Ok, ok, Sally Summers was not my aunt; she was technically my “second cousin, once removed” (she was my father’s cousin - my grandfather and Sally’s father were brothers). And she wasn’t really “mine,” she was everyone’s.

See, if you live in York, and are older than fifty, you know Sally, or at least know of Sally. She was an omnipresent force in this town, following whatever cause struck her whim or fancy and driving it to whatever resolution she felt necessary, usually behind the wheel of a convertable her petite frame could barely navigate. She was fiercely loyal to her family and friends, vicious to those who would hurt them, generous to those who respected them. I’ve long since lost count of the number of times someone in this area, when hearing my last name, would ask, “Are you related to…SALLY SUMMERS?” (Yeah, her name always seems to be in capitals when people outside the family pronounce it. Sometimes from inside the family, too.)

Another thing you need to understand is how odd it is that Sally and I would have been as close as we were. Years and years ago, there was an auto accident involving the two brothers (my grandfather, her father), and they stopped speaking…as with many goofy family feuds, the details are lost to time, but the results are that there are very few contacts between the two sides of the family…except for me, that is.

Sally found me when I was doing high-school and local theater…she asked me to join a local production of a theater piece she had written, “York’s Immortal Year,” as the young boy deciding to join the revolutionary army (back then, I was probably nineteen, and looked fifteen-sixteen tops - even into my late twenties, I was being cast as a teenager). It wasn’t a stellar production, woodenly directed, and a little sappy, but it was a paying gig and I got to kiss the girl, so I was in.
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