Chapter Twenty-Nine

Another week — another Chapter.

This Chapter is on the short side, but I needed to take a moment to introduce you to a new character — and one who is very dear to me.

Here in the Dayton area of Ohio, we’re experiencing some wonderful snow. (Ouch! — I’m sure some of my friends who are reading this will disagree with that statement!) As someone who lived for so many years in Vermont, I learned to love the snow. Normally in this part of Ohio, snow in great quantities is rare, so now that we’re approaching 20 inches on the ground, it feels like home (read Vermont) to me.

Hope you are all well — thanks again for taking the time to be here and share this writing.

Be well — be in peace,

Ron Rink
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Life wasn’t entirely bad, however.

One of the genuine saving graces was the presence of my Aunt Dorothy in my life. She was my mother’s youngest sister and she lived in a small city just north of Detroit called Ferndale, which was in the Nine Mile Road and Woodward Avenue area. It was an easy, half-hour bike ride from my house to hers.

Aunt Dorothy wasn’t at all like my mother. In fact, she was nearly the exact opposite. While my mother was rigid, cold and unyielding, a person who never showed emotion or expressed her feelings to anyone, Aunt Dorothy wore her heart on her sleeve. She was a warm, open and gentle woman who wasn’t afraid to show her love for people. When she came into a room, or whenever you found yourself in her presence, an aura of kindness and peace seemed to surround her. She was in the perfect profession for someone with her way of relating to people — she was a nurse.

I learned to love her when I was very young because of how kind she was to me. Whenever my parents and I would go over to her house for a visit, she would always make sure I had fun things to do. Either she had saved the funny papers (that’s what we called the comic section of the newspaper—something my parents would never let me see at home), or there would be some new toy or game to play.

Since Aunt Dorothy’s daughter was only a year or so younger than me there was always a variety of books and magazines which would appeal to kids my age. My cousin’s name was Diane and she was okay to play with even though she was very quiet. She was also gentle like her mother.

Aunt Dorothy was married to a quiet, peaceful man, my Uncle Lisle. He was shorter and generally smaller in stature then Aunt Dorothy and seemed to always have a smile on his face. He treated Diane and his wife with great respect, gentleness and kindness.

It was always interesting to see my father and Uncle Lisle in the same room when we visited. Neither man had any understanding of the art of conversation. Their conversations were almost laughable.

“Good to see you again, Henry.”

“Yep, good to see you too, Lisle.”

Then there would be total silence for a few more minutes while they would rub their hands over the whiskers on their chins — scrape—scrape — or they would shift around in their chairs as they crossed one leg over the other, and then reverse their positions and cross the opposite leg — all the time rubbing their whisker stubble — scrape—scrape.

Then Uncle Lisle would say, “How’s work, Henry?”

My father would shift around some more in his chair, look up at the ceiling — scrape—scrape some more, and reply, “Oh, pretty good.”

There would be another lengthy, uncomfortable silence and then my father would say, “How’s work for you, Lisle?”

Uncle Lisle would think for a moment or two, rub his hands through his hair, cross his legs back and forth and finally reply, “Oh, pretty good.”

Then both men would sit quietly, listening to the women talk. That was as much idle conversation as either man could manage in one evening.

Another wonderful playmate for me whenever I would go over to their house was their beautiful black cocker spaniel, Smokey. My parents really hated having animals around them, especially dogs. They usually complained to my aunt and uncle whenever we would be at their house, but Aunt Dorothy either just ignored their complaints or politely explained how important Smokey was to their family. My mother often asked her sister to put Smokey in another room while they were there, but Aunt Dorothy just commented in her gentle way how this was Smokey’s house too, and he had a right to be with them. Smokey wasn’t a barker or a dog that jumped up on people. He did bark whenever we would ring the front door bell, but he always stopped once we were in the house and got busy sniffing us to see who we were. He usually fell asleep once he got used to people arriving unless Diane and I were playing with him, and then he could make plenty of noise, which really irritated my parents.

Diane and I would invariably be asked to go into the kitchen to play with Smokey if we got too rambunctious.

Aunt Dorothy didn’t look at all like her other sisters. She was short and stout like they were, but she didn’t have the harsh, stern, cold look in her facial features like the others had. She seemed to ooze kindness. She wasn’t usually a hugger or a kisser, no one in my mother’s family was, but she never left any doubt she really loved you. When she looked into your eyes, you knew she would go out of her way to do whatever she could to help you.
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My other blogs:

http://www.theleaderinside.com
http://www.buddhistbelief.com
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