A Nephew Takes The Wheel

Crista Cowan 0:00

The wind was roaring so loud through the open top of my brand new convertible that we had to shout just to hear each other. It was a bright Saturday afternoon this past May, right before high school graduation. My 18-year-old nephew Levi was sitting in the passenger seat beside me. We were out on the west side of Utah Lake, where the road stretches into empty desert, wide open and quiet, far away from city traffic, and we were testing out just what my car could do. Laughing and screaming at the top of our lungs as the speed picked up and the wind whipped around us. And then, on a completely empty stretch of road, I suddenly pulled the car over onto the shoulder, put it into park, I turned and looked at Levi and I said, Do you want to drive? I wish you could have seen him. His eyes lit up, this massive grin spread across his face, and without hesitating for a second, he hopped out and ran around to the driver's side, his deep dimples still showing. A while later, as we were cruising back toward town at a much lower speed, Levi glanced sideways at me and confessed something. He said his dad had pulled him aside right before we left that afternoon and whispered, see if she'll let you drive. He hadn't even needed to ask. Sitting in the passenger seat, watching him navigate the road, I realized it was the perfect moment to tell him a story about another woman who drove a convertible. This one bought back in the late 1980s. I told him about getting to ride down Sunset Boulevard toward the ocean with the top down when I was 18 years old. And I realized right then, out on the edge of Utah Lake, that even though my aunt had been dead for more than five years, she was sitting in that little two-seater car right along with us.

Family History Lives In Us

Crista Cowan 1:54

Hi, I'm Crista Cowan, and this is the podcast where telling your family stories can help create a deeply connected family. Welcome to Stories That Live In Us. When we think about family history, it's often as something that lives in dusty books or old census records or leaf hints and pedigree charts on ancestry. But the truth is the people who came before us are alive in the way we live right now. The way they loved us shapes how we love the people in our lives today, how we carry our families forward, and what will remain of us when we're the ones who've become the ancestors.

Meet Rhonda In Her Kingdom

Crista Cowan 2:36

Her name was Rhonda. She was my aunt, but if you ever dared to call her Aunt Rhonda, she would call you a moron. That was her word for a lot of things people did. She hated being called aunt. In her mind, being called aunt made her sound old and formal, like her own Aunt Madeline, my grandpa's sister, who was emotionally distant and tough to get along with. She preferred to just be Rhonda, like Irma or Karma or Phyllis, her aunts, on my grandmother's side of the family. Those relationships were warm and familiar and fun. Rhonda was a force of nature. She had this magnificent big fluffy auburn hair that swirled around her head in constant motion, these long red fingernails that were always manicured to perfection, and a personality that filled every square inch of whatever room she walked into. She ruled her world with a diet coke in one hand and a cookie in the other. Thirty years ago, Rhonda, my dad's younger sister, and Sandy, my dad's older sister, opened a costume shop in Tarzana, California called Etoile. It's the French word for star. That store was her kingdom. She sat at a work table in the back behind the rental counter. There you would find her mending a damaged costume in seconds, or curling the ribbon on a gift package with those long red nails, or putting a disrespectful customer in their place with a single raised eyebrow and a perfectly chosen word. In my 20s and 30s, I would often go down to Los Angeles during the week of Halloween, which also happens to be the week of my birthday, to work alongside her in the shop. It was complete chaos. And she loved every second of it. So did I. One year, some B-less celebrity with a face you would recognize and a name you probably wouldn't walked into a twall to rent a costume for a big Hollywood Halloween party. She picked an outfit off the rack and brought it up to the counter. Rhonda took one look at the woman, took one look at the costume, and said, This is all wrong for you. The woman stood there completely taken aback. People did not usually talk to her that way, let alone question her taste. But Rhonda didn't pause. She asked two quick questions about the event and then hollered across the entire store to her staff in the racks, telling them to bring up an entirely different ensemble. The woman waited, looking uncertain, until the new costume and accessories were laid out on the counter. She looked down at what Rhonda had put together and her face lit up with a huge smile. Rhonda just winked, and I rang up the sale. That was classic Rhonda. She was generous, fiercely loyal, and completely unapologetic about who she was, and that made her everyone's

Sunset Boulevard With The Top Down

Crista Cowan 5:28

favorite. The summer I turned 18, my friend Jen and I went to visit her. Rhonda had just opened the shop and she had us spend hours in the blazing August sun putting grand opening flyers on car windshields and parking lots all over the San Fernando Valley. It was brutal. But when we finished, she didn't just pay us. She took us with her to work a phone bank for a local public television station that was doing a pledge drive. Every time the broadcast cut away to the host pitching for donations, there we were in the background answering phones on live television. My grandpa recorded the whole thing on his VCR so we could watch ourselves later. And we thought we were famous. That night when the broadcast wrapped up, we piled into the backseat of Rhonda's 1988 Maroon Chrysler-LeBaron convertible. She put the top down, turned up the music, it may have been Stevie Nicks, and drove us all the way down Sunset Boulevard from La Cienega to the Pacific Coast Highway, ending up at Gladstone's on the beach in Malibu for dinner. I can still feel the ocean air, I can still hear her laughing over the sound of the engine. And Jen and I sang at the top of our lungs the whole way.

