© 2026 Robert Sickles
My Grandma McNeill didn’t talk much about her family of origin to me. Even when she lived with us when I was a boy and we had plenty of time to chat, I only remember her talking about her husband and the McNeill clan from Scotland. I hardly knew that she actually had German roots and her maiden name was Merikle. Anyway, I was rather surprised in the summer of ’58 when a gentleman and a young girl arrived at our home, and were introduced to me as Grandma’s brother Howard Merikle and his daughter, Heather. I had to wrap my head around the concepts “great uncle” and “first cousin once removed.” They were very pleasant guests, and we were good friends from the start.
Heather was my mother’s cousin, but at age 13 was only four years older than I. That’s another thing I had to wrap my head around! Heather seemed so delighted to have a little boy cousin to spend time with. Also, she was an only child, so I instantly became her surrogate little brother, and I enjoyed her attention.
By the end of their visit, Heather was whispering to her father, begging him for something. He gave in to her wishes, asking my parents if little Bobby would like to join them for a week at their lake cabin. Howard agreed that it would be good for Heather to have a friend along, and nice for him as well. I was all in!
I had it in my mind that we’d be roughing it, so I packed for a wilderness adventure, gathering my bed roll, flashlight, extra batteries, and fishing pole. I thought myself an excellent outdoorsman, equipped with a little hatchet and a mess kit of nested pots and utensils! Darn, where was my coonskin hat?
When Howard and Heather came to pick me up, they were giggling as we loaded my things into their car, and I understood why when we arrived at the lake—their cabin was anything but rustic. A little disappointed, I was to sleep in a regular bed, and eat meals from the refrigerator, cooked on the electric stove. There was no TV, so I guess that counted as getting away from it all.
Heather and I got along like we’d grown up together! We played games indoors and out, splashed in the lake and sunbathed on the dock. We talked about everything. I was her pet, and she was so fun. There was a small wooded area to explore, some neat old stuff in a storage shed, and a rope swing over the water. Howard agreed that she could take me out in the rowboat, and I was all set for that with my fishing pole!
It was a fine day when we rowed out on calm water. We joked and giggled a lot as usual. I thought I’d like to bait my hook and try to catch a fish, so Heather told me to reach under the seat for the little “mushroom” anchor, and cast it overboard. Just as I was told, I tossed the anchor off the bow, then we watched in dismay as it and its entire length of rope, right to the loose end, sunk into the depths. Heather shrieked. “Why did you do that?!! Now we don’t have an anchor!" She started sobbing. "You're so stupid! Now Dad won't let us go out in the boat anymore!”
Hey now, I was just a little kid. How was I supposed to know that the other end of the anchor rope needed to be tied to the boat? And why wasn’t it already tied to the boat? Who tells a 9-year-old to throw an anchor in the water without expecting him to do just that?
I felt it was an innocent mistake, but Heather acted so badly about it. When we rowed back in, Uncle Howard got on me about it too, acting as though I had chucked an irreplaceable family heirloom. I was as apologetic as I could be, but it sure put the damper on our fun for the few days we had left on the lake.
After I was back home, I wondered if I’d get to see Howard and Heather again; I built up quite a story that they were going to shun me for losing the anchor.
Now, speaking of irreplaceable family heirlooms… Grandma had two hideous oil paintings in her bedroom, ancient portraits of her grim ancestors. I found the images below online that resemble what I mean. The scowly-pusses had eyes that followed me around the room. I was scared to look at the spooky things, and grateful they were never hung on our wall.
Some months after the week at the lake cabin, I heard that Howard had come while I was at school one afternoon to get the paintings. He said he wanted to borrow the portraits for some reason—to have them restored or framed, I think. I suppose they were not only family treasures, but might also have been valuable pieces of early American folk art, and Grandma became worried when Howard didn’t return them as promised. In fact, he continued making excuses and never returned them. (Hurray!)
Howard and Heather vanished from my life completely, and Grandma never stopped bemoaning her brother’s theft of her dear paintings. Not to indict Heather as knowingly a part of the heist, I now theorize that the whole reason for Howard showing up in our lives in the first place was a ploy to get in good with us so he could “borrow” those awful paintings from Grandma.
In an internet search, I found that Heather, now 80, is living in Indiana. I’m thinking I might drop her a note and let her know she can keep the paintings she inherited, if she still has them; Grandma’s been gone for 50 years, I think she is over it by now. And, from my perspective, I’m satisfied that the paintings are an even trade for the anchor!
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