My nephew on the left cost, David Prior, weighs in:
I still haven’t figured out what to say about my beloved Grandmother Leatrice who died two weeks ago, and it may take the rest of my life, but she was the gravitational center of my childhood. My fondest memories are of the times spent with her in Greenwich, of summer lightning storms on Gilliam Lane, of watching the Sound swell and ebb behind the house on William Street, the way she inhabited the Platonic essence of grace and goodwill. She was the curator of my sense of what is fine and beautiful and worthy, and now, in light of all the plans unfulfilled and visits unmade, she is the custodian of my regret. She was a rare creature, unsnobbish as a happy child, princess, butterfly, Japanese lantern. Her book about her father, the silent film star John Gilbert, is perhaps the greatest gift a daughter could give. Somewhere now, I hope, he is thanking her for it and smothering her with kisses. I love you Gram. You mean more to me than you knew.