Terry Lee Kling, a copiously erudite polymath, died Monday, July 29, at her home in Galesville, WI. She was 65.

Terry was born January 2, 1959, in Grand Rapids, Minnesota, to Richard (“Dick”) and Freda (York) Heffron. She is survived by her daughter, Amber (Luke) Fannin, and three grandchildren, Ezra, Louie, and Violet; brothers Dale Heffron, Roger Heffron, David Loerzel, and Michael Geisdorf; sisters Colleen Wright, Melanie Harrington, Melinda Meagher, Darcie Schroeder, Melissa Borsodi, and Shari Engerran; numerous nieces and nephews, and her dearest friend, Laurie Marsh. She was preceded in death by her parents, Dick and Judy Heffron and Chuck and Freda Geisdorf; her beloved aunts, Anne York and Dorrie Deacon, and her cousin David York.

For nearly 20 years, Terry was an elementary school teacher in southwestern Wisconsin. The hundreds and hundreds of children inspired by her boundless creativity, passion for lifelong learning, and infectious enthusiasm for all things whimsical are her legacy. Terry was also a great lover of animals, sharing her home over the years with numerous dogs, cats, rats, and squirrels, the noteworthy among them including Lord Michael Jeffrey of Jordan; Lord Beckett, the Marquess of Merthyn; Pollyanna; Lady Elizabeth Anne of York; and Molly.

A private celebration of Terry’s life will be held at a later date.

Rest in peace, Queen of Everything.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,  

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

– Dylan Thomas