On Jan. 3, 1928, James and Dorothy Nunn welcomed baby Phyllis, who was so pretty and pink-cheeked that her nine-year-old aunt Mary, dragged in from an afternoon of ice skating to view the new arrival, was certain the infant was wearing rouge. Just five when her mother died, Phyllis was raised in Aylett Village by her paternal grandparents, Josiah and Bessie, in their white wooden farmhouse on the banks of the Mattaponi. Phyllis, or "Penny" to her childhood friends, loved her Shirley Temple doll, galloped her stick horse while playing cowboys and Indians, and passed many contented hours crafting clothes for her paper dolls out of discarded wallpaper books. She also enjoyed bike riding and roller skating down the center of Aylett's two-lane highway during the war years, when gas rationing left the road almost entirely devoid of cars. Summers were spent with her maternal grandparents, Lewis and Isabelle Smithers, in Washington, DC, where Phyllis was fond of catching streetcars, seeing movies, and visiting all the sites of the nation's capital. She attended King William High School; English was her favorite subject; math, she proclaimed, a bore. She graduated Valedictorian in 1945.
Phyllis worked briefly as a secretary in Richmond before becoming reacquainted with 23-year-old Percy Gravatt Jr., an Air Force pilot just back from World War II. After a whirlwind three-month courtship, they married in October of 1946. Phyllis and Percy, or "Peewee" and "Juke," as they affectionately referred to one another, remained together until Percy's death in 2004.
She nurtured youthful dreams of becoming an actress, a model, or even a spy, but by the time she married Percy at age 18, Phyllis aspired to motherhood. She heartily maintained that she produced four "perfect" children. In 1974, she wrote that being a mother, "shaping and molding and guiding a human life, is almost awe-inspiring." To her children, she was awe-inspiring. She was ever present; she could, and did, handle a crisis as small as an escaped pet hamster hiding out behind the refrigerator, or as large as a failing marriage. She knew to treat a cut with mercurochrome instead of Merthiolate, to bandage a broken heart with a box of tissues and a Holt's hot fudge sundae, to stay calm in the face of yet another teenager's car accident, to register disappointment lightly and pride with gusto, when to offer advice and when to stifle a well-deserved "I told you so." She climbed into bed with them at night when they couldn't get to sleep and was there in the morning with their favorite frosted Pop-Tart and glass of grape juice; she packed peanut butter sandwiches (and cut off the crusts) for their lunch and was waiting up to make sure they got home safely after their date in the evening. She sat with them when they were hospitalized, visited them when they moved out of town or out of state, and drove Percy crazy with her lengthy, and expensive, long-distance phone calls to check up on her brood. Day by day, crisis by crisis, year by year by year, Phyllis loved her perfectly imperfect children unconditionally, whether they deserved it or not.
Despite her insistence to family and friends that she enjoyed "the having done rather than the doing," Phyllis was truly a homemaker, and she was "doing" something to that end most of the time. She had a real knack for interior design, painting one wall of her cream-colored living room an audacious, and flawless, shade of blue; wallpapering ceilings, and refinishing a throwaway chair into a conversation piece. She always said, "Why be boring when you can be interesting instead?", and she applied that to her home. Her floral arrangements, ripe with her own iris, peony, hydrangea, zinnia and daffodils, were monuments to her artfully applied disordered design. Her advice, just keep messing with it until it's pretty.
Phyllis had a lifelong love affair with good books, good friends, oversized sunglasses, primitive antiques, a signature shade of pink called Dusty Rose, and Hanover tomato sandwiches on white bread with mayo, pepper, and a dash of salt. Pizza, pasta, bread, rice, and any combination of chocolate and peanuts enjoyed her enthusiastic culinary embrace. She indulged in spoon-bread, pork chops with horseradish, Jordan Almonds, Dunn's barbecues, and the occasional slightly salted ice cold beer. Friday evenings found her playing countless rounds of bridge. Saturday nights she howled with laughter watching Tim Conway and Harvey Korman on The Carol Burnett Show. Sundays she was always happily ensconced with Percy, watching Lawrence Welk. Phyllis was known for her pecan pies, shapely legs, handmade homegrown Christmas wreaths, and for being the best-dressed woman in any room. White Shoulders and Chanel No. 5 sat on her dressing table, but she radiated the clean fresh cherry almond scent of Jergens lotion. She thought her eyes were her best feature, her perfect man was Ronnie Reagan, and her perfect day always ended in bed with buttered crackers and a book.
