The Love That Binds

Just as swallows return to Capistrano, salmon swim upstream, and turtles march to the sea, our family has, for decades, traveled to an annual reunion at the Chinn farm in Pratt County, Kansas. We can measure the pull of that migration by how many other family members we encounter at McDonalds, convenience stores, and ice cream parlors during the seven-hour trek from Colorado to the farm. It’s as if winds blow down the eastern slope of the Rockies, whisking pickups, SUVs, 18-wheelers, and Chinns along I-70 and various other roads to Kansas.Years ago, after making ourselves at home in the Pine Cone Inn—which we always dubbed The Happiness Hotel—we ran into my aunts Mary, Maggie, and Jean, the garage sale queens. My daughter Nichole and I made plans to caravan with them to Pratt’s garage sales the next morning. But, driving off with fresh coffee that morning, we took a zig to their zag and found ourselves far from town. Surprisingly, we discovered a huge yard full of treasures. As we combed over the collection of overpriced and overused goods, I learned Nichole needed a sewing machine. She spotted one but was unsure of its value.We needed to find someone with wisdom, experience, and good judgement. Who better than my aunts who had sewn their own clothes on the farm, then mastered drapes, upholstery, and their own children’s and grandchildren’s clothes? I called them, gave them directions to where we were, and described their mission. Their arrival brought a flurry of love, activity, and voices. They pronounced the sewing machine a good buy, so we loaded it up and returned to our lodgings.That afternoon’s reunion activities included an auction of donated family items as a fundraiser. Nichole’s contribution to the auction was to be two denim jackets revamped in her own style. But, as she blissfully sewed vintage handkerchiefs to the jacket with her new machine, a tornado of thread piled up, preventing the cloth from moving forward. The Happiness Hotel suddenly became The Mangled Motel.Once again, we called the aunts to seek their wisdom. Although they were already on their way to the farm, they quickly spun around and came roaring back to our rescue. Swiftly and nimbly, they disassembled the sewing machine, cleaning each piece as it was removed. Newly oiled and reassembled, they gave it a trial run. We heard success in the hum of the stitches, as colorful vintage hankies were added along the cuffs and trim, and our family name was sewn on the back.That afternoon, Nichole entered those stylish items into the auction. Though the proceeds from her items increased the family fund, the aunt’s display of trans-generational love captured the real treasure of families. Just as that sewing machine pulled threads together for a higher purpose, so did my aunts. They pulled the colorful human fabrics into the dance. They made us want to bring our best selves to every meal, every activity, every injury, and every task at hand.Reunions on the Chinn farm continue, but that “greatest generation” of aunts has now passed. Here amid the sunflowers, hayrack rides, and squeals of new babies, we hold deep gratitude for those farm women who weren’t afraid of work and were so happy to pass along their skills, talents and love to many others.Sandra Salankey is a Denver native who loves the mountains. She and her husband, Gary, have 3 children and 5 grandchildren. A former flight attendant and Jazzercise instructor, she loves traveling, dancing, and organizing pictures into photo albums. She believes every picture tells a story.The Timberline Letter is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit timberlineletter.substack.com/subscribe