Welcome Home!
By
Gerry Niskern
What is home? Home might be where you grew up. It might be a friendly neighborhood or a familiar town. It’s a place where you are never alone; where you know someone is right beside you all the time.
More importantly home is a place where you find help, companionship, and laughter; where you can feel safe, relaxed and comfortable.
I attended a welcome home/ birthday celebration the other evening. My great-grandson was home after seven years studying to become an Internal Medicine Specialist. His parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, great-grandparents, cousins, nephews and friends met at a local Pizza place to welcome him home and sing him Happy Birthday too !
There were warm hugs and kisses of greetings all evening thru the loud music and shouts of kids. This young doctor was a little taller and at least twenty pounds heavier. He also had the quiet confidence that came with his years of intensive training with people from all walks of life.
He huddled with grandmothers who wanted to know when he was going to quit shaving his head. (Answer, never.) One wanted know what kind of car he was going to get now that his 2006 was gasping its last breath? Girl friend of brother wanted pointers on how he made his sourdough bread which he perfected all thru medical training. (at a luncheon with silly awards fellow grads voted him “the one most likely to bake you a loaf of bread as an apology for hacking your computer”!)
He was locked in serious conversation with little sister who is following in his footsteps and is currently sending out applications to Med schools.
When his cake came out and we all joined in singing happy birthday, there were a few tears. He had been alone on seven birthdays, but wasn’t anymore.
Everyone wanted to know why his little daughter wasn’t there. (answer: She is in Kindergarten in another town.) That brings us to the theme of today’s blog. You see, she was born after he started his long journey. As a divorced dad he has had limited contact and wants to make up for lost time.
He is now home to Arizona with a position in an Arizona hospital. He wants to create a second home, a “daddy home” for his little girl. He wants to spend special days reading, coloring, playing games, teaching her skills. This dad will take her on lots of hikes, grocery shopping, cooking, and discussing whatever comes their way.
In other words, our guy enjoyed the warmth of family’s arms the other night and he wants his child to be able to count on the peace, joy, and love where she knows she is always welcome in her “daddy home”.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she isn’t learning to put a little loaf of sour dough to rise this weekend!

Pulchritudinous Barbie
By
Gerry Niskern
Pulchritudinous, (a person of breathtaking, heartwarming beauty)
That’s how the little girls who received first Barbies felt. Here was a beautiful doll that they could dress up like a grownup and their dreams had no bounds with Barbie. Their mothers liked Barbie, and grandma’s loved her too. Who do you think was buying all those cute outfits?
Evidently those first edition Barbies are very rare. The collectors will pay up to $ 27,000 for Barbie in “pristine” condition. A doll in “played with” condition will even bring up to $ 8,000.
The first Barbie that lived in our home didn’t stand a chance. My daughter received her for Christmas in l959 when she was seven. The iconic fashion doll had a black and white striped bathing suit, long blonde hair caught in a pony tail and of course, high heels. She had some outfits, but the best was the red satin lined fur coat that a loving aunt sewed for her. She also crocheted Barbie a red bathing suit and a sweater to wear with a red quilted circular skirt.
Then, one day, disaster struck! While she was at school, her little brother, a precocious, almost three-year-old decided he would paint Babbie’s finger nails. He explained it this way, “ I got a little bit on her hand, so I painted her hand. Then I got a little bit on her arm so I painted her arm, but I got a little bit on her neck, so I painted everywhere and then I got a little on her face, so……….”
Trouble was, when I used nail polish to remove the bright red paint from my distraught daughter’s doll, it removed all her original painted on facial features. She was a bland albino. Sister got a new Barbie, this time a redhead with a bubble hair style. Creative little brother suffered garnishment of his weekly allowance until new Barbie was paid for. His weekly trip to 7-Eleven for candy was profoundly missed.
Looking back decades ago, I remember playing paper dolls with a character I cut out of the Sunday comics every week who was an early Barbie type. Her name was Fritz Ritz and she had cute figure and high fashion clothes too. I drew and colored a new wardrobe for her every week. Ruth Handler, the inventor of Barbie said she got the idea for Barbie while watching her daughter play with paper dolls. She designed Barbie along the lines of a popular risqué German fashion doll.
Women who are grandmothers, and even some great-grandmothers today, were the first little girls to love Barbie. But if you remember, a lot of the little boys liked to play with her too. A friend told me about buying her little nephew a Barbie when he was around four and had begged for the doll. He had lots of outfits for Barbie and kept all her matching little heels in a plastic Ziploc bag. He insisted that she have a new outfit for Thanksgiving that year. She also remembers several months later seeing Barbie hanging by one leg from the ceiling fan, totally naked. That was the last time she saw her.
My daughter enjoyed her Barbies for many years and then one day when she was around thirteen she walked in with the bag full of dolls and clothes and said, “Here, throw these away.” I took them and just put them quietly away for safe keeping. I offered them to her later after she was married. She was glad to get them, but her creative, youngest son, around four or five was really happy. He loved playing with his mom’s Barbies.
But the problem was that when his best friend came to the door, (like a lot of little boys who loved Barbie,) he had to quickly shove all of the Barbies under his bed!

