Tuesday, August 19, 2025
In Memory of Aunt Jane
by Steven Graham
Around 1958, I was visiting the McArthurs at their Southwold home. I was about twelve; her son Shawn was three. Jane, ever the gracious host, set up a dartboard outside and handed me some darts—perhaps not her most risk-averse decision.
Each time I threw a dart, Shawn would run forward to inspect it. This meant I had to wait until he cleared the line of fire. I didn’t. And with the full force of negative thinking—“Don’t hit him with the dart!”—I did exactly that. Right in the back of his leg.
Blood streaming, we ran to the house. Jane calmly cleaned Shawn up, applied a bandage, and reassured me that everything was fine. No scolding, no drama. Just kindness.
That was Jane. I could impale her firstborn son with a dart, and she’d respond with patience, compassion, and grace. She made you feel safe—even when you’d just committed a minor act of warfare.
