On one of my birthdays, Lilli, my grandmother, wrote me a several-page letter (blue ink, a schoolteacher’s script) about the day I was born in Rapid City, South Dakota, her and my grandfather’s trip to see me, and our trip back to Georgia three weeks later–mom, dad, baby, dog, grandmother.
I knew all four of my grandparents and two great-grandmothers–Lilli’s mother, Gram, loved to play jokes and had teeth that would come out and boy could she play the piano. Although each of my parents is an only child, I knew bunches of great aunts and uncles.
I am the oldest of five with three sisters when at long last, sitting on a stool in the kitchen with our housekeeper on an October evening in 1966, the phone rings, and I have a brother.
Then I have a husband and his family, and we have a daughter and three sons…
Now we have a son-in-law and his family. And my daughter and her husband have a son and two daughters.
We also have a daughter-in-law and her family.
I have been, and am being, steeped in family. I am rich rich rich in family.