I’m currently sitting in a Ford Taurus that reeks of the nasty “rental car smell” that is oh-so-liberally (and somewhat ineffectually) used to mask the smoking habits of previous occupants, speeding back to Connecticut on the Mass Pike. The premature death of my aunt at the age of 60 from a brain tumor brought me back to see family in upstate New York whom I haven’t seen in 15 years or so.

My trips up to see them ended prior to college as my time there made my inclusion on the less-often trips more difficult, my parents moving to Wisconsin in my junior year basically impossible. Moving to California and the further lack of geographic commonality with my immediate family pressed my absence even further. Working for a start-up and the uncomfortableness I had since developed from the duration of my alienation from that part of my family kept me from going to my grandmother’s funeral; less-than-optimal income/savings and my current primary employer kept me from the pragmatic but inevitably depressing “last visit” to see my now deceased aunt a few months ago - both situations had continued a tradition that I’m not proud of.

For those of you with whom I’ve spoke about my father’s side of the family know that I’ve always been somewhat uncomfortable with the massive gulf in life experiences my immediate family has with them. My uncles, aunts & cousins from my father’s side of the family all coincidentally ended up (and never really left) the Oneonta area of mid/upstate New York. My uncle (father’s brother) and his family had the most similar experience to my own family’s, with their achievements like kids going to college. My aunt’s family (father’s sister) unfortunately had a rough life. Despite all of this, though, one thing always was consistent - the very real, sincere love these people have for each other and their persistence through it all. This strength, which I only recently realized, came from my aunt.

While I’m not much of a funeral person (who is?), I’m really happy that I came - I had my misgivings about how I would be received after my long absence, but I was pleasantly surprised I had nothing to worry about. They’re extremely wonderful people with hearts so big it sometimes take you by surprise (exhibited, for instance, in the warm & comforting, lingering bear-hugs we shared upon seeing each other after all this time). In my hiatus, I hadn’t completely forgotten that, but certainly the memory had faded to the back of my mind. I just wish my visit would’ve been under much better circumstances and with the opportunity to see my aunt alive, happy and healthy.

While I lacked specific memories of one-on-one experiences with my aunt that I could’ve shared at the memorial, I always had an indistinct warm, comfortable feeling of her. She was one of the most loving mothers and grandmothers, proud and happy of any accomplishment. She was simple (in an uncomplicated, not derogatory, sense) and straight-forward, strong with a bit of sass. Her running away when she was a teenager in search of the father that walked out on her and her family was an epic story within my extended family, and only an example of her strength of will. Despite my lack of personal experience in spending a lot of time with her, others’ memories of dancing the Lindy or inadvertently stealing feed-quality corn (which they didn’t notice until after they got home) from some field in their youth didn’t surprise me at all. She wasn’t in the position to change the world in a big, noticeable way, but she did what she could in her own world, with her family, her community, her church - which was, in her own world, readily and sincerely recognized and appreciated.

I’m sorry that I hadn’t seen her for so long, that I missed the opportunities to see her before she died, that I hadn’t gotten to know her better than I did, that she suffered through the cancer that took her life. But I will always appreciate having known her, for all those little experiences that may have gotten fuzzy with age but have given me what little I have of her. May you rest in peace Aunt Bobbie, and know that you’re missed by all who’ve known you.