Charlotte

“Charlotte’s the buckle of the Bible Belt, wheeeeee!” My Southern uncle explained his city’s accessory-geography to my Northern step-father on Tuesday at our mini-family reunion in North Carolina. They were talking regional architecture, these two college professors, a subject they both know a lot about. Meanwhile, I, the architect, was busy trolling through crystal bowls of candy. My timeless aunt offers sweets every time you sit down, stand up, or blink. “Want some pecan sandies?” and “You must try these white chocolate truffles!” and “Won’t you enjoy these chipotle chocolate almonds?” She’s as consummate a host as she is an aunt. I aspire to her example with my nieces and nephews, but in my mind, I’ll never measure up.

In remote parts of the world where there are few westerners, your very presence is enough to make you a celebrity. The same is true in remote parts of your family. At mid-life, your bones may be weary,  but they are spongy and new to those who knew you as a child. The adoring eyes of your mother and father’s brothers and sisters are at once a balm and a beckoning door.

“You are a treasure, child, a treasure,” my uncle said to me repeatedly, in his thick drawl. He wanted to know my theories about parenting, my favorite style of architecture, and how I like living in a college town.  He asked about my siblings, who were busy at their jobs 700 miles away. “Tell me about your children’s new school,” my aunt said, settling into the soft spot of the sofa so she could absorb every detail. I’d explain a decision, and she’d affirm it. Especially the hard ones that sometimes still wake me at night. “You did what you had to do, and you did the right thing,” she said. She turned to my dear, fearless mother, now in her seventies, and patted her leg. “And so did you. You raised four children. Four wonderful children.” My mother and aunt were friends in college who married brothers–my uncle and my father. My aunt is still married to one brother. My mother is not. Purple Kisses gleamed in a silver dish under the lamplight.

I was in the sixth grade the last time I was in Charlotte. I know because in the family picture, we’re gathered together on the same front stoop, my hair cut short like a boy’s. Middle school is no time to muddy gender. My uncle and aunt smile out from the photograph—my aunt then, now, and always, a beauty. As a young college graduate, her resemblance to Jacqueline Kennedy was so striking that she landed on the cover of Ladies Home Journal.  “Have some new issues to read,” she smiled, handing me a stack of magazines Tuesday night as I headed to bed. “June 2013” each spine declared. They were still in their plastic wrappers, pristine.

On the drive back home, I thought about my children, who couldn’t come to North Carolina because of end-of-the-year tests. Their lunchboxes were filled with food their Dad had packed: grilled cheeses, cups of applesauce, some sugar snap peas. “My neighbor would see me out her window and bring me a half-sandwich,” my aunt said on Tuesday night, recalling her early childhood. I’d be under the tree in the back yard eating pecans off the ground.” Her family was dirt-poor at times. Hungry.

The signs on Interstate 77 Northbound towards Virginia looked especially green under Wednesday’s storm clouds. Back when I first learned to drive, I’d look up at the oversized placards spanning 1-64 in Louisville.  I thought the giant route numbers confirmed the road I was on. But they were actually announcing highways about to merge or diverge from mine. The signs confirming the road I was on were smaller, and off to the side, tamped into the ground where pavement meets grass. But they were constant, exit after exit, for thousands of miles.

“Who gave you that?”my daughter asked, hugging me as soon as I opened the car door and stepped into our driveway. She ran her fingers up the rope chain of my necklace. “Aunt Mary Lynn,” I said. My son piled on. He held the pendant, feeling its ridged top and smooth back. “Mom,” he said, “it’s just like a chocolate.”