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Dorothy Headstream Obituary

Headstream, Dorothy Harrison
94, passed away on Thursday, February 21, at home with her family. She was married for 70 years to Joe Headstream (d. 2007, aged 92). Dorothy was born on May 16, 1918, on a tobacco farm in Upper Marlboro Maryland, the middle of 5 girls. She met her future husband in September, 1936, when he arrived with a letter of introduction to the family, having arrived in Washington DC from TX to attend George Washington University on a basketball scholarship. Three months later, they were married in Elkton MD, in the presence of Dorothy's mother, Jessie Harrison. Dorothy and Joe raised their family in IL, TX, LA, and VA, and, for the last 30 years, lived in Scottsdale. She worked as a stenographer at the US Treasury until WWII and, later, as a secretary for the US Army for several years. Dorothy read voraciously, was an accomplished needlewoman, a cook renowned for her fried chicken and desserts, and a killer Scrabble player. The last game she played, the week before her death, she won handily. But the most cherished part of her life was lived as wife and mother. She was the mother of 3 children, JoAnn Ecke (Robert) of Wilton CT, John Headstream (Linda) of Los Angeles, and David Headstream (Lisa) of Phoenix. She also leaves behind 3 grandchildren (Margot Ecke of Winterville GA, Kristin Hayward of Surprise AZ, and Jessica Headstream of Datil NM), 3 great-grandchildren (Jack Hayward, Jane Hayward, and Hazel Ecke-Broughton), and was predeceased by a grandson, Clayton Ecke. Dorothy left this life with the calm and peace that she brought to life and is missed tremendously by her grieving family. A private service was held at the National Memorial Veteran's Cemetery, February 23, 2013.

Published by The Arizona Republic on Feb. 27, 2013.
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I had the distinct pleasure of caring for Dorothty when I worked at Fresenius. I just found out that she passed and I'm terribly saddened for your loss. I was privy to Dorothy's keen wit and lovely grace. You have an open book now Dorothy!

Brian Marr

May 5, 2013

Nana was my maternal grandmother, I saw her once, maybe twice a year, usually for Easter, when my mother would take us kids to Arizona for a week of swimming at the pool, eating amazing food and scrabble playing at the dining room table. The warmth of Arizona was always so welcoming compared to the extended chilly winters of the Northeast.

There was something so comforting and steady about our visits. One always knew what to expect. Joe would be sitting in his chair in front of the TV or smoking his pipe on the porch, shirt unbuttoned, ready to tell a story. Nana was more often than not in the kitchen, prepping for dinner or putting groceries away. As a child, our conversations were mostly about what we were doing in school or what we wanted to eat for lunch. She was a wonderful grandmother when we were little. She relished in our stories about lizards at the pool, she had fried chicken and mashed potatoes on the table for dinner, and she scratched our backs quietly as we fell asleep. Her unconditional love, funny witticisms and wonderful cooking promised us grandchildren in far away New England that we had a lovely, warm and special Nana, on whom we could count.

As I grew older, my appreciation for Nana grew. When I came to visit, here is what I saw: a family of bright, animated, socially dynamic jokesters, traits my Mother and Uncle David passed onto my cousin Kristin and my brother, Clay. I was always more quiet, usually found to be reading a textbook on a comfy chair instead of entertaining a crowd. I write this, because in a sea of impressive social dynamism, Nana held her quiet ground as the matriarch. Her steady, quiet, yet quick-witted presence (she is where the wit originated), coupled by her beauty and skills in the kitchen, made her a paramount influence for the quiet granddaughter in the corner.

She taught me many things, that beautiful Nana of ours. I took after her in many ways (her calm, her curves, her classic looks, her love of cooking and of family) and her model taught me by example to trust my calm quiet as a strength, to enjoy my looks but never promote them (I might add that I am not the beauty that she was, but there are some resemblances) and finally, that the importance of food as a robust and valid way of bringing the family together is a powerful thing. As I grew older, I watched her very carefully in the kitchen and wrote down many of her recipes. I grew to become a confident cook and one, just like Nana, who makes simple meals that are tasty crowd pleasers.

