I left my first wife in 1977 when I was 24 years old. I returned to my home town in Michigan after having been away for ten years. I still had lots of relatives in town and lots of places to crash until I found a job and permanent digs. This was not as easy as inasmuch as this during this period the nation was in the throes of the Carter recession and jobs were not to be had for love or money. I had a few hundred dollars to tide me over for a while. The room and board of my relatives were more helpful than I can say.
A week or so after arriving in town I found myself staying with my father's sister and her family. I had known them as long as I could remember and had played with my cousins when we were children. One of my cousins, a middle child, plump and red-headed, seemed to take a special interest in me. She was nineteen years old and wanted to go everywhere with me, even though she had a fiercely jealous boyfriend.
One evening I borrowed her family's car and took my cousin, Mary, to the theater to see Star Wars. During the show, I nervously put my arm around her and she responded by reaching up and taking my hand in hers. I thought later that night I would wait until her family was asleep and sneak my way to her bed and get between those fleshy thighs until I struck gold. But it was not to be. When we got home her enraged boyfriend wanted his girl back and me gone, or else I was to face a sound thrashing. When choosing between fighting and running, I generally opt for running. The next day I found a place to stay with another cousin on my mother's side of the family.
After a couple of weeks my funds were running short and, with no work to be had, I enlisted in the Navy. Time passed. I was honorably discharged, I earned a degree at university, and married. My father passed away and I inherited a house where I lived with no mortgage. I was doing okay. Then, one day I received a phone call from my cousin Mary. By this time we were both in our forties. After living for years with her insanely jealous husband she had had enough. Her two children all but grown and she had to escape. Could she stay with me for a while, she asked. Naturally I welcomed her into my home. She was family, after all.
She arrived a couple of days later, her clothes and possessions packed in a green Chevy. She looked good, having lost a lot of weight. She had a nice figure and breasts that made a hungry handful. For the next couple of days we didn't do much more than talk and catch up on family gossip. She slept a lot, resting from her travails. Apparently her husband was an abuser, not that such news surprised me. Since I lived in that part of the U.S. where our family has the deepest roots I offered to give her a tour of the cemeteries where our ancestors are buried. It was on a warm day in early summer I took her to one of the family cemeteries. Our great grandparents were buried there as well as our great-great grandparents and aunts, uncles, and cousins of all degrees of relationship.
At the time I drove a 1972 Olds 98, an older car but in fantastic shape. A luxury car in its day it was the ultimate in comfort with a rear seat the size of a couch and upholstered in red velour. As we walked from the cemetery I took her hand and led her, not to the front seat in which she rode on the way to the cemetery, but to the back seat. I opened and held the door for her.