At different points in life, we may pause and reflect on the people we’ve known, recognizing them beyond the roles we originally assigned to them. Unfortunately, this realization often comes when someone passes away. Suddenly, a gathering of people—some we never knew existed—come forward, sharing stories that reveal a whole new dimension of the person we thought we knew.
I experienced this firsthand when I lost a very close aunt. She was a giver, always helping others, but after her passing, I was reminded of just how much she had impacted those around her. I received thank-you notes from students at Duke University, grateful for the help she had given them in a writing class. She had never mentioned it to me, despite our close relationship.
Writing wasn’t a surprise—she had been a teacher for her entire career. But what did surprise me was that, a few years before she died, she took a writing course in her community to improve her skills. That course and the support of her writing group motivated her to fill three large notebooks with what I call “conversational history”—stories of her life, her values, and the cultural norms of her time. I could hear her speaking the words of her stories. They were all so realistic and insightful about what was taking place in the world, including “her” world at the time.
I was her Executrix. When I distributed her personal belongings, I made copies of every story she had written. Her greatest gift to us wasn’t just her presence in our lives but the way she preserved her intellect, humor, and idiosyncrasies in those pages. Without her writing community, those stories would never have been told. She had constant encouragement, writing prompts and connections with like minded people. They all made an impact on those who had the privilege of enjoying their writing.
Community, when done right, is about showing up as you are and feeling like you belong. That’s the kind of environment I hope we foster at Impartial.
One of my favorite stories my Aunt shared was about a man she knew growing up in a rural county during World War II. Meat rationing was in full effect, and somehow, he managed to get half a pig—an unheard-of luxury at the time. Instead of keeping it for himself, he wanted to get it to his parents, who lived over a hundred miles away. He didn’t have a car or no one of one he could borrow. So, he went to the regional airport (this was the 1940s), borrowed a plane, loaded the pig, took off, and flew to his parents’ farm. Once he spotted their yard, he flew low and dropped the pig package from the plane and flew back home.
I still laugh thinking about that story—though I’ll never tell it as well as she did.
I miss her. She set the bar high for aging gracefully, always serving others in quiet yet profound ways and being an active part of her community.