Phyllis never met a stray cat she didn't like. Every pregnant feral feline in Hanover County found its way to her back door where they were unfailingly fed, watered and assigned appropriate "Kitty" names, Black Kitty, Yellow Kitty, Baby Kitty, Striped Kitty, Calico Kitty, Mama Kitty, Mandarine Orange Kitty, Miss American Pie Kitty, until they became a domesticated, plump, beloved member of the family. She claimed that despite cats being "in general, a general nuisance," she was still just "putty in their paws."
Few people realized Phyllis wrote a column for The Herald Progress under the pen name Penelope. Her articles were personal musings on a range of subjects close to her heart: the changing seasons, "I sliced myself a hunk of perfect October day;" turning fifty, "surely I should have attained some laudable laurels in that length of time." In one entitled Christmas Spirit, she encouraged her readers to "lend a helping hand, say a kind word, visit the shut-in, write that note, please that loved one, [and] give a little more of [them]selves for others." Phyllis was never one to seek attention, but through Penelope, her warmth, creativity, and generosity of spirit reached a whole new audience.
Phyllis was a longtime, active member at Immanuel Episcopal Church. She sang in the choir, served on the Altar Guild and the Vestry, was Junior and Senior Warden, Church Secretary and the first female Lay Eucharistic Minister in that congregation. Her quiet faith offered her solace and sustenance. She took comfort knowing that when she left this world, she would do so "with her God."
Her final years were spent at Heritage Green Assisted Living facility in Mechanicsville, where Phyllis was famous for her sunny disposition and propensity to call out a friendly "yoohoo" to folks whose names and faces she had long since forgotten. While she was able, she enjoyed assisting other residents, especially rolling the wheelchair-bound down the hall to meals. She was a much loved staff favorite, and to the many folks there who cared for Phyllis with such compassion and kindness, her family extends a heartfelt thank you.
Phyllis was survived by her four children and their spouses. She also left behind her seven grandchildren, who affectionately referred to her as "Peegie," and her seven great-grandchildren.
Funeral services were held at Immanuel Episcopal Church, Old Church, Virginia on Tuesday, Oct. 11, 2016. Memorial donations can be made to the Immanuel Episcopal Church Cemetery Fund.
You may also create an opportunity to honor Phyllis' loving and lovely personality. Remember Phyllis by taking a bouquet to the sick, the shut-in, the elderly, the lonely, or the hospitalized. Share a Hanover tomato sandwich with the uninitiated. Donate a good book to your public library, or local homeless shelter. Consider feeding that feral feline lurking in your back yard. Don a fabulous pair of sunglasses and shout out a "yoohoo" to your friends and neighbors. Remember Phyllis with a smile, on her face, and on yours.
- Jenny
Phyllis worked briefly as a secretary in Richmond before becoming reacquainted with 23-year-old Percy Gravatt Jr., an Air Force pilot just back from World War II. After a whirlwind three-month courtship, they married in October of 1946. Phyllis and Percy, or "Peewee" and "Juke," as they affectionately referred to one another, remained together until Percy's death in 2004.
She nurtured youthful dreams of becoming an actress, a model, or even a spy, but by the time she married Percy at age 18, Phyllis aspired to motherhood. She heartily maintained that she produced four "perfect" children. In 1974, she wrote that being a mother, "shaping and molding and guiding a human life, is almost awe-inspiring." To her children, she was awe-inspiring. She was ever present; she could, and did, handle a crisis as small as an escaped pet hamster hiding out behind the refrigerator, or as large as a failing marriage. She knew to treat a cut with mercurochrome instead of Merthiolate, to bandage a broken heart with a box of tissues and a Holt's hot fudge sundae, to stay calm in the face of yet another teenager's car accident, to register disappointment lightly and pride with gusto, when to offer advice and when to stifle a well-deserved "I told you so." She climbed into bed with them at night when they couldn't get to sleep and was there in the morning with their favorite frosted Pop-Tart and glass of grape juice; she packed peanut butter sandwiches (and cut off the crusts) for their lunch and was waiting up to make sure they got home safely after their date in the evening. She sat with them when they were hospitalized, visited them when they moved out of town or out of state, and drove Percy crazy with her lengthy, and expensive, long-distance phone calls to check up on her brood. Day by day, crisis by crisis, year by year by year, Phyllis loved her perfectly imperfect children unconditionally, whether they deserved it or not.
