Sixty years ago Frances tucked me in bed at night. She stroked my hair and softly whispered negro spirituals to me as I fell asleep. No one else ever put me to bed, sang to me, read to me, touched me tenderly. I loved her. I wish she had been my mother. She was a lovely, beautiful brown color and she loved me. Mother returned to health a month after a radical mastectomy and Frances left. Thanks Frances. Sometimes I really just don't know what to say, Mike.