These days, as I sit in my home in Georgia, I am reminded that her lessons will never be forgotten. I make her cornbread and fried chicken on a regular rotation (they are my daughter's favorite). And I have become the matriarch of my own small family in a very familiar scene. Here in Georgia, when I host Thanksgiving and Christmas, I am always surrounded by loud, funny, wonderfully witty and social family members. My daughter has inherited that gene from my mother and is quite the character. I sit back quietly and let the food and the stage I have set bring everyone I love in the room together to the table for good food, good laughs and family games. My quiet is her quiet and I am so thankful to her for teaching me that kind strength and wisdom.

I was able to visit Nana one last time, a week before she passed away. We watched Rosemary and Thyme (a mystery show for garden enthusiasts), I massaged her aching hands and I was able to cook for her. She requested scallops, which I happily cooked, and when she took a bite, her eyes lit up. She asked me how I prepared them and she honestly wanted to know all of the details, as if she would soon be cooking away in the kitchen once again. That still makes me laugh.

When I said my final goodbye, I thanked her for producing three such wonderful children (all three so different, but all such amazing parents themselves) and for being such a graceful and loving soul. I began to cry and she said, “Don't cry, honey. I'll be waiting for you.” I think she is indeed waiting for us. She is up there in an amazing kitchen, just waiting for us all to join her so she can cook for us again and then play some Scrabble.

I miss you, Nana. Thank you for everything.

Margot Ecke

March 26, 2013

Nana was my maternal grandmother, I saw her once, maybe twice a year, usually for Easter, when my mother would take us kids to Arizona for a week of swimming at the pool, eating amazing food and scrabble playing at the dining room table. The warmth of Arizona was always so welcoming compared to the extended chilly winters of the Northeast.

There was something so comforting and steady about our visits. One always knew what to expect. Joe would be sitting in his chair in front of the TV or smoking his pipe on the porch, shirt unbuttoned, ready to tell a story. Nana was more often than not in the kitchen, prepping for dinner or putting groceries away. As a child, our conversations were mostly about what we were doing in school or what we wanted to eat for lunch. She was a wonderful grandmother when we were little. She relished in our stories about lizards at the pool, she had fried chicken and mashed potatoes on the table for dinner, and she scratched our backs quietly as we fell asleep. Her unconditional love, funny witticisms and wonderful cooking promised us grandchildren in far away New England that we had a lovely, warm and special Nana, on whom we could count.

As I grew older, my appreciation for Nana grew. When I came to visit, here is what I saw: a family of bright, animated, socially dynamic jokesters, traits my Mother and Uncle David passed onto my cousin Kristin and my brother, Clay. I was always more quiet, usually found to be reading a textbook on a comfy chair instead of entertaining a crowd. I write this, because in a sea of impressive social dynamism, Nana held her quiet ground as the matriarch. Her steady, quiet, yet quick-witted presence (she is where the wit originated), coupled by her beauty and skills in the kitchen, made her a paramount influence for the quiet granddaughter in the corner.

She taught me many things, that beautiful Nana of ours. I took after her in many ways (her calm, her curves, her classic looks, her love of cooking and of family) and her model taught me by example to trust my calm quiet as a strength, to enjoy my looks but never promote them (I might add that I am not the beauty that she was, but there are some resemblances) and finally, that the importance of food as a robust and valid way of bringing the family together is a powerful thing. As I grew older, I watched her very carefully in the kitchen and wrote down many of her recipes. I grew to become a confident cook and one, just like Nana, who makes simple meals that are tasty crowd pleasers.

These days, as I sit in my home in Georgia, I am reminded that her lessons will never be forgotten. I make her cornbread and fried chicken on a regular rotation (they are my daughter's favorite). And I have become the matriarch of my own small family in a very familiar scene. Here in Georgia, when I host Thanksgiving and Christmas, I am always surrounded by loud, funny, wonderfully witty and social family members. My daughter has inherited that gene from my mother and is quite the character. I sit back quietly and let the food and the stage I have set bring everyone I love in the room together to the table for good food, good laughs and family games. My quiet is her quiet and I am so thankful to her for teaching me that kind strength and wisdom.

I was able to visit Nana one last time, a week before she passed away. We watched Rosemary and Thyme (a mystery show for garden enthusiasts), I massaged her aching hands and I was able to cook for her. She requested scallops, which I happily cooked, and when she took a bite, her eyes lit up. She asked me how I prepared them and she honestly wanted to know all of the details, as if she would soon be cooking away in the kitchen once again. That still makes me laugh.