Grief And The Thin Veil Season

Crista Cowan 6:48

On January 9th, 2021, in the middle of one of the pandemic waves, Rhonda died suddenly, alone, in her North Hollywood apartment of a heart attack. She'd been chatting on Facebook with family and giving remote directions to her employees. She stayed connected with all of us while sheltering in place during that time. Then a day went by and no one heard from her. And then another day. And just like that, she was gone. I haven't been back to the costume shop at Halloween time since she died. When someone you love passes away, it leaves a weird space. Even five years later, I find myself missing her at the oddest moments. But this time of year, I've come to expect the missing. October is National Family History Month. The 31st is Halloween, a night that genealogists and historians know marks the ancient tradition, leading into All Hollows Eve, leading into All Saints Day, a time when traditions across the world say the veil between the living and the dead grows thin. My birthday is November 1st, the start of Dia de los Muertos, the day of the dead. For as long as I can remember, this season has been, for me, a time of reflection. As the weather cools down and we move indoors, I find myself looking back at my life and thinking about my ancestors and planning how to bring our family stories into the upcoming holidays. And as a woman who does not have children of her own, my mind often goes to the women in my family tree who didn't have children either. Women like Rhonda. Women like my mom's great-aunt Nervy, who helped raise my Nana and the ants. She stirred up all kinds of family rumors, by the way, and became the model for the fun, adventurous aunt whose stories were still being told long after she was gone. Or my third great-grandaunt Polly, who died in 1848 at just 22 years old, never had the chance to marry or start a family. I have a collection of letters Polly wrote between the ages of 13 and 22, and every time I read her words, I am reminded of how vibrant she was. I carry Nervi and Polly and their stories intentionally because I want to make sure they aren't forgotten. And I'll be sure to tell

The Second Death And Modern Distraction

Crista Cowan 9:18

you their stories in future episodes, so stay tuned for that. If I'm being completely vulnerable with you, there have been times in my life when I find myself pondering the heavy question: when I am gone, who will remember me? It's scary to think about. But when I think about Rhonda and the life she lived, and I realize something fundamental. Rhonda didn't have children. She didn't leave behind descendants to put on a pedigree chart on ancestry in the parent or grandparent spot. And yet she will not be forgotten anytime soon. She had 12 nieces and nephews and 23 great nieces and nephews. She showed up for us. She loved us fiercely. She called us out when we got out of line and she bragged about us to anyone who would listen. And that left an indelible mark on every single one of our lives. Childlessness isn't what causes people to disappear from history. What causes people to disappear is when we stop telling their stories. There's a well-known concept that traces all the way back to ancient Egypt, popular popularized in Mexican culture, brought to life in the Disney movie Coco. A person dies twice. Once when they draw their last breath, and a second time when their name is spoken for the very last time. And so for centuries, people have spoken the names of their dead, engraved them on pyramids and tombstones, etched them into walls and their hearts, and we've told their stories. But when you look at our modern culture, it can feel like we're living through a massive shift in attention, leading to memory loss and that second death of those who came before us. We spend more time scrolling through the lives of celebrities and the insta-famous than we do our own family trees. And it's not that I think all celebrities are unworthy of our attention just because of their celebrity. When Dolly Parton and Tim Curry both passed away recently, I found myself right there with everyone else, scrolling through tributes, because I have real memories tangled up in both of them. Dolly's music was a foundational part of the soundtrack of my childhood. And I have this vivid memory of watching Tim Curry perform in Spamalot on Broadway and breaking the fourth wall to interact with my dad from stage. It is one of my favorite stories about my dad ever. Those aren't shallow. Those matter to me. Those are a part of our family narrative. But the thing is, is that even with all of my family history experience, I could probably tell you more details about some celebrities I've never met than I could about my own great-grandmother. I find myself doing that closer to home too. I have a deeply parasocial relationship with a local Instagram personality who I am just certain would be my best friend if given the chance. Some of you may feel that way about me. I could tell you her skincare routine, her dirty soda order, and her opinion on air fryers. I couldn't tell you what my great-grandmother's morning routine looked like, or what she took in her coffee, or if she even drank coffee at all. And I do this for a living. So it shouldn't surprise us when we look at the numbers. I share this statistic all the time that 53% of Americans cannot name all four of their biological grandparents. More than half of the country cannot even name the four people directly responsible for the two people who gave them life. When I share that statistic, some people just shrug it off. They think, so what? They're gone. Why does it matter? But I want you to turn that mirror around for just a moment. Imagine 50 or 60 years from now. Imagine your grandchildren or your great nieces and nephews sitting around a table. Imagine them looking at a picture of you and not knowing your name. Not knowing what made you laugh, not knowing the hardship you survived, or the dreams you chased, or how deeply you loved them. How does that feel? To me, it feels urgent. It feels like something we need to fix right now. Throughout history, every culture on earth has commemorated the dead in their own way. We sit Shiva, we hold funerals and memorial services, we dance in second lines, we gather as families to cook their favorite recipes. We mark the anniversaries by sharing stories and going through old photo albums

