When I was born 60 years ago one of the first realizations of my life was that I had been placed in the middle of the greatest family that ever was. My aunts and uncles were my earliest heroes and every Sunday after church, when my grandfather would gather all of his children and their respective families at the farm in Sale Creek, the "game was on."

You talk about fun. I quickly categorized my mother's siblings like this: the smartest was Martha, the funniest was Frank, the most holy was Betsy and - the youngest - Nancy was the most creative person I have ever known until this very day.

My grandfather died in 1990 and not long after that dreadful day Nancy, by then a nationally-acclaimed artist, did a beautiful print of our beloved farm cast with a funeral pall over it. On Wednesday of this week that pall returned to our "homeplace." Nancy succumbed to cancer and, in the next few days, the gentlest one of Roy and Elizabeth McDonald's children will join those who we have cherished in our farm's family cemetery.

Folks know a lot about my family. My grandfather founded the Chattanooga News-Free Press. In his spare time he was the chairman of Erlanger Hospital and, fearing a working man would one day be unable to pay medical bills, then started a health-benefits company you know as Blue Cross-Blue Shield of Tennessee. He never took a dime from either Erlanger or Blue Cross, where he was its chairman for 42 years, because he figured it was inherent on man "to give something back" during a lifetime.

That belief was deeply rooted in each of his kids. Martha became the most wonderful physician who ever owned a stethoscope. Betsy and her husband, the brilliant editorialist Lee Anderson, have dedicated their lives to the Lord in a way that makes people still take notes. Frank, who could have so easily been a "big time" entertainer, instead stuck with his dad in business and painted life with so wide a brush he is still regarded at places like United Way with hushed reverence.

My mother, the oldest of the bunch, was never in the running for my platitudes because, obviously, after she made her mark at the newspaper, wrote still-famed cookbooks and became pals with more famous people than both of the George Bushes combined, her being my mom made her exempt. Of course, after enduring my antics, she now has trouble covering up the angel wings sprouting out of her back. If ever there was a woman destined for sainthood, that's my momma.

But Nancy, whose funeral in Virginia will be this Saturday before her body is finally brought back home, is the one not many local people know about because she and her husband, a former hockey star named Roger Reinke, raised their family in Alexandria, Va. There, she helped turn a decrepit World War II munitions building, which is still known as "The Torpedo Factory," into the city's proudest landmark and she was forever its brightest star.

Ironically, it is Nancy herself who may be the most famous of all the McDonald children. Her art hangs in places such as the Library of Congress, in the Virginia state legislature building, in hundreds more Washington "power halls," and today is prominent in some of the most coveted private collections across the country.

One year she was asked by the national United Way leadership to design their annual awards. After all, her paintings and prints are scattered all over the national offices so, in something of a delightful twist, one of the biggest United Way creations Nancy soon inspired was dutifully presented to her brother Frank with no one aware of the family connection until a few years afterward.

My favorite picture she ever did was a small water color of a deliriously happy Jack Russell terrier barking on a sun-splashed raft in the middle of a swimming pool. It captures the absolute essence of a splendid Sunday afternoon and is a treasured family classic. I am sure the fact that my then-young daughter, who was sitting in Nancy's lap while she painted it, has little to do with my adoration for the painting, but I vividly remember that Nancy's gentle hand guided my Mary Cady's when they colored the raft together.

Then there was the time I finally finagled my own personal office in the newspaper building. It was really a big deal for me so as the fancy parquet floor was laid and the place was really being fixed up, I called Nancy to see if I could get a piece or two from her, this since I very privately get a little sappy over stuff like that.

Of course, by then Nancy was in huge demand, every piece flying out of her shop for mega-dollars, but she laughed and asked me what I liked. My answer was simply, "Everything." She bantered right back, "You know, I don't think I have a box that small."

Is it any wonder that in my family's cemetery, where two of my brothers are among those who lie at rest, no single casket is large enough to hold the greatness and the goodness and the talents that God gave to each one in my family?

When I was about four, Nancy and her sidekick "Aunt Eleanor" Davies, put me up to munching clover like the cows that used to chase me. The laughable black-and-white picture that resulted is among those you can still see today at the farm's big house, a place where, from way back when I was the littlest kid, we've played ever since.

This may sound funny, but every time I look at that old photograph, all I see is my Aunt Nancy.

royexum@aol.com