I have a drawing of a baby in my living room.  The lettering at the bottom of the drawing says, “Her royal highness.” It’s me!

My mom’s uncle drew it from a photo of me, sixty years ago.

There are only a couple of photos from his visits; he drove a green Austin Healy convertible.  There is a photo of me in that car.  There are photos of that car parked under billboards and signs on his cross-country trips; he lived in California.

Do I actually remember his visits? I don’t think so. I think what I remember is from the photos…or the gifts. I still have the little baby jacket that has my name on it.

He worked as a chef.  When he would come to visit grandma, his younger sister, he would want her to cook for him.  Yes, her cooking was that good! He liked her lamb chops and pork chops. I remember my grandma’s stories about cooking both of those for him.  I wish I had my own memories of meals with her brother.

There was a sad dynamic in that family – the siblings, especially the brothers, were not close. Distance was not the problem; it was a symptom.

Thinking about that generation makes me glad that my sisters and I are close, with plenty of first-hand memories.

 

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