I spent a lot of time with my grandmother's sister Dorothy and her husband. My grandmother called her Doe, but I never called her Aunt Doe, always Aunt Dorothy. She always called her husband Edmund, but I never called him Uncle Edmund, always Uncle Ed.
I remember being at my great-grandmother's house on Hemstreet Road. It must've been a holiday because we were in the front room. The doors were never open to the front room unless it was a holiday and lots of people were in the house. It was a stormy day, raining hard with thunder and lightning. We have spectacular storms in Colorado, but none seem as much so as they were at home.
Aunt Dorothy and I were standing by a window when a particularly loud clap of thunder immediately followed a bolt of lightning. I know it scared me, but I can't remember whether I said so out loud, or if she just asked me if I was afraid of the storm. I know I was. "I was too," she told me. "Until one night Edmund and I sat in his car, watching the lightning and counting the seconds until we heard the thunder." She told me then that the number of seconds were equal to the number of miles the lightning was away.
I don't remember how old I was when this took place, but my guess is I was under five. I always think of my Aunt Dorothy when there is thunder and lightning, and that quiet, special moment we shared. It may not seem like much, but my grandmother's sisters rarely told "personal" stories, especially to my generation, unless they were funny. I remember lots and lots of funny stories, and lots and lots of laughter, but very few quiet, special moments like that with my aunt. I miss her so.
No comments:
Post a Comment