I’m sure that every family has replayed a similar scene, a gathering of the clan. The uncles and aunts with their respective spouses, all of the adults lingering in the dining room long after the dishes had been cleared. Smoke curling from lit cigarettes, the ever-present bottle of Scotch, stories being told, jokes swapped, most of the content unsuitable for tender ears. Tender ears… that would be me, my sisters, my cousins, the kids who were supposed to be safely tucked in bed, and usually weren’t. Not many of us could resist the lure of crouching in a dark hallway outside of the dining room listening to the grownups talk. We knew better than to venture into the lighted room – bedtime was worse than Coventry when you’d been sent there for the second time. Then the rules were strictly enforced. Helen was my father’s youngest sister. Like all of the siblings, she was quick witted and had a fabulously dry sense of humor. Long is my list of ‘Helen-isms’, and when I hear myself repeating them, I can see her face, the way she would strike a pose, or point her finger for emphasis. I was rummaging through old letters and documents today when I came across an article written and published by Helen. Not sure that many in the family have seen, let alone ever read this particular story, I thought that I’d post it here. If you’d like to read it, just click on Story Time.