When I said my final goodbye, I thanked her for producing three such wonderful children (all three so different, but all such amazing parents themselves) and for being such a graceful and loving soul. I began to cry and she said, “Don't cry, honey. I'll be waiting for you.” I think she is indeed waiting for us. She is up there in an amazing kitchen, just waiting for us all to join her so she can cook for us again and then play some Scrabble.

I miss you, Nana. Thank you for everything.

Margot Ecke

March 25, 2013

I wrote the following in a letter to Nana just last October…
Dear Nana,
When I was little, I prayed EVERY NIGHT: “Please let Nana and Joe live for a long, long time.” God has answered that prayer, but He must've misunderstood that when I said “long, long time” I meant until at least 110. ? I know you would be the first to butt in and tell God, “Don't listen to her…she doesn't know what she's saying! I don't want to be 110!” But selfishly, I want you to be around forever. You are my Nana—my sweet, precious, funny, sometimes smart alec, smart, beautiful, gracious Nana. And the idea of you aging and becoming frail (basically showing me that you are a mere mortal—something I never really believed) just brings me to tears. I weep as I type this, but I must type it—I want you to know how much you mean to me and how much you have impacted my life.
I often think back to all the fun times I had being in your home; you were always the soft place for me to fall, you would listen and empathize and never judge; the person who would cry when I cried, and laugh when I laughed, and who would always let me lick the bowl, yet take credit for baking the entire cake. We had so many fun hours at that dining room table, playing Scrabble and laughing about words that would “never be allowed to be used in a tournament.” You brought my cat to show-in-tell when I was in first grade, even though, for you, I am sure that was a nightmare. But for me, it is one of my best memories. And then you took in that cat and made her your own, when we just couldn't have her at our apartment anymore. You were always a phone call or walk away (oh how I wish you were just a walk away right now!!!! I say it weekly, if not more, to anyone who will listen!)
I know that, as I have aged, I have become busy, gained a husband and children, and so many responsibilities, and I am sure you often feel left in the dust. But PLEASE know—you MUST know—that you are so precious to me, and I truly credit so much of who I am to you (and of course God, but He gave you to me, and to say I am grateful for you is truly the understatement of the century.)
(END OF LETTER)
My Nana—and by the way, I didn't realize until an almost embarrassing age that her first name was, in fact, Dorothy and NOT Nana (but that's beside the point). I can still hear her voice when I would walk in her door and call out her name: “Hoo-hoo,” she'd say (a combination of hi and yoo-hoo). I spent many afternoons after school in my early elementary years doing homework at her dining room table and watching episodes of Felix the Cat and Gumby. She was the best back-scratcher with her long nails and I would lay over her lap while she sat in her brown recliner and she would tickle my back anytime I asked…I seriously did this until I was a teenager and we laughed at how ridiculous it was that I still thought I could slump over her knees for a good back-scratching. We loved going shopping at the Old America hobby shop, where she would look at silk flowers and I would oooh and ahhh over the doll house furniture for the dollhouse she made for me—the roof shingled by hand and the outside painted blue. We loved the Golden Girls, Murder, She Wrote and Lawrence Welk—and I can't forget Jeopardy everyday at 4:30.
I will miss our regular Scrabble games, her random phone calls asking me if I knew a particular word to help complete her United Feature Syndicate crossword puzzle (the one she did every morning without fail, while in her seersucker housecoat and her shiny gold house slippers, sipping her Maxwell House coffee—with my grandpa Joe reading the paper and spouting off random commentary from the morning paper he would read). I will miss her hugs—she was never the one to let go first and would often say, “scratch my back while you're there, would ya?” ?
I could keep writing for days—and I probably will on my own time as a way to heal. For those of you who knew Nana personally, you undoubtedly have something lovely to say about her. She was first-class all the way and I truly hope to be even a tenth of what she was to me—to my family and my future grandchildren.
May we never forget her sweet smile, her perfectly-timed wit, her patient and calm spirit and the way she brought everyone together. This world truly will never be the same without her.

Kristin Hayward

March 25, 2013

Dorothy always welcomed me, her daughter-in-law, into her home to stay for a few days when John (her son) and I and our daughter Jessie came twice a year--for Thanksgiving and Dorothy's birthday in May. Dorothy was always so kindhearted to me. Her grandaughter Jessie looked forward to the trips and seeing her and the rest of the family, even as a teenager. Dorothy was much like my mother and I am so fortunate that I had such a wonderful loving mother-in-law. Thank you, Dorothy.

