Without a doubt every visit starts out with me asking Edith how she is doing and her standard reply is “I’m getting old!” and my reply is normally “Well no shit Edith your ninety-five years old and you have a stainless steel knee that won’t bend leaving you much like the tin-man in the wizard of oz without the oil can.” This is always met with an Edith impish smile.
Edith Robertson is Anne’s aunt but I’ve been claiming her for my own for the past thirty-five years. She is pretty sure that I only love her for her fortune but you can’t put a price on that spirit she brings to the table. She is diamond tough with a heart that packs the same brilliance.
Edith was born in 1916 a year before the start of the First World War; they called it the big one. It was the start of the Great Migration when blacks started to move from the rural South to the urban North to escape a culture of slavery and racism. There were jobs in the North and Chicago was a boomtown producing goods that Europeans could no longer build while fighting a war. This really has no bearing on your life when you’re growing up in Dawson, New Mexico a place that God couldn’t find on the map.
If asking about her age you will hear “I was born in 1916, hell you do the math.”
I enjoy these visits as they are a reminder to take each day as they come; stay tough; and keep looking for that fortune.