I like this post a lot–and, because I like it a lot, I hope you will, too. And I hope you had an “Aunt Ada’s House,” where you felt as loved and protected.
Aunt Ada’s house had a white picket fence.
Like the zigzag cut edges of a square 1950s black and white photograph, the fence surrounded the entire perimeter of her one-acre property. Her cozy, clapboard-sided Cape Cod—white with red shutters and trim—occupied a corner of this picket fence photograph. And although a 60-year-old photo may fade, my memories of Aunt Ada are as sharp and clear as ever.
When I was a young boy in the late ’60s Aunt Ada was in her late sixties. Technically, she wasn’t really my aunt—not my mom’s or dad’s sister—she was actually my paternal grandmother’s sister; but I grew up calling her Aunt Ada.
Short and plump, she had wispy brown and grey hair in a style befitting a woman her age. She was soft-spoken and amiable. From even my earliest memories, her face, although slightly withered from age, was always genial, always companionable. …
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