In the summer of 1987, when I was nine years old, my dad taught me the breast stroke in the cool, clear water of a flooded limestone quarry. My mom taught me how to make meatballs, standing on a chair next to the stove. My Aunt Linda, on the other hand, taught me how to deal with panhandlers on the streets of Brooklyn, New York, as we searched for an afternoon snack of potato knishes. Today you hear about New York City in the 1980s, and how rough it was. Linda didn’t care about that.
She was different, Aunt Linda. I called her “Auntie Lin” well into my teens, because that was her personality. That was who she was. Ever vivacious, she was a second mother to me and exposed me to so many of the things that I’m still pursuing today, some of which have become cornerstones of my own identity. She never wanted children of her own, but her legacy was no less enduring for that; she touched many people in her short lifetime and she will forever be missed by those who had the pleasure of knowing her.
Growing up, my parents did not offer much in the way of adventure. We didn’t go on vacation, and I’m not sure if that was for lack of interest or lack of… principal, if you’ll excuse the gratuitous double entendre. My dad taught me about making fire, respecting nature, and the value of hard work. My mom taught me about making art, the wonder of books, and the value of education. Auntie Lin didn’t offer much in any of these regards, but she blew back my horizons many degrees of longitude as she nudged me out of my little Rust-belt bubble into the vast world that waited, breathing, scintillating, beyond the edge of my imagination.
Auntie Lin dragged me off to Disneyland when I was six years old. The incentive to go was that I’d be allowed to take my first ride on an airplane. I remember the trees and the buildings shrinking below as we ascended, and looking out over the horizon as it grew thinner, longer, and further away. It’s still an experience that never gets old. I was forever changed after that moment, and I wonder if I had boarded my first plane at a later age how I might be different today. My mom died having never eaten Chinese food (crazy, I know). My dad will probably do the same. They were always content to keep treading the same path, but Linda looked for novel things to experience. She made me try carbonara, and oysters, and Chinese dumplings. She always told me that I didn’t have to eat it if I didn’t like it, but I at least had to try it. She traveled to Europe, and Asia, and she never made it to Africa but always talked about her dreams to go there. She loved giraffes, and zebras, and other exotic animals, plants, and destinations. She had good taste in furniture and clothing, and bought excellent gifts, months in advance of the holiday or birthday on which they were to be presented. She loved to entertain. Loved telling stories and jokes. Loved making people feel welcome and comfortable.
Her primary vocation was as a hairstylist, but she only worked three days a week. In her free time, she was working paid storytelling gigs, trying new recipes, planning trips, or getting involved with her church. She was always on the go. Always looked perfect. Always had impeccable manners. She could be a little judgmental, and a little impatient, but these were small flaws in the shadow of her expansive and magnetic personality. She was deeply religious and she always tried to evangelize me, but the only gospel I ever accepted from her was the one she demonstrated with her actions: live well, have fun, be kind, explore, and never stop.
Aunt Linda died of Cancer at the age of 59, eight years ago this month. I was 29. It was the first time I ever really thought about my own mortality, and how short our time might really be. I traveled to Europe on my first trans-oceanic flight the following year, on my 30th birthday, and I dedicated the trip to her. I have always kept her in my thoughts and she has forever been an inspiration to just get out there and pursue whatever excites, and whatever beckons from over the edge of the unknown.
I love you Auntie Lin. You’re still with me and you always will be.