Despite her insistence to family and friends that she enjoyed "the having done rather than the doing," Phyllis was truly a homemaker, and she was "doing" something to that end most of the time. She had a real knack for interior design, painting one wall of her cream-colored living room an audacious, and flawless, shade of blue; wallpapering ceilings, and refinishing a throwaway chair into a conversation piece. She always said, "Why be boring when you can be interesting instead?", and she applied that to her home. Her floral arrangements, ripe with her own iris, peony, hydrangea, zinnia and daffodils, were monuments to her artfully applied disordered design. Her advice, just keep messing with it until it's pretty.
Phyllis had a lifelong love affair with good books, good friends, oversized sunglasses, primitive antiques, a signature shade of pink called Dusty Rose, and Hanover tomato sandwiches on white bread with mayo, pepper, and a dash of salt. Pizza, pasta, bread, rice, and any combination of chocolate and peanuts enjoyed her enthusiastic culinary embrace. She indulged in spoon-bread, pork chops with horseradish, Jordan Almonds, Dunn's barbecues, and the occasional slightly salted ice cold beer. Friday evenings found her playing countless rounds of bridge. Saturday nights she howled with laughter watching Tim Conway and Harvey Korman on The Carol Burnett Show. Sundays she was always happily ensconced with Percy, watching Lawrence Welk. Phyllis was known for her pecan pies, shapely legs, handmade homegrown Christmas wreaths, and for being the best-dressed woman in any room. White Shoulders and Chanel No. 5 sat on her dressing table, but she radiated the clean fresh cherry almond scent of Jergens lotion. She thought her eyes were her best feature, her perfect man was Ronnie Reagan, and her perfect day always ended in bed with buttered crackers and a book.
Phyllis never met a stray cat she didn't like. Every pregnant feral feline in Hanover County found its way to her back door where they were unfailingly fed, watered and assigned appropriate "Kitty" names, Black Kitty, Yellow Kitty, Baby Kitty, Striped Kitty, Calico Kitty, Mama Kitty, Mandarine Orange Kitty, Miss American Pie Kitty, until they became a domesticated, plump, beloved member of the family. She claimed that despite cats being "in general, a general nuisance," she was still just "putty in their paws."
Few people realized Phyllis wrote a column for The Herald Progress under the pen name Penelope. Her articles were personal musings on a range of subjects close to her heart: the changing seasons, "I sliced myself a hunk of perfect October day;" turning fifty, "surely I should have attained some laudable laurels in that length of time." In one entitled Christmas Spirit, she encouraged her readers to "lend a helping hand, say a kind word, visit the shut-in, write that note, please that loved one, [and] give a little more of [them]selves for others." Phyllis was never one to seek attention, but through Penelope, her warmth, creativity, and generosity of spirit reached a whole new audience.
Phyllis was a longtime, active member at Immanuel Episcopal Church. She sang in the choir, served on the Altar Guild and the Vestry, was Junior and Senior Warden, Church Secretary and the first female Lay Eucharistic Minister in that congregation. Her quiet faith offered her solace and sustenance. She took comfort knowing that when she left this world, she would do so "with her God."
Her final years were spent at Heritage Green Assisted Living facility in Mechanicsville, where Phyllis was famous for her sunny disposition and propensity to call out a friendly "yoohoo" to folks whose names and faces she had long since forgotten. While she was able, she enjoyed assisting other residents, especially rolling the wheelchair-bound down the hall to meals. She was a much loved staff favorite, and to the many folks there who cared for Phyllis with such compassion and kindness, her family extends a heartfelt thank you.
Phyllis was survived by her four children and their spouses. She also left behind her seven grandchildren, who affectionately referred to her as "Peegie," and her seven great-grandchildren.
Funeral services were held at Immanuel Episcopal Church, Old Church, Virginia on Tuesday, Oct. 11, 2016. Memorial donations can be made to the Immanuel Episcopal Church Cemetery Fund.
You may also create an opportunity to honor Phyllis' loving and lovely personality. Remember Phyllis by taking a bouquet to the sick, the shut-in, the elderly, the lonely, or the hospitalized. Share a Hanover tomato sandwich with the uninitiated. Donate a good book to your public library, or local homeless shelter. Consider feeding that feral feline lurking in your back yard. Don a fabulous pair of sunglasses and shout out a "yoohoo" to your friends and neighbors. Remember Phyllis with a smile, on her face, and on yours.
