A Letter to Aunt Helen

AMENIA — Dearest Aunt Helen,

When you came to visit, as the door opened, an amazing aroma would waft from the bags you carried, conjuring up exotic places. Delicious. Mouthwatering. CHEESE. Not dull, orange American cheese, wrapped in plastic like a mummy.  No. Enclosed artfully in heavy paper of some sort, with room to breathe.  Often overtaken by, was that mold?  I always wondered what your fellow subway and bus travelers suspected. As you followed the cheese through the door, you generally wore a woven hat from some far-off land or a garment that was somewhat unique.

How delicious were the treats you brought to my brother and me. Chocolate in the guise of gold coins, marzipan pretending to be flowers and vegetables. Pomegranates, avocados and artichokes that you had to show us how to eat. Silver jewelry from Mexico, of wondrous design. Your letters from foreign lands were long and descriptive as you sought to imbue us with a lust for travel. You rode a donkey into the Grand Canyon before it was fashionable and possibly would have thrust yourself over the falls at Niagara if it had been legal.

As a teacher you were relentless in stressing education. You fervently wished that I speak French as fluently as you, so that when I went to France I might be mistaken for a native. You were a Spanish-English business secretary and could deliver a speech in German. You were in the process of mastering Russian. Language was, to you, a delicious, mouth-watering edible.

Earning your Ph.D. with honors in French literature while teaching elementary  school, typing and proofreading other candidates’ thesis and tutoring every child who might need it. I marveled at your skills at the typewriter. Your fingers knew exactly where to go without your having to look at them. Of course, unlike mine, your spelling was impeccable.

What a compassionate person you were.  Not only on a personal basis but seemingly for all oppressed or maltreated people everywhere. Marching in the May Day Parade was a must.Working for the newly formed Teacher’s Union in New York City. Signing petitions to right a wrong.

When we were little, you purchased season tickets to the children’s concerts at Carnegie Hall. How delightful was that?  The “Sorcerers’ Apprenticeâ€� became a friend, and every character in “Peter and the Wolfâ€� was a familiar personality long before Disney turned them into cartoons. The only thing that might deter you would be a bout with poison sumac, after a hike. But as soon as you recovered you picked up your binoculars and once again sallied forth into the woods and trails.

Aunt Helen, dear, what a constant teacher you were. I’m still trying to emulate you and live up to your expectations. Often it has been a supreme challenge. How did you do it all and with such joy and exhilaration?

Whatever door you knocked on or bell you rang, when asked  “Who is it?â€� you responded,  “It is I.â€�

And so you were. â€œIt is I,â€� is the perfect response in any language.

I love you. I miss you. 

Your niece,

Rhoda

P.S. It was only later on that I found out what else was in your bags. A newspaper or two, a change of underwear and a toothbrush. After all, one never knows when one might be invited to stay.

Rhoda Lubalin is an artist, a former art teacher and a “Lifelong Learner� in the Indian Rock Schoolhouse Association. She is a charter member who is present at every Arbor Day celebration, every fundraiser, every picnic and participates with great enthusiasm just as her Aunt Helen would have, had she been with us today.