By JIM NICHOLS

Writing instructors sometimes say that writing about oneself is not particularly interesting to readers; readers want to read about themselves, not you. That makes sense to me, but I will break that suggestion here and tell you about someone in my life. I justify this because, I suspect, each of you has or had one or more of such people play a similar role in your life. Although my description deals with a person you do not know, you will probably recognize someone from your past or present.

When I was born, my father was with the Armed Forces in Italy during the Second World War. He and my mother were married while he was in military training, and I was born well after he left the country on a slow ship across the Atlantic Ocean; he reports that there was constant concern about German submarines.

With my father gone, my mother had moved into the home of her parents (my grandparents). I did not see my own father in person until he returned when I was 14 months old. Growing up, I often quizzed my mother as to what it was like to have her new husband so absent. Of course, the only communications available then were handwritten letters carried by ship. Her response was that her situation was not at all uncommon; virtually all young men were fighting in the war somewhere. She did not feel unusual.

Living with her own parents must have been a comfort. Also in that home was my mother’s youngest sister, Harriet. The day I was born, Harriet turned 13. We shared that birthday until she died a few weeks ago. In a way, my aunt ended up being my big sister and second mother. While she was a teenager in the home, I was a toddler.

My memories of those early years are supplied by descriptions from others, but Harriet and I clearly had a love affair. When the war finally ended and my father returned, our little family moved from that house, but it was only a short drive.

We continued consistent contact with them, and Harriet continued to be my protector and friend. Not just a babysitter, she played the role of a young family member; as I began school years, she talked to me about what books I was reading.  I spent many weekend nights sleeping in bed with her upstairs in my grandparents’ house. The wind would blow the filmy white curtains across the bed. She had a stuffed animal named Humphrey; I got a teddy bear that I named Humphrey. She walked with me to the Fiesta movie theater to see cowboy movies. She picked me up and let me walk along a wide cement wall on the way to get ice cream.

Harriet met a man and she married; I went to their wedding. Many of the males in my family were pipe or cigar smokers. Harriet married a man who could blow smoke rings from his cigar; I was impressed.

I cannot remember any single time that she seemed angry with me. She seemed to know what I thought was fun and tried to help me find the fun even if it was not obvious. I thought it was odd that she called my grandfather “Daddy.” She continued to call me by my first two names (Jimmy Ross) well into my adult years, although she was trying to break the habit so as not to embarrass me.

Like her own mother, Harriet lived a long time. When I turned 13, she turned 26. When I turned 50, she turned 63. When I became 75, she became 88. The last time I saw her was at the funeral of another family member; she was glad to see me.

I suspect you have had another adult who cared for you as gently and closely as a parent would. Such people offer us needed buffers for the unexpected parts of our young lives. They are unique gifts to us.

My aunt was my first friend, and her body finally wore out. I attended her good funeral. I believe her husband still knows how to blow smoke rings. 

Jim Nichols is a retired Abilene Christian University biology professor and current hospice chaplain