When I first moved to New York City at the age of 23 I was quite overwhelmed. One of the first things I did was visit my relatives in New Jersey. I had met them when I was in third grade on a cross-country trip our family took. A dozen years later my relatives welcomed me with open arms and made this native Oregonian feel, in some ways, like I was coming home. My Aunt Eve was one of those that made that transition so meaningful to me. My mother was named after her, and Mom's father died when she was three months old, so Aunt Eve and her siblings really looked after my Grandma and her two little girls until the Grandpa I know came onto the scene. Aunt Eve told stories about her brother's youth: the highlights of him playing trumpet (as I ended up doing) as a part of evangelistic meetings, as well as the funny stories of how they got into trouble. These rounded out my impression of who he was, and therefore who I am. I don't know how much time Aunt Eve had spent in New York City, but she had plenty of advice on what to do and what not to do, always shared with a twinkle in her eye and usually followed by a contageous giggle. She'll be sorely missed.
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