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Health & Fitness

It's A Wonderful Life

It’s a Wonderful Life

The call came a few hours ago and it’s still hard to believe the news wasn’t some unfounded, baseless rumor. But now, for the moment, we’re together again, hanging out in the kitchen…for one last time.

Until recently, I’d never risk leaking out Aunt Clara’s age. I’d always chronicle Aunt Clara as having been born while Archduke Franz Ferdinand still had a thready pulse. It all changed when I heard Aunt C. refer to her age as ninety-nine and a half. But back on the Fourth of July, this house was alive with love, pride, and laughter…not to mention a pizza truck, an accordion player, and over a hundred friends, fans, and family celebrating one hundred years that make the word “special” seem so inadequate.

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And there have been many a holiday in recent years when it was just Aunt C. and me, sharing a pizza or some pasta or Ms. Calendar’s finest take-out cuisine…and all kinds of history and, for me, even more inspiration. A sip or two of Stella Rosa, and we were off to the races, the kitchen table serving as the greatest time machine ever.

One of my all-time favorite films is Avalon; its theme is family. In the movie, immigrant brothers engage in the same historical debates during every single family gathering. “Who got here first?” “Where did they live?” “When did they move?” The less patient next generation gets tired of hearing the same old stuff; “Why do you guys have the same argument over and over; they got here…so what!” One of the dueling uncles replies, “If we stop talking about it, we’ll forget who we are, where we come from.”

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Our family has always been Old School. And thanks to years of experience and first-class seats traveling in the loving Aunt Clara time machine, my cousins and I will never forget who we are or where we come from.

When I spoke with one of the greatest aunts to ever come down the pike earlier this morning, she was upbeat as always; waiting for my call after a talk with her doctor, reporting a good night’s sleep, and some good stats. And I think Aunt C. was still a little pissed-off at having missed the Clippers game from the night before; having had a previous restless night, she’d been advised to get some early sleep (watching the Lakers woulda probably helped.)

So it’s surreal sitting here in this house just waiting to see my aunt off for one last ride down the driveway onto Cecil St. I clearly remember my first trip here. When you’re about eight years old and you’re spending the day with your mom, closest aunt, and great uncle looking for a new home for Aunt Clara and Uncle Bill but really a new place to explore and have a freakin ball…it’s a good day…I’ll never forget. And there were so many more.

My aunt had an amazing 70-year career in the garment business and when she finally retired, it was on her terms; Aunt C. was still being recruited like a 5-star athlete when she was 85. And Aunt Clara called her own shots right up until about noon today in the home she loved, surrounded by pictures of family. Earlier this morning, I suggested maybe a trip to the hospital would give her low heart rate a boost; what I got in the way of a reply was “Goodbye Jack, I’ll see you later.”

I really hope so.

 

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