Auntie S and the Driveway Dash

The day Auntie S drove our U-Haul out of South Carolina is one I’ll never forget. She was my grandfather’s older sister, the kind of woman who could tell a story like no one else. As we pulled away from my Daddy Number Two’s house, she glanced at me with a sly grin and said, “We gotta get you guys outta here. That man’s got eight wives locked in his basement.”

Auntie S was, without a doubt, the funniest woman I’ve ever known. The oldest of three siblings—Susie Q, Auntie S, and Daddy B—she had a gift for laughter that could break through any tension. She was like the first pancake. You know, the one that gets flipped too soon, the one that’s a little misshapen, a little crispy around the edges, because the pan’s not quite ready.

Auntie S, in her own way, was that first pancake—crispy around the edges, yes, but also golden in her own right. Life hadn’t always been kind to her, especially in the small, tight-knit community where she’d spent her entire life. But she learned early on that humor was her armor. When life throws its punches, laughter is often the only way to dodge them. And though Auntie S never once let on that there was anything other than love for her parents, I remember my great-grandparents well. My parents were teenagers when they had me, so I spent much of my childhood with Nanny and Granddaddy. They were wonderful people—kind, loving, and always eager to make life better. But they were human. And humans, especially in those hard years, aren’t perfect.

Granddaddy, a man who’d grown up during the Great Depression and worked the land in the deep South, could be mean—mean like a snake, the kind you don’t want to find yourself near. He wasn’t the harmless kind either, the one you admire from afar. No, he was the kind of snake that strikes without warning, the kind you never saw coming. And I’m sure, at times, Aunt Sue had to deal with the sting—both for herself and for her siblings.

But it wasn’t just hardship that shaped Auntie S. It was the quiet knowledge that she was the one who had to rise to the challenge. She was the oldest, the one who’d carry the weight when the others couldn’t. I’m sure Granddaddy didn’t always appreciate having two daughters before finally getting his son to help with the farm, but what he couldn’t see—what he couldn’t know—was that Auntie S was the one who would follow in his footsteps. She became the farmer, the one who would carry the land forward, just as he had. And she was incredible at it. She married Uncle A, a dairy farmer who once held a position with the American Dairy Association. In her, Granddaddy would have seen the pride of his legacy—if he hadn’t been weighed down by his own burdens.

As a seven-year-old, I took Auntie S’s words literally, filed them away with all the other strange, fragmented memories of my childhood. But even then, I understood the deeper meaning: we were running. Running toward something better, or at least something different. It wasn’t just a physical escape; it was a symbolic one.

“We gotta get you guys outta here. That man’s got eight wives locked in his basement.” Those words repeated in my mind for years. 

It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I realized this sentence, buried in my hippocampus, was just an amusing tale—a piece of Auntie S’s vast collection of witty stories. I can't begin to tell you (but I most certainly will another time) the impact her storytelling had on my life. It wasn’t until decades later that I truly grasped the gravity of my literal interpretations of her jokes. For years, I carried that image of eight wives locked in my Daddy Number Two's basement, wondering if there was any truth to it. To this day, I’m still unsure if my Daddy Number Two actually had eight wives living in his basement. Imagine the look on my husband's face when I told him that story during our early years of dating. 

Auntie S’s humor was more than just a defense mechanism. It was a way for her to process a life that had been full of hardships, the kind of life that can make or break a person. And as we sped away, leaving one life behind and heading toward an unknown future, her laughter was a thread of hope in the midst of it all. Her humor wasn’t about avoiding the hard truths; it was about facing them head-on and finding a way to keep moving forward.

As we headed west, I felt the familiar mix of excitement and fear—fear of the unknown, but excitement about what lay ahead. Aunt’s stories filled the silence between us, weaving a tapestry of strength and resilience. Her laughter was a reminder that life isn’t always kind, but we can always make something of it. And though I didn’t fully understand it at the time, her laughter was a lesson in disguise: life is unpredictable, messy, and sometimes painful. But it’s also what you make of it.

Now, as I sit and write, trying to process my own inner turmoil, I can’t help but think of that day. That drive out of South Carolina wasn’t just about escaping a place—it was a leap of faith. A leap toward something new, something unknown, something that could offer a sense of healing. And in my own journey of self-discovery and growth, I’ve come to realize that sometimes the only way to heal is to face the chaos head-on, armed with humor, strength, and a willingness to leap forward—no matter what’s waiting on the other side.