Kith & Kin

NOTE: This was published months ago . . . I thought. But I found it listed in my drafts, so here it is again. A while back my brother Eric scanned in over twenty pages from one of my mom ’ s scrapbooks. I ’ ll post some of them here and more in the future, along with my comments and memories. Brothers, cousins, and others, feel free to comment! Dad and me, 1961. Time to wake up! What a cute little booger I was! 1961. Great-Grandma Mabel Slutz holding me, 1961. Wendell Sidle and his sons, Doug and Mike (behind the swing). And that’s me and Dad on the right. July 1962. Mom and Wendell’s wife, Caroline, became friends when they worked in the office together at Rubbermaid. This was taken on the front porch of our house at the north end of Fredericksburg. I remember that swing. And I remember being friends with Doug growing up—he and I were lab partners in high school Biology. Doug died in 1989 at age 27. I think he died of a heart attack, but I do not remember for sure. Too young—very sad...

Thanksgiving is perhaps the best holiday of the year, filled with many traditions in our house. The day goes something like this. . . . Mama is up at 6 to put the turkey in. Back to bed briefly. Up at 7 to put the ham in. Showers. Takes the dog on a walk. It’s now 8 am. Time to make cinnamon rolls for breakfast. Slam the vacuum packs softly on the edge of the counter so as not to awaken an irritable male. Like a grizzly bear, the household male is hibernating, and, if awoken accidentally, is likely to come out of his cave in what could be called a “mood.” Put the cinnamon rolls in the oven on the rack below the turkey and ham. Wash up dishes from the morning’s preparations. Get out the mixer, corn, corn meal, and other ingredients to make Mama’s Famous Corn Casserole. Mix ingredients thoroughly, according to the recipe. Pull cinnamon rolls out of the oven and drizzle frosting over them. Set them on the counter, knowing that their scent will awaken Papa Bear as it wafts t...

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...