"You'd better really think about that," she said. "Get an education."

I miss my aunt Dorrie. She was one-in-a-million. She was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and came to the United States as a war bride at the conclusion of World War II. My uncle was a supply sergeant in the United States Army, stationed in Belfast long enough for the sparks to fly.

She was a fun-loving, street-smart girl and he was a quiet, small-town boy from the Midwest. He would loosen up after a few cold beers, which is what I assume brought them together. They could be the life of the party. She was the eldest of seven siblings; five girls and two boys. My mother, who also later immigrated to "The States," was the second youngest. All but the youngest eventually made their way across the pond. Her eldest brother, Albert, joined the United States Air Force after serving in the British Royal Air Force. He went from navigating a bomber to managing an airbase bowling alley. He made it a career and retired in Texas. He was a hoot, too.

Unlike my live-life-to-the-fullest aunt, my mother didn't approve of drinking, at least not to excess. She'd have an occasional gin and Squirt, but the occasions were limited to one or two a year. My father liked his Jameson Irish Whiskey. He'd have a cold beer if offered, especially in the heat of the summer. Mother's watchful eye kept him from getting in trouble. However, if they'd both consumed just the right amount, they'd take off down a dance floor like Fred and Ginger. She was an award-winning Irish dancer. He could glide across the floor like a Buick Electra 225. Ironically, I can't dance a step. Nonetheless, I learned that dear-old dad was on to something with that Jameson. I guess the nut doesn't fall too far from the tree.

The tea pot was always whistling at Dorrie's house. We'd sit around the kitchen table, drinking tea and talking for hours. Most of the conversations revolved around local gossip. Everybody knows everybody else's business in a small town. I grew up in the second-largest city in Illinois, about 90 miles northwest of Chicago. Our gossip was different, not as detailed. Her friends were constantly dropping by for a quick visit, it was like the local pub without a liquor license. Everyone was always welcome, as was the latest gossip. I don't know how she ever got anything done around the house with the constant interruptions.

One day, my parent's dropped me off at her house so we could spend the day together. They went to visit my dad's brother, who lived in the same town. I was a senior in high school and looked forward to nothing but graduation. College hadn't been much more than a passing thought. I wasn't much of a student, but I was the sports editor of the school paper. I kept my grades up simply to remain eligible to play sports and to stay in my mother's good graces.

Over a "spot" of tea, aunt Dorrie and I began to talk. I told her I was thinking about joining the army. My father had served in the tank corp., following the immortal Gen. George S. Patton through Belgium and into Germany. I'd been enthralled by the war movies I'd seen as a kid, even though my father had never spoken of it. John Wayne had no equal.

She got up from the table, poured herself another cup of tea, and gave me the most sobering look I've ever seen. 

"You'd better really think about that," she said. "We had it bad, but I fear more for your generation. If this country calls for you, you go. It's been very good to us. Otherwise, leave well enough alone. Get an education."

I remember it like it was yesterday, but it was 1975. The country was living in the shadow of Vietnam, a war that claimed the lives of a couple of my friends from the old neighborhood. Another was a prisoner of war from 1968 until the mass release in 1973. I had a lot to learn about the realities of war. Hell, looking back, I was just a directionless kid. I was barely old enough to drive. Nonetheless, I had an unlimited amount of tomorrows. Didn't we all?

For some reason, her words etched themselves into my subconscious. Most of my buddies were applying to colleges, so, I thought, why not? My parents would be shocked, but elated, if I could find a college -- any college -- that would accept me as a student. Wouldn't you know it? My one and only application to pursue a general studies degree was accepted. Now, I had a direction, but the needle on the compass was spinning and refused to stop. Which direction should I go? What career was I going to pursue? What did I want to do with my life? All questions with no readily available answers.

The whole idea of college was foreign to my parents -- to those of my friends, too. Our fathers worked as salesmen or on factory floors. Our mothers, if they worked at all, were secretaries or waitresses. Asking them for guidance would not lead to any viable answers. Then, thanks to my school guidance counselor, I learned that mass communications was a major, leading to a bachelor of arts degree. Who'd of thunk? I enjoyed working on the school paper. I'd raised a little hell and made a name for myself, which was "Mr. Unspeakable," as far as the administration was concerned. So, I earned that degree and eventually turned my name into a byline. Thanks, aunt Dorrie. I really miss you.