One day when I was in Kindergarten, I got off the bus, as usual, but something not usual at all faced me. I couldn't find any of my family at home. Being the youngest of 6 children living on a dairy farm, our house was rarely empty, so it was a surprise to come home and find it so. The first person to come to mind, the first safe place to go besides my own home, was Aunt Gloria's. Her phone number and my own were only one digit different, so I memorized her number almost as soon as I knew my own. I used the green, rotary wall phone in our kitchen and called her. I explained my predicament and she told me to come right over. She would watch me from her kitchen window as I crossed the road and walked to her house, making sure I arrived safely. I did arrive safely and there I stayed until my parents came home.
She was also my Primary Class Sunday School teacher. I sat at the wooden table in a metal folding chair while she taught us stories from the Bible and lessons about God and life. She had a habit while she was teaching of twisting the pieces of her pen back and forth - tip out, tip in, tip out, tip in. With each turn you could hear a little click. This was part of Sunday School in her class. To this day, when I twist a pen open or closed, I think of her. Funny the little things that stick in our memories and bring a person back to us as clearly as if they are still right there with us in the room.
Often for school we had fundraisers that required us to go door to door selling one thing or another. In middle school and high school, it was chocolate bars. I hated this ritual of going door to door selling things. Somehow to me it felt like begging and I hated the rejection of people saying, "No." But Aunt Gloria never said no to whatever I was forced to sell, she was always a sure sale and not only to me, but to other kids in the neighborhood. As a kid, I appreciated that sure sale, that generosity, that kindness that made doing something I hated a little less painful.
Another time as a young adult, I had two friends over for homemade pizza. We had the pizza assembled and ready to pop in the oven when we discovered that the element had gone bad and the oven that was supposed to have been preheating was stone cold. Once again I dialed that ever familiar number. Sure, we could use her oven. What temperature did we need to have it set at? Off we traipsed across the road, carrying our pizzas, across the lawn, up her front steps, through the living room, and into the kitchen to bake our lunch - catastrophe averted.
She was just that kind of person - warm, welcoming, generous, and hard-working. Although she had a house to run, food to preserve, lawn to mow, a farm to help her husband run, 5 children to raise, and church functions to attend, her home was clean and tidy any time I visited and despite her many activities she always had time for people.
A couple of months before she passed away, I went to her home to borrow some photos for my mother's memorial service. We had a lovely time reminiscing about the past, hearing stories of her earlier days. When it came time for me to leave, she told me to come again and not to wait so long next time. Sadly, I wouldn't have many more opportunities to visit her and the next time I came it was to help her daughter care for her as she faced her final days.
She was a lovely, gracious lady - a safe and welcoming place for many youngsters and friends alike. She is loved and missed.
