Remembering Aunt Linda

I didn’t need to knock. I’m not sure why, but it was something I knew. Even a source of pride. Something else I knew was that once I opened the unlocked door, one of them would be in there. A head would appear from behind the refrigerator, or they would walk around the table drying whatever dish or pan they were holding, and announce my arrival with enthusiasm, “Garbut!”. It was the place where conversations began. Conversations that would carry us from room to room, as breakfast turned to supper and day turned to night. Each one began the same. A big hug, a friendly jab to the shoulder followed by a firm handshake, or some combination of the above. It was one of the smaller rooms in the house, but it was never crowded. Somehow holding the entire family for many a celebration. I remember it hosting only one time of sadness…upon the passing of its matriarch.

Aunt Linda was always the first one up, well before sunrise. We were always the last ones up, well after sunrise. The morning light shone brightly through its window, amplified by brilliant white cabinets. Somehow two chairs and the small table were always enough. Breakfast was usually casual and occurred whenever we made it down. It was sometimes preceded by a minor reprimand for coming to the table without a shirt. I had a slightly different understanding of the term casual. But she would usually greet us with a warm smile and a pleasant, “Good morning boys.” Uncle Skeeter, fueled by his morning coffee, would fix us french toast as we discussed our plans for the day. This simple setting was an example of the differences between kids and parents. Our preparation for the day, started with breakfast. While Uncle Skeeter’s started the night before, grinding coffee beans to ensure a fresh cup the next morning.

It was the center of activity. The heartbeat of the house. Someone was always coming and going. Given the crossing of the ways, you can understand why the majority of group conversations occurred there. It was the perfect size and setting, regardless of the number of participants. My favorite perch was either of the two corners, where the counters and cabinets made ninety degree turns. You could sit comfortably and lean back against the cabinets, without feeling like they were crowding you. Even better, if Aunt Linda or Uncle Skeeter was working away, they could easily work around you — lean forward if they needed something from an upper cabinet, lift a leg for something in a lower cabinet or drawer.

By lunch, the sun had made it’s way across the sky and away from the window. The cool darkness was welcome relief from the hot, south Georgia sun. Ice would crackle and pop as we poured Uncle Skeeter’s warm sweet tea into cups from Friday night’s football game. You knew it was no more than an hour or two old. No matter how much we drank to quench our insatiable thirst, there was always more. Sandwiches and chips were the normal fare, served on paper plates with woven straw plate-holders. I can see her hands as she prepared the meal. There was a deliberateness to their movement, and even their resting positions. After placing the sandwich on the plate, she would delicately grab a handful of chips to accompany it. Chips were stored in a tin. Blue and white, it was more than a simple container, rather a decorative piece in harmony with the room. The chips may have come from the same bag anyone else could get, but they were special. Somehow better.

I only remember one replacement of the refrigerator over the years. The transition provided minimal change. Both were stark white, with ample acreage for pictures, papers, and all the little reminders that would get lost anywhere else. Aunt Linda chose to adorn her canvas with pictures of the kids — Will and Anne for sure, but also McDavids, Haggards, Lees, and more Harveys. Over the years, the faces stayed the same, but the pictures did not. Her fridge had no long term memory. There was no room given the ever-changing lives and activities of her subjects. Even when you are alone in the room, loneliness is impossible when you’re surrounded by your family.

The supper menu was often more formal. I know we enjoyed countless everyday suppers too, but the ones that stand out are the meals that celebrated special occasions, specifically Christmas. Even though we may have sat at the kids table, there was no such thing as a kids menu. We ate congealed salad just like the grown-ups. Congealed salad presented quite a conundrum for a child. Was it salad, and therefore something to be spurned in the name of rebellious youth? Or was it an early dessert, a peace offering from the adults in exchange for good behavior? To this day, I’m still not sure.

The conversations continued throughout the meals and usually carried on for hours after the final plate was clean. At some point, a word would be used that was unfamiliar to the kids. When asked for it’s meaning, Aunt Linda, ever the teacher, would advise us to look it up. Luckily we all knew where the dictionary lived. You can imagine the response if one of us were to ask, “where is it at?”. I never wanted these nights to end. I never wanted the first person to leave the table. There is an energy that is present when the entire group is engaged, but this energy fades as people leave and disparate conversations begin. The night follows close behind.

They say it’s not where, but who you’re with that really matters. I would offer that when you’ve got both the who and the where, life is even better. I know that we’ll never see her in that room again. I’m not sure why she had to go, but they say He has a plan. I like to think that His plan involves a similar room in heaven, where she is preparing meals and waiting for us. There is nobility in cooking. Nurturing others with the food you prepare and the words you share while doing so. Surely heaven recognizes this nobility and allows us to share it with other believers.

How a room could harbor so much emotion is beyond me. Along with ingredients for meals yet made, its cabinets overflowed with memories of times past. It was the place where conversations ended. Conversations that conveyed our shared love of this fragile life and all of its glorious experiences. Each one ended the same. The room was dark, backlit by the florescent bulb in the window above the sink. No need to walk me out. A sincere good night with an implied agreement for a prompt return. I always locked the door and turned off the outside lights as I left. Leaving in darkness, but always to return in light.

- Garrett & Carly