Aunt Esther

The last of my late mother's siblings died this week. In recent months the husbands of two of her sisters died. All the aunts and uncles on my mother's side of the family are gone.

Death also has come calling on the next generation. My brother and one of our cousins are dead. And even the next generation has had its first loss, the lovely daughter of one of the cousins.

We've made far more visits to funeral homes in recent months than we would have liked, but it's a fact of life that death is a part of the package.

It would be easy to linger on the loss of so many loved ones. But when we remember their lives and the good times and the laughter and the small personal triumphs of these extraordinary individuals, some of the veil of death is pulled away.

Take my Aunt Esther, for example.

She and my mother and their three sisters and brother grew up in the rocky hills and spring-fed valleys of the Ozarks over yonder. They were among those whose formative years were bookended by two world wars. They knew the deprivations of the Great Depression and tried so many times and in so many ways to share some of life's lessons they learned along the way.

They were taught to be honest and to work hard. They believed success could only be achieved through toil and sweat. They maintained the strong family values their mother taught them, married, had families, bounced grandchildren and great-grandchildren on their knees, enjoyed the simple joys of being alive and then died.

Before they died, they reared me and my cousins, and -- I'm not bragging, just stating the facts -- we turned out to be a credit to them. That's saying a lot these days. They were enormously proud of us, and their praise and encouragement made us try even harder.

My Aunt Esther, in my mind, was the most industrious of a family of diligent doers. All of my aunts were fantastic cooks, but Esther not only cooked meals that reappeared in our best dreams, she planted the garden that grew the vegetables that turned into delicious meals. She picked the blackberries from the briar patches along the dusty country roads. She peeled bushels and bushels of apples to fill pies and Mason jars filled with jelly and apple butter.

And, as if that wasn't enough, she was a whiz with a pressure cooker.

That may not sound significant. But, then, you never tasted her chicken and dumplings, a combination that became a staple at family reunions.

She also was a risk-taker of sorts. At a time when family gatherings demanded tried-and-true dishes like fried chicken and cheese-filled casseroles, Aunt Esther went out on a limb. I remember my brother's outdoor wedding in a park followed by a picnic featuring -- again, I'm not bragging -- the best food ever eaten while sitting on grass. Her contribution was taco salad, a combination of seasoned ground beef, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese, salsa and crushed Doritos, all melded with a special Miracle Whip dressing.

As I write this, my mouth is watering. I'm thinking of a heaping plate of Aunt Esther's taco salad. Or a heaping plate of her chicken and dumplings.

These are the memories I'll take with me to her funeral Saturday. My cousins will be there, of course. They'll have their own stories to tell. That's something to look forward to.

jsullivan@semissourian.com