Home Again

I don’t get to come home very often.  I live 6 hours away from where I grew up, so when I come home, it’s for a holiday or some other family event.  Today,  I’m home for a funeral. My grandmother’s sister, my Aunt Hassie died.  She was 95 years old.

I don’t have many stories about Aunt Hassie, but I felt the need to honor her memory with a few words.

Aunt Hassie had gravely smoker’s voice for all of my life, but I can’t remember if she actually smoked cigarettes.  She wore a Jheri Curl in her yellowing salt and pepper hair and she had big round glasses that magnified her already large eyes.  She never gave birth to children, so I feel a special connection to her because I too, will never birth children.

I spent a lot of time with Aunt Hassie when I was a kid.  She and my grandmother worked at the local YWCA as cleaning women.  I used to follow them up and down the steps all day long and at lunch, we would sit in the kitchen to eat and if I was lucky, I’d get a soda out of the “coke-cola” machine.

In her later years, I would pick her up and bring her to our Thanksgiving dinner.  She was always fun to have around.

 

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