I loved Celia, not to say I didn't love my immediate family.
Celia tried to teach me to cook -- to no avail, tried to teach me to sew -- to no avail. I babysat for her two sons, and then her daughter, but she didn't attempt to show me how. Of course, her youngest boy, age two, managed to fall into the river while in my charge, and his brother, age four, managed to reach in and pull him to safety -- no thanks to me.
When I was ten, I used to visit my Uncle Tom and Aunt Carrie and their six sons who lived on Beach Street in Wollaston, Mass. A short walk with my cousin Billy, and I was introduced to the beach -- was this a beach? There was no sand, only rocks, but there were waves, which I guess made it a beach. Slowly, holding Billy's hand, I managed to sit down in the water, splash around a bit, enjoy the camaraderie of my cousin, get a bit of sunburn, enjoy a cookie, candy, drink of something -- orangeade? And the trek home, where my Aunt Carrie turned me over to her adopted daughter, Ada (who eventually married Billy) who gave me dry clothes and towel and led me to a place to change.
Uncle Billy taught me to tap dance. He and Aunt Carrie and some of the boys came out to Medway often. I remember Sunday suppers with them at our table.
