Category: Stories I Share

My Great-Aunt Frances never married or had children. She broke one engagement after her fiancé caused a division in their church. At her mother’s request, she stopped dating a wonderful man who wanted to marry her. Her sickly mother wanted her last single daughter to remain at home.

I repeatedly told Aunt Frances that she didn’t marry because we all needed her. She not only mothered her nieces and younger brother but also the generation above and two generations below.

However, her greatest devotion was quitting her job to spend a decade caring for her mother with Alzheimer’s. Aunt Frances slept across the foot of my great-grandmother’s bed so she would wake if her mother needed her during the night.

I remember those difficult years during my childhood. Aunt Frances stayed cheerful and funny and always served a treat when we visited. She made my sons, her great-great nephews, sticky buns like the ones that she had made for me.

During that time, Aunt Frances completed multiple paint-by-numbers and doll kits. I own five of her paintings and two dolls.  Her skill was great, but those items are precious to me because they represent my aunt’s faithfulness.

My youngest spent a college semester traveling through six countries.

After arriving in Athens, the study abroad group disbanded for an eight-day spring break. Students either flew home or were joined by family—too expensive for us.

After exploring numerous options, it became clear that my husband must join our son. How did we afford such a trip? I sold used, unwanted college textbooks on Amazon. In one day, I raised much of the $800+ airfare.

This “cheap” flight had an Amsterdam layover and arrived hours after my son. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to book it. Perhaps, I hoped for price drop? And then, I forgot.

I remembered the Thursday of the historic landing of a US Airways plane in the Hudson River—fourteen years ago today. Travelers briefly became wary of New York City departures. My coveted, nonstop flight from New York City plummeted to $600. I snatched it.

My son emailed “How will I find Dad?”

“He will be waiting at your airport exit gate.”

“Wonderful.”

One evening, I received a call from a special cousin. “The cancer is in my spinal fluid,” she said. “I’ve been given four to eight weeks.”

“Would you like me to come?”

“I would love to see your face one more time.”

There were blessings each day of my journey. However, I especially wanted one—a last photo with Cheryl. When and how should I ask? I didn’t want tears or forced, false cheerfulness.

My last evening, we stopped at Buc-ees for beef jerky. The Texas icon is not quickly described. All that is important is that the mascot is Buc-ee the Beaver, and Cheryl and I thoroughly enjoyed romping through the massive convenience store examining—and sometimes playing with—the merchandise.

Before we left, I asked Cheryl’s husband to snap a photo of me with Buc-ee’s statue. (Such photos are a family tradition.) Cheryl quickly and unexpectedly hopped out of the car and joined me.

I had my photo. A moment of silliness, not sadness. A fitting memory of a woman who loved playing jokes and making people laugh.