- Jenny
On Jan. 3, 1928, James and Dorothy Nunn welcomed baby Phyllis, who was so pretty and pink-cheeked that her nine-year-old aunt Mary, dragged in from an afternoon of ice skating to view the new arrival, was certain the infant was wearing rouge. Just five when her mother died, Phyllis was raised in Aylett Village by her paternal grandparents, Josiah and Bessie, in their white wooden farmhouse on the banks of the Mattaponi. Phyllis, or "Penny" to her childhood friends, loved her Shirley Temple doll, galloped her stick horse while playing cowboys and Indians, and passed many contented hours crafting clothes for her paper dolls out of discarded wallpaper books. She also enjoyed bike riding and roller skating down the center of Aylett's two-lane highway during the war years, when gas rationing left the road almost entirely devoid of cars. Summers were spent with her maternal grandparents, Lewis and Isabelle Smithers, in Washington, DC, where Phyllis was fond of catching streetcars, seeing movies, and visiting all the sites of the nation's capital. She attended King William High School; English was her favorite subject; math, she proclaimed, a bore. She graduated Valedictorian in 1945.
Phyllis worked briefly as a secretary in Richmond before becoming reacquainted with 23-year-old Percy Gravatt Jr., an Air Force pilot just back from World War II. After a whirlwind three-month courtship, they married in October of 1946. Phyllis and Percy, or "Peewee" and "Juke," as they affectionately referred to one another, remained together until Percy's death in 2004.
She nurtured youthful dreams of becoming an actress, a model, or even a spy, but by the time she married Percy at age 18, Phyllis aspired to motherhood. She heartily maintained that she produced four "perfect" children. In 1974, she wrote that being a mother, "shaping and molding and guiding a human life, is almost awe-inspiring." To her children, she was awe-inspiring. She was ever present; she could, and did, handle a crisis as small as an escaped pet hamster hiding out behind the refrigerator, or as large as a failing marriage. She knew to treat a cut with mercurochrome instead of Merthiolate, to bandage a broken heart with a box of tissues and a Holt's hot fudge sundae, to stay calm in the face of yet another teenager's car accident, to register disappointment lightly and pride with gusto, when to offer advice and when to stifle a well-deserved "I told you so." She climbed into bed with them at night when they couldn't get to sleep and was there in the morning with their favorite frosted Pop-Tart and glass of grape juice; she packed peanut butter sandwiches (and cut off the crusts) for their lunch and was waiting up to make sure they got home safely after their date in the evening. She sat with them when they were hospitalized, visited them when they moved out of town or out of state, and drove Percy crazy with her lengthy, and expensive, long-distance phone calls to check up on her brood. Day by day, crisis by crisis, year by year by year, Phyllis loved her perfectly imperfect children unconditionally, whether they deserved it or not.
Despite her insistence to family and friends that she enjoyed "the having done rather than the doing," Phyllis was truly a homemaker, and she was "doing" something to that end most of the time. She had a real knack for interior design, painting one wall of her cream-colored living room an audacious, and flawless, shade of blue; wallpapering ceilings, and refinishing a throwaway chair into a conversation piece. She always said, "Why be boring when you can be interesting instead?", and she applied that to her home. Her floral arrangements, ripe with her own iris, peony, hydrangea, zinnia and daffodils, were monuments to her artfully applied disordered design. Her advice, just keep messing with it until it's pretty.
Phyllis had a lifelong love affair with good books, good friends, oversized sunglasses, primitive antiques, a signature shade of pink called Dusty Rose, and Hanover tomato sandwiches on white bread with mayo, pepper, and a dash of salt. Pizza, pasta, bread, rice, and any combination of chocolate and peanuts enjoyed her enthusiastic culinary embrace. She indulged in spoon-bread, pork chops with horseradish, Jordan Almonds, Dunn's barbecues, and the occasional slightly salted ice cold beer. Friday evenings found her playing countless rounds of bridge. Saturday nights she howled with laughter watching Tim Conway and Harvey Korman on The Carol Burnett Show. Sundays she was always happily ensconced with Percy, watching Lawrence Welk. Phyllis was known for her pecan pies, shapely legs, handmade homegrown Christmas wreaths, and for being the best-dressed woman in any room. White Shoulders and Chanel No. 5 sat on her dressing table, but she radiated the clean fresh cherry almond scent of Jergens lotion. She thought her eyes were her best feature, her perfect man was Ronnie Reagan, and her perfect day always ended in bed with buttered crackers and a book.
