Aunt Edna
They say you always have to count your blessings because someone, somewhere has it worse. I guess I learned that first hand. May 26th 2009. The day I was supposed to be celebrating my fourteenth birthday. My day was going great until about 5:30. Traditionally, my father takes the birthday boy out to eat. As we drove along the Southern State heading towards the Grand Lux Café, dad got a call on the cell phone. By the tone of his voice, I assumed he was talking to one of his friends from work. But as the conversation went on, he uttered something that will stick with me for the better part of my life; “Yeah, I’m alright bro, my aunt just passed away.” I glanced at him then I looked straight ahead with a look of shock and disbelief. It felt like someone stuck a nail in my heart and it sank deeper and deeper with every passing word. When my father hung up the phone, I had to ask him if my Aunt Edna really died (I don’t know what compelled me to say that. I already knew the answer; it was denial, maybe.) But the inevitable answer came out. He said he wanted to wait until after my birthday and graduation to tell me. But I couldn’t cry. At first I thought there was something wrong with me, but I honestly could not cry. I loved my aunt to death, but all I could do was just sit in silence and reminisce. So I sat in the car and began to think about my Aunt Edna Gothe. I tried to recollect every moment I spent with my aunt and the first thing that came to my mind was her cornbread. Call me gluttonous or insensitive but that is one element about her I will be sure to tell my children about. Her food was one of the reasons why I was a little on the heavy side as a kid. (Thank God for varsity football) But I sat there with a smile on my face because no one ever went hungry in her house.
As I began to drift off in my thoughts, my dad and I arrived at the restaurant but instead of the Grand Lux, we went to Hooters which I had absolutely no problem with (they have excellent Barbeque Wings, just saying). As we waited for our food, I glanced at one of the big screen TV’s and they were airing a commercial for the WWE Pay-Per-View SummerSlam. And then, I took solace in my thoughts again. As an eight year old kid, my favorite show was WWE Smackdown (Aunt Edna didn’t have cable, but we still watched and enjoyed it.) We would get excited when our favorite superstars beat the villain. Whenever the villain would speak, she put in her two cents and explained to me how people are supposed be compassionate and righteous in life. Whenever I called her house, wrestling came up one way or the other and we always got upset when we missed a show. I just think of it as one more way it brought us closer.
After the two-man feast was over, we still had about a half a platter of wings left. We asked the waitress to pack up the food to go. As I saw my dad carry out the Styrofoam cases packed with food, I was reminded of the weekly care packages she sent us. I remember how my parents would tell her not to send so much food and relax. But as caring as my aunt was, she was stubborn as well. Whenever I spent the night at her house, I would always lose track of the time. We could be talking for hours on end and the clock would say 3 o’clock in the morning. Even when I got up in the middle of the night, she would be making pie batter, peeling potatoes, boiling eggs, or doing something. I don’t think she ever slept. But it made her happy knowing that a lot of people grew up on her food. She would send trays filled with chicken, potato salad, collard greens, and her infamous sweet potato pie (When I was a kid, I ate two slices and slept for about six hours.) It is so ironic that right now, I would kill for Auntie’s cooking or just to talk to her for a little while.
Before we left, dad and I sat down waiting for the check and he raised his glass in a toast for my birthday. He had a beer, I had Iced Tea, and we clinked our glasses together. It was supposed to be for me, but I was toasting a lady who gave so much in her life and asked so little. I toasted a woman who probably babysat for the entire neighborhood and never charged a penny for it. I toasted a woman who, given one night, could feed an entire military platoon with just the materials in her kitchen. I toasted a lady who had a huge hand in raising every member of my family. On that day, I toasted a woman who worked her whole life and can now finally catch her breath and watch the seeds that she planted grow and thrive. I toasted a woman who I am proud and honored to call my Aunt.
Skylight Letter #4
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