Why Remembering Heals The Living

Crista Cowan 14:06

because human beings have always understood that remembering our dead is essential to keeping the living connected. When we know where we come from, we understand ourselves better. When we discover the struggles our ancestors faced, we gain strength for our own battles. When we learn about their mistakes, we gain the wisdom to break cycles that need breaking. And when we carry their goodness forward, we ground our families in a narrative that says, we belong to each other. We're a part of each other. Which brings me back to that afternoon out by Utah Lake with Levi. As we were driving, I thought about the fact that back in 1988, Rhonda drove me down Sunset Boulevard in her maroon convertible. She loved me. She took me on adventures, but she never once let me drive her car. 36 years later, I bought my second convertible, I put my nephew in the passenger seat, I took him out into the desert, and I pulled over and handed him the keys. I don't know why Rhonda never let me drive her car, but I know that I will always let my niece and nephews drive mine. And they know it too. That is what family legacy actually is. It isn't just inheriting an old piece of furniture or a name on a pedigree chart. It's receiving what the people before you gave you, refining it, taking the love and the lessons that they offered, and handing the keys to the next generation. Now, normally we would end with our one word, one story segment, but today I have something a little different to end with. It's actually pretty monumental of an announcement for me. I have spent more than 40 years of my life researching my family tree and the last 20 some odd years teaching literally millions of people how to climb their own family trees, how to make sense of their DNA matches, how to track down a great-great-grandfather through a maze of census records and ship manifests. But over time I realized that finding the names and the dates and the places is only one step. The real work, the work that changes lives, is what we do after we find them. It is the stories we tell at the dinner table, the memories we write down, the family chart we print and hang in our front room and use as a visual reminder and conversation starter. It is the way we use our family history to build stronger, more deeply connected relationships today. We are living in a time where families are increasingly disconnected. I think about my own nephews and the world's only niece growing up, moving away, starting their own families. And I used to wonder what it would take for us to stay as close to each other as we are right now. Distance and time do this to families all on their own, even when everyone still loves each other. It doesn't just take a fight to lose touch, it just takes not being intentional. And that breaks my heart because I know how much strength and healing and connection are waiting for us inside our shared family stories. What I know for sure is that remembering the dead changes the living. So we say their names,

Legacy Means Passing Love Forward

Crista Cowan 17:40

we tell what we know, we carry forward whatever was good in them, and we look honestly at whatever wasn't, so we can decide on purpose what keeps going and what stops with us. That conviction is the reason that I have spent two years putting everything I know about that together into a framework and then into a book. So I am excited to share with you today my official public announcement that my new book is coming out next summer, July 2027. It is called The Deeply Connected Family. I wrote this book as a practical, heart-centered guide to help you uncover, preserve, and pass down your family's unique stories. It is built around a simple core message. Tell your family stories. Tell the stories of those in your family who came before you and tell your own stories to the family right in front of you right now. You do not need to be a professional genealogist to do this. You do not need to have a perfect family history without any mess or complications, as if such a thing exists. You just need a willing heart and a desire to make sure that the people you love know who they are and where they come from. Rhonda isn't still alive just because I say her name out loud in a microphone today. She is alive because she shaped how I show up as an aunt. And that shaped an afternoon out by Utah Lake. And now that afternoon lives inside my nephew. The wind and the noise and the sudden invitation to get behind the wheel. And someday, if I've done this right, he'll be the one pulling over on some empty road to hand somebody else the keys. And maybe he'll remember why. And maybe he'll tell them about me, and maybe he'll even tell them about his great aunt named Rhonda, who he only met a couple of times when he was really young, but who he heard stories about and learned to love through his Aunt Krista. If my niece and nephews remember anything about me after I'm

Book Announcement And A Challenge

Crista Cowan 19:47

gone, I don't want it to be my job title or how many episodes of this podcast I recorded. I want them to remember how deeply loved they were, that I was fun, that I loved our family and God and this life without holding much back, that I worked hard and that I showed up and that I told them the stories. The ones I've already told, and maybe a few I probably still owe them, and that I trusted them to keep telling those stories even after I couldn't anymore. That's the whole belief, distilled all the way down. As long as we keep telling each other's stories, none of us is ever really gone, not fully, because we go on shaping the people who are still here. So someday, every single one of us, we will be the ancestors. Let's make sure that when our names are spoken, the story being told is one of deep connection and fierce love. I will always love and feel deeply connected to my Aunt Rhonda. Before you go, will you just tell me in the comments who's your Aunt Rhonda? And what did she mean to you? Thank you for listening today. Go text a family member, share a memory, and then head over to the deeply connectedfamily.com and pre order your book. And I'll see you next week for another story that lives in us.