Linda Headstream

March 25, 2013

I am posting what I read at my sweet Nana's Memorial Service:

I wrote the following in a letter to Nana just last October…
Dear Nana,
When I was little, I prayed EVERY NIGHT: “Please let Nana and Joe live for a long, long time.” God has answered that prayer, but He must've misunderstood that when I said “long, long time” I meant until at least 110. ? I know you would be the first to butt in and tell God, “Don't listen to her…she doesn't know what she's saying! I don't want to be 110!” But selfishly, I want you to be around forever. You are my Nana—my sweet, precious, funny, sometimes smart alec, smart, beautiful, gracious Nana. And the idea of you aging and becoming frail (basically showing me that you are a mere mortal—something I never really believed) just brings me to tears. I weep as I type this, but I must type it—I want you to know how much you mean to me and how much you have impacted my life.
I often think back to all the fun times I had being in your home; you were always the soft place for me to fall, you would listen and empathize and never judge; the person who would cry when I cried, and laugh when I laughed, and who would always let me lick the bowl, yet take credit for baking the entire cake. We had so many fun hours at that dining room table, playing Scrabble and laughing about words that would “never be allowed to be used in a tournament.” You brought my cat to show-in-tell when I was in first grade, even though, for you, I am sure that was a nightmare. But for me, it is one of my best memories. And then you took in that cat and made her your own, when we just couldn't have her at our apartment anymore. You were always a phone call or walk away (oh how I wish you were just a walk away right now!!!! I say it weekly, if not more, to anyone who will listen!)
I know that, as I have aged, I have become busy, gained a husband and children, and so many responsibilities, and I am sure you often feel left in the dust. But PLEASE know—you MUST know—that you are so precious to me, and I truly credit so much of who I am to you (and of course God, but He gave you to me, and to say I am grateful for you is truly the understatement of the century.)
(END OF LETTER)
My Nana—and by the way, I didn't realize until an almost embarrassing age that her first name was, in fact, Dorothy and NOT Nana (but that's beside the point). I can still hear her voice when I would walk in her door and call out her name: “Hoo-hoo,” she'd say (a combination of hi and yoo-hoo). I spent many afternoons after school in my early elementary years doing homework at her dining room table and watching episodes of Felix the Cat and Gumby. She was the best back-scratcher with her long nails and I would lay over her lap while she sat in her brown recliner and she would tickle my back anytime I asked…I seriously did this until I was a teenager and we laughed at how ridiculous it was that I still thought I could slump over her knees for a good back-scratching. We loved going shopping at the Old America hobby shop, where she would look at silk flowers and I would oooh and ahhh over the doll house furniture for the dollhouse she made for me—the roof shingled by hand and the outside painted blue. We loved the Golden Girls, Murder, She Wrote and Lawrence Welk—and I can't forget Jeopardy everyday at 4:30.
I will miss our regular Scrabble games, her random phone calls asking me if I knew a particular word to help complete her United Feature Syndicate crossword puzzle (the one she did every morning without fail, while in her seersucker housecoat and her shiny gold house slippers, sipping her Maxwell House coffee—with my grandpa Joe reading the paper and spouting off random commentary from the morning paper he would read). I will miss her hugs—she was never the one to let go first and would often say, “scratch my back while you're there, would ya?” ?
I could keep writing for days—and I probably will on my own time as a way to heal. For those of you who knew Nana personally, you undoubtedly have something lovely to say about her. She was first-class all the way and I truly hope to be even a tenth of what she was to me—to my family and my future grandchildren.
May we never forget her sweet smile, her perfectly-timed wit, her patient and calm spirit and the way she brought everyone together. This world truly will never be the same without her.

Kristin Hayward

March 25, 2013

Dear Mother, I wished you were around today so that I could tell you about Hazel's change of name. Yes, it's true. You must call her Castle EMELIA Onowhah. Where did it come from? Looks as if you've passed on your love of language to another child. But I couldn't call, could I? We miss you, dear. JoAnn

March 25, 2013

Dorothy's welcoming heart brought my love for her son Dave to a much deeper level. The three of us spent Sunday afternoons enjoying her cooking, talking, watching sports, playing scrabble and taking naps. Dottie was a treasure and I am a better person having had the opportunity to know her in her later years.

Lisa Grace Headstream

February 27, 2013

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