Bring Her a Latte

You'll always be glad you did.

There’s someone in your life right now who needs to hear from you.

My mother, center, with her parents, brothers, and sisters-in-law. Aunt Hazel is on the right. Only Aunt Patsy, on the left, is still living.

Last year, my aunt Hazel died, in Jefferson, Iowa, where she had lived most of her 95 years.

Stay with me. This post has everything to do with food.

Hazel was married to my Uncle Bane; they lived in the country, down the lane from my grandparents and across the field from Bane’s brother, Wayne. Together, they all farmed the land, growing everything from corn, soybeans, alfalfa, and oats, to popcorn, peanuts, sunflowers, and Christmas trees. They raised hogs and cattle and for a time, kept sheep and chickens and ponies—and of course, there were barn-cats everywhere and all kinds of critters in the timber out back.

It was a magical place to spend time as a child.

What strikes me when I think of Hazel is how seemingly ordinary all my memories of times spent with her are. And yet, they’re extraordinary, too. I vividly recall watching TV in her farmhouse one summer night, when a storm knocked out the power. She and my cousin Sharon and I sat in the dark and played 20 questions for a long stretch of time, listening to the rain on the fields. As I write this, I once again smell the minerally scent of a hard rain on the rich, black earth. I feel the safety and closeness of being around someone who would walk through walls to keep you out of harm’s way. Sometimes, I think I’d trade one year of my life to get back there for just one evening…

Not long before Hazel died, my sister, Gretchen, came down from the Twin Cities, and together, we went to Jefferson to visit both of our elderly aunts, Hazel and Patsy.

We’re so glad we did.

The next morning, after I headed home, Gretchen decided to stop by the care facility to see Hazel once more. The previous day, Hazel had mentioned she liked café lattes, so Gretchen picked up a latte from the little coffeeshop off the square and brought it to her. They spent a few more moments together, and Gretchen went on her way.

Hazel died less than two weeks later.

At the funeral, when I was talking to Hazel’s sons, Fred and Randy, they mentioned how much their mother had enjoyed that latte. “She never got many chances to have a latte anymore, and she told us how much she enjoyed seeing you girls. And that latte.”

Reader, I don’t like to tell anyone what to do and how to live their lives. I trust you are all kind in your own ways. But I also know that some might appreciate this gentle nudge. You likely know someone who could use a visit … and a latte (or whatever else it is they love).

And if you bring it to them, you’ll always be glad you did.

Hazel’s graduation photo.

Note: I hope you enjoyed this post—I’ll be back talking specifically about France and all things French soon but once in a while, I can’t stop myself from telling you stories from my family’s ancestral farm.

Here’s another you might like:

Disrupted. Or, My Tractor Story

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