“Rolling On”
by
Gerry Niskern

School’s starting everywhere and it couldn’t start without the bus drivers. Some are new at the job this year, and some are old timers. Here is the experience of just one.
‘I wrote this little story as suggested to me by my younger brother-in-law. He had worked at Cox Toys as a model train designer and later at the Centura Rocket company designing rockets. He started driving after he retired.’

Keith crushed the pink slip of paper in his fist as he strode from the office. His heart was pounding. The numbers on the driver’s lockers were a blur. He yanked the metal door open and started throwing his personal things into a box.
“What kind of a joke is that? Saying I can’t drive my bus anymore. I don’t care what their new rules say about age limits; after years of hauling kids!”
He sat down abruptly and took a few deep breaths. He remembered his blood pressure and told himself to calm down.
“You have the blood pressure under control and passed the physical one more year, don’t blow it now.”
After a few minutes, he picked up his compass and studied it. He chuckled as he remembered the first morning he drove the huge yellow vehicle. “Man, was I nervous…afraid I’d forget the route, get myself lost, or leave some kid stranded. I was scared that I couldn’t make friends with the children. He tossed the compass into the box and pulled out a sweat stained cap. “I remember I was drenched in nervous sweat when I finally stopped for that last pickup that day.”
A little girl was clinging to her mother when he pulled up. The first grader climbed the high steps, one at a time, sniffling and blinking back the tears. She said something to him; he couldn’t hear her at first. He leaned down to hear her timid voice. “Hi, Bus.”All the first day’s tension disappeared with his laughter.
He pulled his gloves from the locker shelf and thought back to the first winter of driving…November, December when the snow came. He used to stand on the bumper in the pre dawn darkness scraping thick frost from the windshield as icicles formed on his mustache.
He prayed on those icy mornings as he made his way slowly from one huddled group to another, white curls of breath disappearing above their heads as they scrambled aboard.
He learned how to spot the troublemakers fast. When he wrote up a student and they lost their riding privileges for a week, he knew which driver of the nearest route to notify, so the culprit couldn’t sneak on with another crowd.
Keith chuckled when he thought how he had gotten so he could predict the day, usually at the end of the first week, when five or six kids would jump out the back emergency exit. He would be standing there ready to herd them back on the bus.
Sure, times had changed a lot over the years. Kids had changed. First, the district installed the surveillance cameras, then came the CB radio. “Code Red” to the office meant he was pulling off the road, doors locked, send the police. He sighed, tossing his first aid kit into the box. There was one time he wasn’t likely to forget.
One day he wrote up an eight year old boy, an automatic “no ride” for a week. The next morning, at the boy’s stop, a massive body hurled through the bus door towards him. Hands of steel dragged him down to the ground. A large woman pounded him while small feet kicked him in the head.
He drove the next day , taped ribs and all. He wouldn’t let the vice of fear gripping his stomach show as he joked with the kids at the young kickers stop.
So it went…Now he had reached “that age” and been relegated to a van, a mini van at that! He’d be picking up pre-schoolers for a special education program. Forget it…not for him! He made a vow to himself, “I’ll stay one week, one week only, until they find a replacement. Not a minute longer.”
On Monday morning, he reluctantly pulled the yellow mini van out of the district yard. He was glad the other drivers had already gone. It was down right embarrassing. Six seats. Six pitiful seats! No way, thank you very much.
Later that morning, he eased the van to the curb on the last pickup. A little girl slowly climbed aboard. Her chin trembled and he saw eyes bright with unshed tears. She waved a brave good bye to her mother. Then as she turned toward him, she placed a small trembling hand on his arm and said softly, “Hi, bus.”

“Don’t worry, the rain is coming”

By

Gerry Niskern

(This column from the Arizona Republic seems appropriate again!)

