In 1952 I spent the best part of the summer visiting my grandparents, Alvin and Berniece LaFollette, in the small village of Knoxville, Illinois.

Aunt Jean, third of the five LaFollette girls—young and lovely, a honey blonde—had just graduated from Knoxville High School. Her classmate Richard Henderson owned a 1952 Chevrolet sedan, maybe a two-door. It was his pride and joy, but Jean was his heart’s desire. 

Jean and Richard took me to the Galesburg Drive-in Theater, where we saw The Fuller Brush Man, starring Red Skelton. It was a cornball comedy about an aspiring yet inept door-to-door salesman. In my whole seven years, I had never seen anything so hilarious! Couldn’t wait to get home and tell Grandma and Grandpa the whole movie, from start to finish.

We took in other shows that summer, including Francis the Talking Mule, Ma and Pa Kettle, Bedtime for Bonzo, and Hold That Line, in which Huntz Hall of the Bowery Boys hurls a javelin through the dean’s window, shattering a priceless old vase; and does so again just as the dean finishes gluing the vase together. 

Such films were wondrous good entertainment for a youngster innocent of any thought that he might be cramping anyone’s style, in the dark of a drive-in movie. Taking me along on dates with Aunt Jean was amiable and open-hearted of Richard—who in due time became my uncle.

The two lived a long life together, mostly in Houston, Texas. He was an engineer; she kept house and worked many years in the public schools. In retirement, they moved to Montgomery, fifty miles north of the city. Richard, a smart, capable, and funny man, died a few years ago. Jean still lives in Montgomery, surrounded by friends from her church and community. Three years ago she moved into a nice apartment or condo in a senior community.

Her ninetieth birthday approached. We knew it must be marked in some special way. With all but one of her brothers and sisters gone, she was now the matriarch of a nationwide family. 

Jean’s children, Kristin and Randy, planned a reception for Sunday, October 20, three days after her actual birthday. Cousins Renee, Sherri, and Darryl made arrangements to fly in from Virginia with their mother Lynda, Jean’s only surviving sibling.

At eighty-two, Lynda is just three years older than I. We played together as children. I led her across a fallen log that bridged the Stink Creek in the jungly river bottoms near my house. She slipped and fell in a slough of stagnant, black-scummed stink water. I pulled her out, led her up the hill, and drenched her down with cold water from our garden hose. That was seventy years ago, but nobody has forgotten.

Cousin Rick drove to Houston from his home in northern Illinois. Rick, Uncle Dick’s only child, has made something of himself in the world: He married a very smart woman, met the King of Sweden, and posed in his birthday suit for art students. He also earns pocket money by transporting corpses for a local undertaker. He has been urged to write a book.

Ronnie and Jimmy Seuntjens drove down from Las Vegas, New Mexico; their brother Brian flew in from some other Las Vegas up in Nevada. Returning to Montgomery,Texas, was bittersweet for the three Seuntjens boys. It was here their mother, my Aunt Sue, met her demise when a large truck crashed into the car she was riding in. Still, they could not miss the opportunity to honor Aunt Jean and mingle with cousins long unseen.

I flew down from Madison, Wisconsin, with my wife, Jo, and my sister, Cynda. We gathered with the other nine cousins in a wonderful resort called Sweetwater at Lake Conroe. Over snacks and beverages we caught up with one another’s doings, shared laughter and tears, and made trips to local eateries to dine with Aunt Jean and Aunt Lynda. 

Jean still drives around Montgomery, a small town. She uses a walker a bit at home, but seldom if ever does she use it in public. Her voice is wavery, but her eyes remain clear and bright.

Jo and I accompanied Aunt Jean on Sunday morning to the Montgomery United Methodist Church, where everyone gathered round to wish her well, for she is much loved. She remembered when the church’s present building was being constructed. “Richard watched every stick of it being put together,” she said. 

On Sunday afternoon, all of us out-of-towners joined with many of Jean’s in-town friends for a tribute, at the Montgomery Community Center, on the occasion of her entering upon her ninety-first year of life. 

I told the story about going with her and Richard to see all those great movies when I was young. 

Rick brought along a book his father had made, with photos showing the removal of the old timber cabin from Grandma’s property and its relocation as a historic site on the other side of the town square. I explained all about that to anybody I could buttonhole and get to listen.

Jean’s grandchildren—Randy’s and Kris’s kids—were there for “Meemaw,” and they brought a couple of their own children as well.

When it was all over and all the group photos taken, we decamped to the Conroe Lake House, a swell restaurant recommended by Kris’s dughter Jordan. We all sat on the deck by the lake as the sun went down in a blaze of glory. We had small talk, beer, and some great fish and other entrees.

Then it was truly all over, and we needed to leave early the next morning. As senior nephew, I drew the honor of driving Aunt Jean and Aunt Lynda back to Jean’s apartment. Both of them were tuckered out and needed sleep.

I helped them out of my rented van, and we stood there a few moments saying goodbye. We hugged and kissed. “This might be the last time we see each other,” Jean said. She gazed at me with those deep and penetrating eyes.

“Any time might be that,” I said. “You never can tell.”

“Love you,” she said. 

“And I love you. Be well, and I’ll see you back here in ten years.” 

They tottered in the door, clutching their styrofoam carryout boxes.

I got back in the van and strove to remember how the newfangled ignition works.

Blessings,

Larry F. Sommers

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