Phyllis never met a stray cat she didn't like. Every pregnant feral feline in Hanover County found its way to her back door where they were unfailingly fed, watered and assigned appropriate "Kitty" names, Black Kitty, Yellow Kitty, Baby Kitty, Striped Kitty, Calico Kitty, Mama Kitty, Mandarine Orange Kitty, Miss American Pie Kitty, until they became a domesticated, plump, beloved member of the family. She claimed that despite cats being "in general, a general nuisance," she was still just "putty in their paws."
Few people realized Phyllis wrote a column for The Herald Progress under the pen name Penelope. Her articles were personal musings on a range of subjects close to her heart: the changing seasons, "I sliced myself a hunk of perfect October day;" turning fifty, "surely I should have attained some laudable laurels in that length of time." In one entitled Christmas Spirit, she encouraged her readers to "lend a helping hand, say a kind word, visit the shut-in, write that note, please that loved one, [and] give a little more of [them]selves for others." Phyllis was never one to seek attention, but through Penelope, her warmth, creativity, and generosity of spirit reached a whole new audience.
Phyllis was a longtime, active member at Immanuel Episcopal Church. She sang in the choir, served on the Altar Guild and the Vestry, was Junior and Senior Warden, Church Secretary and the first female Lay Eucharistic Minister in that congregation. Her quiet faith offered her solace and sustenance. She took comfort knowing that when she left this world, she would do so "with her God."
Her final years were spent at Heritage Green Assisted Living facility in Mechanicsville, where Phyllis was famous for her sunny disposition and propensity to call out a friendly "yoohoo" to folks whose names and faces she had long since forgotten. While she was able, she enjoyed assisting other residents, especially rolling the wheelchair-bound down the hall to meals. She was a much loved staff favorite, and to the many folks there who cared for Phyllis with such compassion and kindness, her family extends a heartfelt thank you.
Phyllis was survived by her four children and their spouses. She also left behind her seven grandchildren, who affectionately referred to her as "Peegie," and her seven great-grandchildren.
Funeral services were held at Immanuel Episcopal Church, Old Church, Virginia on Tuesday, Oct. 11, 2016. Memorial donations can be made to the Immanuel Episcopal Church Cemetery Fund.
You may also create an opportunity to honor Phyllis' loving and lovely personality. Remember Phyllis by taking a bouquet to the sick, the shut-in, the elderly, the lonely, or the hospitalized. Share a Hanover tomato sandwich with the uninitiated. Donate a good book to your public library, or local homeless shelter. Consider feeding that feral feline lurking in your back yard. Don a fabulous pair of sunglasses and shout out a "yoohoo" to your friends and neighbors. Remember Phyllis with a smile, on her face, and on yours.
- Jenny
Phyllis worked briefly as a secretary in Richmond before becoming reacquainted with 23-year-old Percy Gravatt Jr., an Air Force pilot just back from World War II. After a whirlwind three-month courtship, they married in October of 1946. Phyllis and Percy, or "Peewee" and "Juke," as they affectionately referred to one another, remained together until Percy's death in 2004.
She nurtured youthful dreams of becoming an actress, a model, or even a spy, but by the time she married Percy at age 18, Phyllis aspired to motherhood. She heartily maintained that she produced four "perfect" children. In 1974, she wrote that being a mother, "shaping and molding and guiding a human life, is almost awe-inspiring." To her children, she was awe-inspiring. She was ever present; she could, and did, handle a crisis as small as an escaped pet hamster hiding out behind the refrigerator, or as large as a failing marriage. She knew to treat a cut with mercurochrome instead of Merthiolate, to bandage a broken heart with a box of tissues and a Holt's hot fudge sundae, to stay calm in the face of yet another teenager's car accident, to register disappointment lightly and pride with gusto, when to offer advice and when to stifle a well-deserved "I told you so." She climbed into bed with them at night when they couldn't get to sleep and was there in the morning with their favorite frosted Pop-Tart and glass of grape juice; she packed peanut butter sandwiches (and cut off the crusts) for their lunch and was waiting up to make sure they got home safely after their date in the evening. She sat with them when they were hospitalized, visited them when they moved out of town or out of state, and drove Percy crazy with her lengthy, and expensive, long-distance phone calls to check up on her brood. Day by day, crisis by crisis, year by year by year, Phyllis loved her perfectly imperfect children unconditionally, whether they deserved it or not.