It’s late this year, and worrisome. We usually have a first big storm by the Fourth of July. But, relax, it’s coming, and it always comes with a bang! Here are some memories of past wet summers. Enjoy.
One day, years ago it was raining so hard I could hardly see them out on the sidewalk. One toddler ran by, laughing, the feet of his soggy sleepers slapping the pavement. Baby brother came into sight; his drenched diaper, laden with rainwater, dragging behind. Big sister in pink pajamas led the parade of upturned, wet faces squealing with the joy at the rain that had finally come after a long period of despair.
That year, in the late l950s’, the residents here in the valley had waited months for relief from the drought. On the days my children ran outside barefooted the pavement was scalding. The dry grass stubble was prickly and so were tempers. Respite came, as always, sometime in July.
We have had years of drought and years of unbelievable rains. That summer, before the rains came, the huge dust storms, the weathermen now call them Haboobs, left an inch layer of dirt on the bottom of everyone’s pool. The kids begged to swim, so I became an expert at pool vacuuming…every single morning!
The thunderstorms that sometimes come tearing thru the valley create havoc, but just manage to give everyone’s grass a good soaking. It’s hard to believe, but sometimes we do get too much precipitation.
Years ago, in the l940’s when I was a kid, the rain finally came and drenched the parched ground, but didn’t stop. The Cave Creek Dam finally broke. The railroad tracks along Nineteenth Ave dammed the water. The residential area around the Arizona State Capitol building had heavy flooding. We kids, in the blissful ignorance of childhood, just enjoyed riding our bikes through the knee high water flowing curb to curb in the streets. We didn’t realize that most of the businesses were sandbagged and the Capitol basement had flooded.
We were even treated to our first look at an U. S. Army amphibious vehicle. The Seventeenth Avenue underpass was flooded too and the kids all watched in awe as a group of soldiers came down the street and drove right through the deep water.
I’ll never forget my dad returning from hiking alone on South Mountain. He was caught in a downpour so hard that he said, “I couldn’t see or breathe. I was really beginning to panic!”
I remember a neighbor at that time telling my folks, “Back in l938, the Salt River really overflowed its banks. The Central Avenue Bridge was holding the water back and all of central Phoenix was in danger of being flooded. Just as they were ready to light the fuse to dynamite the bridge, the water started to subside.”
One other summer, when my kids were in their teens, around 1970, we lived in a different neighborhood and the rains were again unrelenting. The ground was saturated and one Saturday morning police drove through the area shouting on loud speakers, “Attention, Prepare to evacuate!” Arizona Canal just North a few blocks of us was starting to overflow its banks
The rains this summer won’t end the drought, only heavy winter snows do that; but as always, they will surely nourish our spirits.
Meanwhile, the scent of wet creosote bushes on the mountain above me, mixed with the pungent smell of desert grass below will be like heaven as I watch the rabbits and quail scurrying for shelter from the rain that is sure to come soon.

Accidental Birder
By
Gerry Niskern
“A bird does not sing because it has an answer,
It sings because it has a song”…..Maya Angelou

I woke up the other morning to find my rock covered back yard totally darkened with tiny, Finch- sized black birds. The massive flock was a sea of black bobbing heads as they feasted on something deep among the rocks. The back fence was lined with more of the small birds waiting their turn at this breakfast buffet. I have no idea what the attraction was; nothing like that feeding frenzy had ever happened before. My grandson suggested it might have been ants.
My number 1 son has often pointed out some interesting birds in his neighborhood and now I had a story to tell him!
I’ve never been a bird watcher, but I started recalling some special memories of birds that I have seen here in Arizona.
Once on a drive with my dad when I was a kid we rounded a sharp curve on a dusty desert road just as a hawk with a snake in it’s beak flew up out of some bushes and over the hood of our car. The startled hawk dropped his reptile lunch on the hood of our car. The lucky snake got a reprieve and we had a great story to tell our friends.
Another precious memory is of being able to look down from our balcony into a tiny hummingbird nest in a tall Hibiscus bush below. I was able to watch those tiny blue eggs in their nests every year without disturbing the mama birds.
Living at the base of the North Phoenix Mountains, I sometimes had the thrill of seeing the shadow of the huge wings of an owl overhead at dusk as it swooped down on a prey while I was sitting out on our balcony.
Because of our very wet winter here in our Sonoran desert, nature has provided the birds with a bountiful supply of food. Just in my yard alone the Saguaro and it’s cousin the Organ Pipe have outdone themselves. The Saguaro had creamy, white blossoms, even on it’s one tiny arm. The birds love the nectar and of course, the bats visit and pollinate at night.
The Organ Pipe stands at highest arm about l2 feet, with many branches. Starting in May and all of June it was a something to behold. Each morning I opened my front blinds to a unique gathering of birds feasting on the red fruit that the Organ Pipe produced. Everyone seemed to have a “seat at the table”. Both small and large friends were perched up and down the cactus branches. White-winged doves, Cactus wrens, even pigeons came to the banquet. No one could be bothered to stop eating and chase a newcomer away!
I’ve never paid a lot of attention to our bird population, but once I stopped and actually looked at the many species this spring, I’ve become fascinated. Most fly, but some travel only on the ground like the quail and roadrunners. I wonder if they even know that they are missing the “Pitaya Dulce”(sweet cactus). It’s been said to be better than watermelon.
When I go out front to sit in the evening (not right now!) I hear beautiful bird songs; and a few a little screechy. I wonder sometimes if the tiny mama bird that peers down at me from her nest in the hole in the Saguaro agrees with me.
There is estimated to be around 47 million official birders in the United States.
Actually, there is 47 million and one!

