A small item in the February 16, 2015, issue of Time reported, “Your hands and feet dominate your feeling of overall thermal comfort, so stock up on the gloves and boot liners.” I was instantly transported to memories of Aunt Helen, who died in 1982 at the age of 88. Unschooled, but wise and practical, she would badger us with country wisdom, including the admonition, “Put socks on. When yer feet’s cold, yer cold all over.” She was way ahead of Time.

She was my aunt through marriage, but, thanks to the fertility of my grandmother, who continued to produce babies while her oldest sons were marrying, Aunt Helen was easily old enough to be my grandmother. In my eyes, though, she was ageless. Her gray hair clearly made her ancient. Yet, she eagerly maneuvered with me through barbed wire to explore the neighbor’s cow pastures behind the house, or hiked long miles through the woods beyond Swedesford Road to spend stifling afternoons having picnics at the county park, activities for which my frazzled, diaper- and Pablum-immersed mother could never muster the energy. When my aunt was not catering to my schemes, she ran the family service station, scurrying out in her flowered house dress and red Keds to pump gas into customers’ tanks long before women officially wrestled out their rights to perform “men’s” jobs.

Aunt Helen was vibrant and sassy, and certainly no saint. To the family’s frequent frustration, she was stubborn, single-minded to a fault, and an on-again-off-again alcoholic. But what I learned from her during my summer vacations, as I scrambled to keep up on the daily three mile hikes to the gas station, sweat streaming down my skinny legs, is that accomplishment comes in the doing, not the planning or hoping. I saw the way she named her goal, then tucked her chin and plowed forward like a linebacker, elbowing each obstacle out of her way, moving on, no matter what. That’s one thing I learned from her. That’s what got me through graduate school. Thank you, Aunt Helen.