s Child. It would turn out to be her final book. Here’s what I said about it when she asked me to provide a promotional quote:

Carter Taylor Seaton’s memoir, Wednesday’s Child, is a story of the human spirit. Written with a clear eye on the flaws and contradictions of the heart, this book traces a journey from the turmoil of a teenage pregnancy and an early marriage to an embrace of an artistic life. This is much more than a story of survival. It’s a story of making peace with where we are and how to thrive with what we’re given. What a triumph!

When I think of her now, saddened as I am by her death, it’s as if a single star has gone out and left the world just a bit darker. As the pastor at her memorial service yesterday reminded us, Carter’s life was a life shaped by love—a life of triumph indeed. There’s no telling how many lives she touched through her art and her community work.

One of those lives was mine. She promoted my books whenever I published a new one. Having taken over for Eliot Parker, she interviewed me more than once, and she was instrumental in getting me invited to teach at the West Virginia Writers Conference. In return, I offered editorial advice on her memoir when it was in manuscript form, and I wrote promotional quotes for more than one of her books.

The last time I saw her was last summer at the conference at Cedar Lakes in Ripley, West Virginia. She’d been ill with leukemia the previous summer, and it was so good to see her out and about. Her life was one of making connections, of being involved, of doing what she could to help others, of offering love.

So yesterday at the end of her memorial service, as first her family and then her friends exited, they did so to the pianist’s playing of “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” As bits of the lyrics came to me, this is the one that got me: “I hear her voice in the morning hour, she calls me.” The voices of the dead gradually fade from our memories, but the way they made us feel never leaves us. Carter Taylor Seaton loved her life, and in her leaving she reminds us to love ours as well.