In my growing-up years, life and death were marked by filled seats at our Sunday dinner table. When I was six, Great-Grandma’s cushioned chair was replaced with two high chairs to accommodate new baby cousins.  Eventually, the high chairs were swapped out for kitchen chairs with seats holding bulky encyclopedia selections like Volume 11-12: Fra to Ha or Volume 4: Ci-Cz.  Atop each book stack was an antsy child, kept still with nothing more than, “Sit quietly or I’ll tie you in with Grandpa’s belt.”