“Can we please, please, please stay at Aunt Sheryl’s house!?” “Yes,” was the usual response to this very consistent question when visiting my Aunt and Uncle’s country home. She wasn’t my Aunt, and for many years I didn’t realize that she was, in actuality, my first cousine. You see, my first cousins were much older than my brother and I, and it was my second cousins we grew up with agewise. The eldest of eight children, Sheryl often provided care and hosted many a sleepover in our youth.

My cousin was a skinny woman, one with a distinctly pitched voice that rang loudly through the house when she needed something or scolded us for being too loud or misbehaving. She never went anywhere without her cigarette purse and most likely she had a cup in hand. I always respected her because she didn’t put up with any bullshit and if you needed anything, she’d try and help.

Sheryl was a single mom for most of when I knew her, raising our 2nd cousins and childhood besties, Stephanie, Chad, and Bobby. When we were together, we were inseparable. Spending the night at Sheryl’s was a night of games, TV, Hamburger Helper and some of the finest Kool-Aid you ever drank. We longed for those sleepovers and looked forward to church on Sunday morning before being returned to our parents. She always wanted us to have a good time and I looked forward to any visits with her. She loved her family very much and I felt she loved us just the same.

I remember the first time I took my then husband to meet my Cajun bred family. I had told him that they liked to joke a lot and lived very simple lives, and that he might need a translator for some. When Sheryl met him, she gave him the warmest and biggest hug and asked him if he wanted a beer and if was ready to eat some real food. She made him feel welcomed without so much as a blink. She would later try to get him on the dance floor. She liked his demeanor, he liked her non-bs attitude.

This tough cookie of a woman loved to dance. There was never a time I don’t remember her swaying around a room. I loved how much fun she was having singing her country tunes and cutting a rug with my cousins, my uncles, her sisters and brothers, didn’t matter, she was having a great time! It was so hard seeing her recently, she moved so awkwardly with empty eyes and splintered memories. I was glad for the time I got with her, especially when I would come down to visit as an adult.

My first introduction to a Tom Collins was provided by Sheryl at age 7 or 8—”lemonade”, she called it. It was just a dab, but when I was of age, the very first mixed drink that touched my lips was a Tom Collins because of that memory. One of the last family reunions required me to sit on the tail end of a truck, under a tree, sippin’ Amaretto Sours before noon with her while we watched my Uncles prepare BBQ in the churchyard under the hot Louisiana sun. When I told her I haven’t had one those since I was in my early 20’s, she responded with, “Pshhh, cuz, we don’t have any of that fancy shit y’all got up there.” We laughed and I was reminded of the warmth and directness of my family.

She was always a good hang. She was funny. She was fun. She was tough and tom boyish. She was a character. She loved her children. The memories I have from my childhood with her and her children are forever cherished. You always knew when she was in a room. She swore like her daddy and hugged like her mama and I loved her very much. I will miss greeting her at an opened screened door. I will miss the truck drives down gravel roads and flat land. I will miss riding horses in the hot sun with her and I’ll miss the way she dragged on her cigarettes. She’s with her daddy now, two-stepping through the heavens and singing that honky tonk music.