Even when I was a child, my Aunt Bessie seemed impossibly old.
She was actually my great aunt, but I knew her better than either of my actual aunts. After we moved to Jasper, Ala., so my father could take care of his aging parents, I spent a lot of time at her house. Her husband, Uncle Larkin, had been sick and somewhat cranky all my life, so I spent far more time with her than with him.
Aunt Bessie seemed like the cheapest woman on Earth. She shopped at stores that sold goods with some sort of flaw, because she said it was the only way to get a bargain. She ate the cheapest cuts of meat imaginable. She was incredibly frugal.
Most of all, though, she almost never threw anything away. It didn’t matter whether it was a rubber band or a scrap of fabric or a piece of string. She would store such junk away and say quietly, “I might need it someday.”
Aunt Bessie was only 24 years old when the Great Depression started, but it left an imprint on her which I never understood — and I fear we’re all about to learn what fear taught her.

Silence and darkness allow us to listen to what world drowns out
A month after my father’s death, it doesn’t feel real that he’s gone
Without community, we no longer know each other, in life or death
I can force child to obey me, but obedience comes with high cost
I’m not certain artists ever get to be themselves when they perform
Each unexpected death forces me to confront limits of my own life
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Coming soon: Meet John Crispin, Demopublican for U.S. president
Envy drives hatred for wealthy, but I want to earn my riches