Quirks and
Vagaries of Life and Family
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When I was a child growing up in
Indiana, I loved Christmas for one
reason. The mailman delivered the annual box of clothes sent by Aunt Ann,
practically new hand-me-downs from cousin Nancie, a year older.
Back then my grandma made most of
our clothes. Back then, home sewn dresses were not “cool”. I lived for Nancie’s
clothes. Attitudes are vastly different today. There is a world of difference
between “homemade” and “Hand Crafted”.
Each year Grandma sent me off to
school with three new dresses, made in the same style her own girls wore during
the Great Gray Depression. Nancie’s clothes saved me from the shame of being on
par with the girl who only wore two dresses all year. Girls notice those
things.
Consequently, though I didn’t know
Nancie, she was one of my favorite cousins. After all, I wore her next to my
heart.
Shortly before Christmas, Miss
Naomi, our second-grade teacher, in a timely manner, taught us to write “thank
you” letters, and “friendly” letters. I was hooked on writing.
Aunts Ann and Lucille lived in Port Angeles, Washington, Aunt
Joanne in Indianapolis. Aunts Lucille and Joanne had no children. They sent me puzzles
or games, books, soft woolen scarves and mittens.
After Christmas, I dutifully wrote
and mailed “thank you” letters to all my aunts. Each responded. I wrote back, thus
setting in motion years inked missives of connection. When my dad uprooted us
and plunked us down in the middle of Montana, I added a roster of Indiana cousins
and classmates to my voluminous letter writing.
By the time I was in sixth grade, I had
grown taller than cousin Nancie and the generous boxes of clothing no longer
made the postal trek across the mountains. I continued writing letters to my
Port Angeles aunts. I’ve no idea why, but Nancie and I never corresponded. Sometime
in my late twenties, early thirties, my life took a tumble, and I abandoned letters
to family and friends in favor of midnight scrawls of maudlin poetry which I
had sense enough to keep to myself and destroy later.
Years later, I moved to Washington State.
Aunt Lucille had died and I had lost touch with Aunt Ann. When Aunt Joanne flew
in to Seattle, she and I drove to Mount Vernon where Aunt Ann now lived. We spent
a delightful afternoon getting re-acquainted. One topic of conversation, of
great importance to me, was our letters.
At Aunt Ann’s funeral, I finally met
my cousin Nancie. Because of our early vague but distinctly real connections, I
felt like I’d found a friend I had lost years ago. Since then, we meet at every
opportunity. We even drove cross-country on a road trip to visit remaining Indiana
family.
Three years ago Nancie introduced me
to Lani. In turn, Lani introduced me to Etzatlan, a farm/ranch village near
Guadalajara. I, in turn, introduced Kathy and Richard, long-time Canadian
friends, to Nancie and Pat, Lani and Ariel.
In a quirk of life that has us still
pinching ourselves, within a short three weeks, Nancie and Pat, Kathy and
Richard and singular-unit-I, each bought homes in Etzatlan. Now we’re
neighbors.
Miss Naomi taught me well. She said,
when writing, to act as if I’m sitting across the table from you, having tea. I
don’t know that those were her exact words but that is how I took them to
heart.
Dear Aunt Ann,
See what has happened in my life, all because I wrote a “thank
you” letter when I was seven.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
March 3,
2016
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