My Auntie Harriet died on Kauai last night. She was 92.
My paternal grandfather, Grampa Cecil, had four brothers. The youngest, Uncle Joe, died in childhood after being run over by a truck. The remaining four, Uncle Willie, Uncle Henry, Grampa, and Uncle Eddie, played lots of ball, married, and sprung ’em off in the forties and fifties.
Uncle Henry died in his early thirties of an ulcer. The other three boys have all since been forced to throw in the towel, each leaving widows. Auntie Harriet, Gramma, and Auntie Mary. I love ’em all.
Auntie Harriet was married to Uncle Willie.
One of the things I’ll always remember about Auntie Harriet was trivial in nature. It goes something like this: apparently her father was a very old man when she was born. Waaay up there. And like a trooper off the old block, she’d been holding her own there for quite a while too. So putting the two lifespans together and doing a little math, we realized that we were hanging out with an auntie whose DAD WAS ALIVE AT THE SAME TIME AS ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
That one never really sunk in. Now, it does.
But I think the two things I’ll remember most about Auntie Harriet was about all I could ever ask for in a grandauntie: she loved to play cards, and she had an awesome smile.