A Little Bit Like Home

Dimes for Aunt Helen

The sow sat nearby, heavy but patient, waiting for her next meal. Unlike most pigs, she had a strict diet. She only ate dimes.

That was her purpose. Pennies, nickels, and quarters had other destinations, but dimes went into the pig. Dad always said when the cast-iron creature was full, we would cash them in and go see Helen.

Helen was Dad’s sister. I called her Aunt Helen my entire life, which is probably how aunts should be addressed when they are the kind of aunt who earns the title. At the risk of offending every other relative I have ever loved, Aunt Helen was my favorite.

Aunt Helen lived in Longmont, Colorado, which with the speed limits in place, was about a 12-hour drive from home. But distance did not always require much planning. More than once, Dad would wake up from a Sunday afternoon nap, look around as though the idea had just landed in the room, and say, “I wonder what Helen is doing?” A few minutes later, after a short discussion with Mom and a call to Aunt Helen, we were packing.

This was good news for me because I had already developed two important travel skills. The first was the ability to spot the golden arches of a McDonald’s sign long before any billboard announced its exit. The second was an eye for pretty rocks along the side of the road, a skill I considered under appreciated by the rest of the family.

Mom and Dad would drive all afternoon, into the evening and on through the night. By the time we reached Longmont, Aunt Helen was fixing breakfast.

Aunt Helen had a way of making a kid feel like his story was worth hearing, even when the story had no plot, no ending, and probably involved a rock found somewhere between Nebraska and Colorado.

That was Aunt Helen’s gift. She did not treat children like background noise until the adults were finished talking. She listened, asked questions and acted as though the details mattered, even when the details came from the back seat of a car.

There was also a sense that, with Aunt Helen, something might happen. Not necessarily something big enough to make the evening news, but something big enough to make a boy remember it. A short drive became an outing. An ordinary day could pick up speed if Helen decided there was somewhere to go or something worth seeing.

That may have been what made those trips feel so exciting. We were not just going to Colorado. We were going to Helen.

Most of those trips to Colorado included a few excursions once we arrived. Aunt Helen would load up with us as we ventured off to places like the Garden of the Gods, Rocky Mountain National Park, Estes Park, the Royal Gorge or Pikes Peak.

For me, rocks were the best souvenirs. My brother Joe and I would often ask Dad to stop so we could pick one up. To us, those colorful Colorado rocks were beautiful. Dad would agree that we would stop shortly.

Inevitably, within a few minutes of the request, Dad would say, “Oh, there’s a pretty rock.”

From the back seat, Joe and I would shout, “Oh yes! Stop! Stop!”

Dad’s response was always the same: “Ope! Too late!”

Eventually, of course, he did stop. He must have stopped more often than I remember, because there are still dozens of rocks scattered around the farmhouse that originally called Colorado home.

A 12-hour drive sounds different to me now than it did then. Now, I think about the miles, the weather and beginning a road trip after a Sunday afternoon nap. As a child, I only knew Mom and Dad were in the front seat, the highway was unfolding in the dark, and somewhere ahead of us, Aunt Helen would be awake, probably making breakfast, ready to welcome us as though arriving at daybreak was the most reasonable thing in the world.

I do not remember ever opening the pig and cashing in the dimes. Maybe we did and I failed to notice. Or maybe the dimes were never really the point.

The cast-iron sow still sits in the den. It still has a litter of dimes inside.

Tom Brand is a St. Joseph, Missouri, writer whose latest book, You Have To Leave If You Want To Come Back, is available at www.RichardsonPress.com. He can still spot a pretty rock from the back seat.