Aunt Sue
Aunt Sue was my idol as a child. She was pretty, with short blond curly hair, big bluish-gray eyes. She was a hairdresser and a ballet dancer. I thought she was so mature and knowledgeable. She seemed to be aware of the latest trend’s fashions, and world events, more so than my parents. She had an infectious laugh. She was married to my Uncle Ken, my Dad’s oldest brother. She was about 23-25 years old at the time, if I had to guess. That is a very different perspective, thinking about it now from this side of the timeline. I mean, I wouldn’t consider a 23- 25-year-old in 2021 mature or knowledgeable. I have a stepdaughter in this age group. I guess that is the difference between looking forward and looking back.
This was Aunt Sue’s winter car. The car was a faded purple 69 Camaro with the aviation shifter. Traditional craiger slots. Her summer car was a silver and black 78 Z28 with a manual transmission. Her dad had drilled out an 8 ball to put on the shifter. It was fast. Apparently, Uncle Ken had gotten into some trouble racing it. I would love to know that story. I could see at the time; a 69 Camaro might be a better choice to drive in the winter. It was not flashy and fast to my child’s mind, and I am sure an automatic was easier to drive in the snow. We lived in Buffalo, NY. It was not apparent to my 8 years old self that this car was a beater. While it looked cool, the car intended to take the salt making rust, and crime, and wind and keep the Z28 looking pretty come spring, and neither rear-wheel-drive car was the best choice for winter activity.
Uncle Ron
That is my last memory of riding in the car. My Mom, Dad, sister, and I moved to Florida. Aunt Sue passed her to Uncle Ron, dad’s younger brother. Uncle Ron drove her for a while, and on one of our visits back to Buffalo, I noticed her in the garage at grandma’s house. Uncle Ron said he was rebuilding her, took her off the road for repairs. Only her nose and passenger side was visible. It still faded but looking just as I remember her.
Uncle Ron had come to live with us for a couple of years in Florida. He worked with Dad at the welding supply store and slept in the “Florida Room” of our trailer. Basically, in enclosed front porch with no AC. Uncle Ron had a new Bright Blue Chevy truck, I was about 15 at the time, and he would teach me how to drive it. He would take my friends and me for rides. Uncle Ron and I were close. He was a good listener to all the teenage emotions running about. It is funny how roles define the view of age in a child’s mind. I never did know how old my Aunts and Uncles were as kids, and I didn’t really know how old my Dad was. Dad is only 16 years older than I am. We will get to that story. Uncle Ron is about 2 or 3 years younger than Dad, so only about 13, 14 years older than me. Close enough to understand the growing pains.
Years passed, and Uncle Ron moved from our house to Ohio, where he met Aunt Ronda. They got married, moved to Buffalo, and the Camaro moved over to his garage. Uncle Ron continued to work on the car as time allowed. I grew up and moved to Georgia for work. Dad and my sister moved to NC. Time marches on.
Grandpa
February 1996. The phone rings. It’s Uncle Ron. You have a new baby cousin. Anthony. The first child for uncle Ron and Aunt Ronda, and they had waited a while for him.
Three day later, its 5:30 am, the phone rings, It’s Uncle Ron. “It’s time to come home. Your Grandfather had a heart attack.”
By that night I was on a fight from Atlanta, stopping in Charlotte to meet up with my dad and sister, and we all flew home for the funeral. I remember the airline lady being so helpful when I was trying to book al the flights. She suggested, why do not you fly to Charlotte, pick up your dad and sister, and you can sit together on the flight into buffalo. It was a sad, sweet, flight; we cried and drank and connected.
During that week of tears and joy, we had many conversations in the kitchen. We got to talking about the Camaro. You never know the power of your words, or what comments will stick with someone, but with a beer in my hand, I said, “I would love to have an opportunity to fix up the old car.” Be careful what you wish for. I thought nothing more about it, I was quite sure, Uncle Ron would never part with it. Uncle Ron did not give up on anything.