“Our front entrance — The vine you see over the door and around the side is a very beautiful lavender wisteria vine.” (Note on back of photo in Aunt Blanche’s handwriting)
Because, really, how many middle-aged couples would be willing to take in a small child and turn their comfortable lifestyle on its head with bottles and baby food and diapers and naps.
I was going to pass on this prompt as I’d already written about my aunt and uncle – see my story in the Unforgettable Person prompt — but my memory is pulling me to write a little more about them. I can picture them so clearly, even feel them, close to the surface. Or maybe it’s because our dog, Charlie, is really sick and I’m just feeling raw.
I’ve written about how I was taken in by Aunt Blanche and Uncle Ernie for the first two to three years of my life while my parentage was being reconfigured. How, over years of not being discussed openly, “it” all became a big, fat secret. How secrets have a way of festering like wounds, and this one did. But that’s all ancient history at this point, and I’m over it.
I think I just want to express my evermore affection for these dear people who even gardened with love, albeit half-lit most of the time. Because, really, how many middle-aged couples would be willing to take in a small child and turn their comfortable lifestyle on its head with bottles and baby food and diapers and naps. But, because I can still feel it, I know they must have fallen in love with me, too — a curly-haired moppet with deep brown eyes, a sweet disposition, and an eager-to-please nature.
How must they have felt when the day came that my mother, freshly remarried, picked me up and took me home with her. To my new home. They might have felt some relief, but something tells me they were more likely heartbroken.
I wish they were still here so, even now, I could soothe them like they must have soothed me when I arrived.
Here are some photos in their honor:
And here’s one of Charlie:
Artist, writer, storyteller, spy. Okay, not a spy…I was just going for the rhythm.
I call myself “an inveterate dabbler.” (And my husband calls me “an invertebrate babbler.”) I just love to create one way or another. My latest passion is telling true stories live, on stage. Because it scares the hell out of me.
As a memoirist, I focus on the undercurrents. Drawing from memory, diaries, notes, letters and photographs, I never ever lie, but I do claim creative license when fleshing out actual events in order to enhance the literary quality, i.e., what I might have been wearing, what might have been on the table, what season it might have been. By virtue of its genre, memoir also adds a patina of introspection and insight that most probably did not exist in real time.