“Did Anyone Ask the Kids?”

By

Gerry Niskern

When politicians are running for office, it’s “all about the children” in every campaign speech. But guess what, those concerns are forgotten when it comes to budget cutting time.
I was dumbfounded when it was announced last year that the city budget for the coming year would include cutting back on the number of days the City of Phoenix public swimming pools would be open, I couldn’t believe it; not in the heat of this city.
After all, Maricopa County boasts more than 126,000 millionaires. When our city officials travel worldwide touting Phoenix, the fifth largest city in the United States, do they mention that we can’t afford to keep our public pools open for the entire summer? Surely, I thought, someone will remember how hot it is here in August, and revise their thinking about an early shutdown. It’s still hot and hundreds of kids still need a place to swim.
This year the lack of life guards was one problem. Perhaps if the wages were comparable to other essential city jobs there would be plenty of applicants.
Who can forget the feeling, growing up here in Phoenix, of arriving hot and tired at the counter of the public pool, paying your admission, getting a safety pin with a number and a basket for your clothes and finally jumping feet first into that deliciously cold water? It was heaven. Wherever you learned to swim as a kid, canal, river lake or pool, I’ll bet you’ve never forgotten the delight of that day.
Times have changed and thousands of children have the benefit of a pool in their own back yard. Then again, thousands of kids don’t even have a back yard, let along a swimming pool. Many parents of kids who use the public pools work hard at two minimum wage jobs. They manage to scrape together enough each day for the kids to get to swim. For many that is their only recreation all summer.
Let’s ask our representatives to think about those idle pools on their way home each day to cool off a bit in their pool with the family before dinner. And then when it comes to the budget for next year, sharpen their pencils for cuts in other areas besides on the backs of kids.
After all, did anyone ask the kids? Oh, that’s right. Kids don’t vote!

Color moods
By
Gerry Niskern
Have you been to the Dr. lately? Depressing, isn’t it?
I don’t mean your reason for going, of course, I’m referring to the monochromatic colors used in most of the waiting rooms everywhere. The shades of grey on the walls and the grey plank floors are not what you would like to see when you are feeling down, worried or depressed already.
I’m convinced there was a conference of office designers somewhere a few years ago and the outcome was a pledge to use only greys, blacks, a little white in all medical places. And then, of course, the wall décor must be silver or chrome art wall sculptures that have no redeeming features whatsoever.
Of course, when they call you into an examining room, you see that the walls do have some pictures to break the monotony . But wait, when you get closer it turns out to be a giant image of the human reproductive system, or worse, the digestion tract in living color!
For several years I went to a dermatologist who had quilting as a hobby. She was a wonderful doctor who also believed in sharing her beautiful quilts with her patients. They adorned the waiting room and even hung in the exam rooms. (master of tiny stitches!)
I remember actually being introduced to watercolor painting by another doctor who believed that his patients deserved to enjoy something beautiful, colorful and original. I was fascinated by the paintings on his walls. The images were so alive, ethereal and inspiring. They drew me into the painting world and eventually the art profession.
Another Asian dentist had original watercolors installed in every room. Visits to the dentist are never pleasant, but those paintings were unique. They were done by a fellow Asian, well known here in the valley, and a welcome distraction to his many patients.
I confess I don’t know how Pediatrician’s office décor is, I hope there is vibrant color and interesting images everywhere. Phoenix children’s hospital for example, does a fabulous job.
I’ll admit I haven’t accepted the idea of a monochromatic world that seems to be widely accepted everywhere, in our homes, in the miles of grey or tan homes or apartments. I think kids should grow up in homes with color on the walls and interesting art. Landscapes, portraits, and good abstracts can trigger a response that will lead in a thousand directions.
Hopefully, someday this monochromatic trend in décor will fall out of favor and some color will come flooding back to help change and lighten our moods.