Despite her insistence to family and friends that she enjoyed "the having done rather than the doing," Phyllis was truly a homemaker, and she was "doing" something to that end most of the time. She had a real knack for interior design, painting one wall of her cream-colored living room an audacious, and flawless, shade of blue; wallpapering ceilings, and refinishing a throwaway chair into a conversation piece. She always said, "Why be boring when you can be interesting instead?", and she applied that to her home. Her floral arrangements, ripe with her own iris, peony, hydrangea, zinnia and daffodils, were monuments to her artfully applied disordered design. Her advice, just keep messing with it until it's pretty.
Phyllis had a lifelong love affair with good books, good friends, oversized sunglasses, primitive antiques, a signature shade of pink called Dusty Rose, and Hanover tomato sandwiches on white bread with mayo, pepper, and a dash of salt. Pizza, pasta, bread, rice, and any combination of chocolate and peanuts enjoyed her enthusiastic culinary embrace. She indulged in spoon-bread, pork chops with horseradish, Jordan Almonds, Dunn's barbecues, and the occasional slightly salted ice cold beer. Friday evenings found her playing countless rounds of bridge. Saturday nights she howled with laughter watching Tim Conway and Harvey Korman on The Carol Burnett Show. Sundays she was always happily ensconced with Percy, watching Lawrence Welk. Phyllis was known for her pecan pies, shapely legs, handmade homegrown Christmas wreaths, and for being the best-dressed woman in any room. White Shoulders and Chanel No. 5 sat on her dressing table, but she radiated the clean fresh cherry almond scent of Jergens lotion. She thought her eyes were her best feature, her perfect man was Ronnie Reagan, and her perfect day always ended in bed with buttered crackers and a book.
Phyllis never met a stray cat she didn't like. Every pregnant feral feline in Hanover County found its way to her back door where they were unfailingly fed, watered and assigned appropriate "Kitty" names, Black Kitty, Yellow Kitty, Baby Kitty, Striped Kitty, Calico Kitty, Mama Kitty, Mandarine Orange Kitty, Miss American Pie Kitty, until they became a domesticated, plump, beloved member of the family. She claimed that despite cats being "in general, a general nuisance," she was still just "putty in their paws."
Few people realized Phyllis wrote a column for The Herald Progress under the pen name Penelope. Her articles were personal musings on a range of subjects close to her heart: the changing seasons, "I sliced myself a hunk of perfect October day;" turning fifty, "surely I should have attained some laudable laurels in that length of time." In one entitled Christmas Spirit, she encouraged her readers to "lend a helping hand, say a kind word, visit the shut-in, write that note, please that loved one, [and] give a little more of [them]selves for others." Phyllis was never one to seek attention, but through Penelope, her warmth, creativity, and generosity of spirit reached a whole new audience.
Phyllis was a longtime, active member at Immanuel Episcopal Church. She sang in the choir, served on the Altar Guild and the Vestry, was Junior and Senior Warden, Church Secretary and the first female Lay Eucharistic Minister in that congregation. Her quiet faith offered her solace and sustenance. She took comfort knowing that when she left this world, she would do so "with her God."
Her final years were spent at Heritage Green Assisted Living facility in Mechanicsville, where Phyllis was famous for her sunny disposition and propensity to call out a friendly "yoohoo" to folks whose names and faces she had long since forgotten. While she was able, she enjoyed assisting other residents, especially rolling the wheelchair-bound down the hall to meals. She was a much loved staff favorite, and to the many folks there who cared for Phyllis with such compassion and kindness, her family extends a heartfelt thank you.
Phyllis was survived by her four children and their spouses. She also left behind her seven grandchildren, who affectionately referred to her as "Peegie," and her seven great-grandchildren.
Funeral services were held at Immanuel Episcopal Church, Old Church, Virginia on Tuesday, Oct. 11, 2016. Memorial donations can be made to the Immanuel Episcopal Church Cemetery Fund.
You may also create an opportunity to honor Phyllis' loving and lovely personality. Remember Phyllis by taking a bouquet to the sick, the shut-in, the elderly, the lonely, or the hospitalized. Share a Hanover tomato sandwich with the uninitiated. Donate a good book to your public library, or local homeless shelter. Consider feeding that feral feline lurking in your back yard. Don a fabulous pair of sunglasses and shout out a "yoohoo" to your friends and neighbors. Remember Phyllis with a smile, on her face, and on yours.
- Jenny
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