Visiting

My Aunt Estelle and Uncle Bill lived in Utica, Michigan in a mobile home park. Aunt Estelle was my Bubbie's sister and Uncle Bill was her second husband and he was Christian. Because of Uncle Bill we got to celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas, to the envy of all my mono-religious friends.

Aunt Estelle and Uncle Bill each drove Volkswagen Beetles; hers was red, his was blue. I loved those cars and revelled in the times when I got to drive with them and got stuffed into the back seat. They reminded me of their cars - they were both very short and round.

One day when I was about four, my mother told me that we were taking a trip to see Aunt Estelle and Uncle Bill. It was a big deal to do this, as their home was about 45 minutes from ours. We always went with Bubbie and Papa. As I remember it, this particular visit was taking place on Thanksgiving. Before we left, my mother laid down two rules for me: 1. I was not to say that Aunt Estelle was fat, and 2. I was not to, under any circumstances, call their mobile home a "trailer."

Even a four-year-old can figure out the reasons behind these rules; I reckoned Aunt Estelle was sensitive to those two issues. I had never really thought that fatness was something to bring up in conversation, had never once before thought to say, "Hi Aunt Estelle. You're fat." And I loved the mobile home. The park, as far as those go, was very nice. It had manicured lawns and smooth streets and someone even put a full-size deer statue between their yard and my aunt and uncle's, which I loved to hang around. The home itself was cozy and when the grownups walked through it, it actually shook. My own boring house just stayed still on the ground. The best feature, though, was the stacked washer/dryer combo in the bathroom. I didn't know one other person who had that! It was some cool digs, and trailer or mobile home, never seemed worth commenting on, only enjoying.

But from the moment my mom laid down the law, I became sure that I would slip. My blood ran cold and I was terrified to open my mouth when we got there. I have a vague memory of Aunt Estelle asking why I was so quiet and of burying my head into the front of my mom so I wouldn't have to answer and risk spilling the forbidden beans.

Luckily that fear wore off in time, because I thoroughly enjoyed visiting with Aunt Estelle and Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill died in about 1972 and Aunt Estelle moved to Florida 10 or 15 years later and died about 1992.

I have had no reason to go to Utica since.