How fatherhood has changed
By
Gerry Niskern

I’d like to share this story that has stayed in my memory for many, many years. I was about seven or eight years old at the time.

(John the hired man knocked on our door on a cold night, right after supper. He had a boy by the arm who looked about twelve or so. The boy had on a man’s old suit coat.

“I caught him hiking on the highway. Could you run him back to his folk’s in town?” John asked my dad.

“Sure,” my dad replied. “Put him in my car while we get our coats.” My sister and I said “hi” to no response, as we climbed into the back with the silent boy who sat rigid looking straight ahead. I was shocked to see a crust of bread lying on the car floor under his feet. Lena, John’s wife, must have given it to him, I thought.

I stole a glance at the boy. He had unshed tears in his eyes as my dad drove the five miles of steep winding road back down into town. “What’s your address, son?” my dad asked him a couple of times but received no reply.

Finally, as we reached the edge of town, he told dad where to turn. We stopped in front of a soot covered old house and dad took him to the front door. The porch lights came on and the door opened. A man spoke with my dad for a minute.

I got on my knees and watched out the rear car window as the boy, shoulders bent, shuffled slowly into the house as we drove away.)

I remember feeling sorry for the boy and asking why we had to take him back. My dad replied, “Because it’s against the law for kids to run away from home.”

Of course, no one knows why that boy wanted to get away from home back then. but we do know that times have changed. Parenting has changed. And the way fathers “ parent” in today’s society has changed most of all.

Father’s are no longer the traditional disciplinarian. Since dual income households has greatly increased, dads have nearly tripled the time spend with their children since the l960’s. If you were raised in the 50’s, you probably can’t help but compare the huge change in dad’s today. They spend more time talking to their kids, encouraging them, and really listening.

Some will always be better in the role of dad then others. I can’t help but think of the men in my family and how they differed. Some dad’s were there emotionally for the kids and some weren’t. Some were better teachers, of anything, than others. Some were good with babies and toddlers, but not so much with older off spring. Some taught with words,, others by example. If dad treated people with respect the kids learned respect. If dad was honest, the kids learned to be honest. Most fathers tend to follow the lead of their fathers, but with improvements too.

Those kids from the 50’s are watching their son’s become better dads than they were and their son’s will do the same.

Every family is Unique

By

Gerry Niskern

Are you going to a family reunion this summer? Reunions mean only one thing: GROUP PHOTOS. We all treasure that old family photo of the entire clan together. We can identify aunts, uncles and cousins by their common family features, but mostly, we know them by the way they dressed.
I saw an ancient family photo at a friend’s house the other day. Some of the girls had huge bows on the back of their heads. That set the time and date and brought a lump to my throat. You see, the only picture I have of my mother as a little girl shows her wearing a dress two sizes too large (in the hand- me- down era) and sporting a oversize bow in her hair (circa 1918).
Invariably we enjoy identifying individuals by their unique style as we turn the pages of old albums and that reminds us of a great story we’ve heard about that person.
Something changed on the way to the family reunions now days. Who decreed that everyone appear exactly alike now?
With many family reunions planned this summer, there will be one individual determined to produce a cookie- cutter group picture. No doubt she will have sent out newsletters six months in advance with the strict instructions. “Everyone, men, women and children are to wear a white shirt for the family photo. And, everyone must wear tan slacks. No Exceptions” If she is extra efficient, she will bring along a few shirts and pants for any slackers.
Think about it. What’s the worst that could happen if the “photo Nazi” just relaxed a bit and let each family member show up in what they always wear?
Is the point of reunion pictures to have a rigid, boring photo of an army of relatives faces in a sea of red, yellow or blue tee shirts or an interesting group photo celebrating the different personalities in the family?
It would be much more fun many years from now when future generations are looking at a family photo taken in 2023 if they will see teenage girls in low rise jeans, a few chubby ones with their “love muffins” showing. The boys could be in their baggy shorts. The twenty or thirty- something gals (the lines are a little blurred these days) would be sporting tube- tops and obviously a lot of new boob jobs too. The guys who work out would be showing off in muscle shirts.
They’ll remember that uncle who always had his Blue Tooth growing out of his ear; he might miss a money making deal!
There’s that aunt still wearing her bouffant hair and grandpa in his signature overalls. And there’s the cousin who joined the commune in her Hippie days, in her long braids, and granny dress.
Years from now, you will be glad everyone dressed as their personality dictated.
Viva la differences!

