Kith & Kin

It seems that as I was growing up Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners were always held either at Grandma Swartz’s or Great-Aunt Mildred’s. That makes sense, since for years they were the matriarchs of our extended family—they were sisters and the last members of that older generation. I loved them both dearly. I was closer to my grandmother, of course, not only because she was Grandma but also because she lived in our town. Great-Aunt Mildred was Grandma’s elder sister, and she lived about forty-five minutes away in Ashland. (I shall refer to her hereafter as “Aunt Mildred,” which is what we called her—and by the way, in our family it’s pronounced “ant”; none of that hoity-toity “ahnt” stuff for us!) I never knew her husband, Uncle Herschel. He passed away in 1963, two years after I was born. Uncle Herschel and Aunt Mildred had one son, Andy. “Andy” was his given name, and for a long time I thought he had no middle name. His grave marker, dated 1940–1994, has only the name “Andy” on

Great-Grandma Slutz lived in a neat little house in Fredericksburg, Ohio. If you were walking north on Mill Street (tiny Fredericksburg’s main street), you would cross a bridge over Salt Creek and then cross the railroad tracks and pass by, on your left, a house with the name “Graber” written on the door (which I pretended said “Grabber” because it was the home of a monster who would grab children who walked too close to the porch), and the next home was Grandma Slutz’s. This was the route I took walking home from school each day, starting in kindergarten. Grandma’s house had several concrete steps—probably five or six—that led up to her porch. To me they seemed quite high. You could stand on her porch and look down at the sidewalk, where Grandma waged war on grass and weeds that dared to poke through the cracks in the walk. She showed me how to kill them by pouring salt water or boiling water on them. Both methods quite effectively discouraged further growth. Directly across the s