We have always been blessed to have a nurse in our family. My daughter-in-law Ann is the most recent family member who fits that description, but my sister Peggy was a nurse, and even before her, my aunt Aldene Archer was a nurse too. We lost my Aunt Aldene on Dec. 5, and it’s still hard to deal with. She was 91 years old and had had a long full life. She had a stroke on Dec. 3, but just three days earlier on Nov. 30 and Dec. 1, she was delivering Meals on Wheels in my hometown of Claysville, Pa. She lived the life of a servant.
When I was growing up in the 1950s, Aunt Aldene was our family’s health care plan. We had some great doctors in our little town, but Aunt Aldene was always our first line of defense when it came to routine childhood illnesses, along with the bumps, cuts and bruises that go along with growing up. In my mind, she could do everything until I started really hurting myself beyond her abilities to patch me up.
But my Aunt Aldene and Uncle Vernie did a lot more than just give us first aid. Some of our Christmases were pretty lean after my dad had his heart attack. He had been working as hard as any man could work to provide for my mother and the three of us kids, but it took a toll on him. Times were good when dad could work, but not so much after he was sidelined. Mom went to work selling Avon door-to-door, and us kids had real responsibilities on the farm. Things had taken a serious turn and there was plenty of work for everyone.
When Aunt Aldene and Uncle Vernie showed up at our house that first Christmas Eve after dad’s heart attack, it was like I could finally relax and be a kid again ... if only for a night. Mom kind of remembers that visit too. All I can remember is taking a break from feeding our cattle and sheep and coming down to the house to have home-made root beer and store-bought ice cream.
Mom said at one point that Uncle Vernie put a couple of one dollar bills in my brother’s pocket. He pulled them out and proudly proclaimed: “I’m a millionaire!” I remember in the years that followed that we enjoyed wealth beyond our wildest imaginations — good family, good friends and God’s blessings.
After I became an adult, I really began to appreciate my Uncle V.’s rye wit and my Aunt Aldene’s incredible insights. They were a match made in heaven and they truly believed in the concept of loving their neighbors. They both had jobs, but they also worked to help the people of their neighborhood. Serving others was a passion and a way of life for both of them. They did it without fanfare and truly behind the scenes so that no one would ever know most of what they did. I admired that quality so much that I patterned part of my own passion for community service from their example.
I had gone up to Pennsylvania to visit my Aunt Aldene last summer when she suffered a less severe stroke. She was worried about a bunch of stuff, but after we talked about everything, I think she was in a better frame of mind. Like all people, she wanted to maintain as much independence as she could for as long as she could. Her friend, Peggy Guy, helped her transition back to independent living, and together, they delivered meals to area shut-ins. Peggy called me last week when my Aunt Aldene had the bad stroke. She said that the nurses in the hospital were amazed that Aunt Aldene had delivered Meals on Wheels just two days before she suffered her stroke.
I was always close with Aunt Aldene and Uncle Vernie, but never as close as we became after my mom had her stroke in 1991. When I moved mom from Claysville to Bluefield in March of 1992, Aunt Aldene started writing letters to mom every two or three weeks under the heading: “News from Mount Airy.” She wrote about all the happenings around Claysville — who was sick, who got better and who was stepping out on the town. Mom couldn’t read, so I read Aunt Aldene’s letters to her. They were fun, and really helped mom transition to a new life away from the only home she ever knew.
I had to smile last Monday afternoon as I stood on a wind-swept hilltop in West Finley, Pa., while a preacher talked about life and death. The last time I was in that same exact place was in April of 1993, when we laid my Uncle Vernie to rest. I just knew that the two of them were together again, helping others, just as they had throughout their lives. The wind was cold, but somehow, I felt as though I had become enveloped in a blanket of warmth and love. It made it easy for me to say good-bye.
Bill Archer is a Daily Telegraph senior editor. Contact him at barcher@bdtonline.com.
Columns
December 11, 2009
Remembering the warmth of a wind-swept hilltop in West Finley
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