The ties that bind
By
Gerry Niskern
I had a phone call last week that “warmed the cockles of my heart.” It was my cousin Joann. She was going to be in the valley for a few days and wanted to get together with me for a mini reunion. We hadn’t seen each other in eighty-some years! I have to tell you, the joy that I felt on hearing her voice was awesome.
My mom and dad both came from large families so I had loads of cousins. What I remember best about those cousins was playing outside in the evening after dark, up to nine or ten o’clock. The grownups would be in Grandma’s kitchen or sitting on the swings out under the grape arbor, laughing and talking, while we kids were running all over the neighborhood at the direction of Joann’ older brother. He had the imagination to led an “army “ of kids, including little three-year-old Joann, in make believe games. If I remember correctly, many included him as the “Lone Ranger”.
‘This is great’ I thought. I’ll be able to ask her lots of questions about Moundsville, the little town we both came from and places that I missed because my family moved to Arizona when I was ten and she was three. She remained there through high school before moving away.
She clarified a lot for me; I loved to hear about some of my favorite places and how they had changed. My favorites were hers too! I was able to answer a lot of her questions about the family history that I had learned about the time our grandparents had come over from Austria.
We reminisced about the story of the time my mother saved my cousin’s dad. I’ve told it before in my writing, but it’s worth repeating. It seems a group of little boys were breaking a strict rule at the elementary school one morning and my mother saw her six- year- old brother among them. Later on, from her third grade class room, she saw the principal yanking her little brother down the hallway with a strap in her hand. Mom was only eight but she ran out and grabbed the principles strap and said, “You aren’t going to strap my brother unless you strap those other boys too!” Back then, boys from foreign families were always the first to be punished. The lady was so astonished that she stopped, let the boy go, and said, “Both of you just get back to your class right now!”
However, the more we talked it became clear that my memories of fun at our grandmother’s house; the wonderful Christmas celebration (and polka dancing) on January 6th, my grandma’s Christmas, were not Joann’s memories! Even though they lived right around the corner, her little family did not feel welcome. “You know, Gerry, “ she sighed. “The family was not nice to my mom. We kids played together, but my dad’s sisters did not speak to my mom. “ “Well,” I replied. “What I remember is your Mom made the best donuts in the world. I was always told not to go around the corner to your house, but I couldn’t resist! I didn’t lie, I just neglected to mention my furtive visits where I always received a warm sugar coated donut from your mom.”
When you are a kid a lot of things go over your head. I knew there was tension when her mom and dad walked by and a lot of whispering among the women, but knew enough not to ask questions. Kids weren’t allowed to question everything back then. I never knew that when she went around to see our Grandma, one of my aunts wouldn’t let her in. I broke my heart to hear that she wasn’t allowed to be with our grandma anytime she wanted as I always was.
To her credit, over the years Joann always kept in touch. She sent Christmas photos of her kids and then grandkids. I’m in awe of her tenacity in keeping track of all our many cousins. She valued her ties to all of us.
As we spent hours catching up last Saturday I was able to tell her about the time I was finally able, as an adult, to truly know her mother. You see, years ago I had flown with my daughter and her new baby, to a cousin’s home in Long Beach to get away from her volatile situation. Lucky for us, Joann’s mother was visiting the cousin in California. This aunt that I was never permitted to know was the most vivacious and fun loving person I had ever met. She told us story after hilarious story. She joked and made a sad time bearable, all while her fingers were crocheting bootie after bootie for the baby. I often think how sad that petty family differences had kept this woman apart from our family. My daughter and I went home with our spirits greatly lifted and baby had a diaper bag full of booties!
In this season of all kinds of family celebrations: graduations, weddings and large family reunions, I’m so grateful for my cousin who created our little mini-reunion because she knows the value of the “ties that bind”.