The Butts are long-time neighbors of my grandparents, Goldie and Addison Jenks, in the cemetery in Oneonta. I like to imagine the permanent residents sitting in rows of folding chairs, as if they were in a Thornton Wilder play. There’s Grandpa, scowling silently as he sucks on a crusty corncob pipe. Grandma smiles as she turns to engage her neighbors in friendly conversation. The Butts pout shyly and pretend they don’t see the leering grins of passersby who read their names on the stone. But I wonder: when the moon slips behind a cloud and the night is darkest, does Elizabeth blush as she reminisces about the day friends of Earl Sitts approached her and said, “Lizzie, dear, we have just the man for you.”