The old family home in Willett was made of sturdy stuff. It had to be to withstand the antics of the assorted relatives found under its roof. It was in this house that Jane Quincy Willett lived with a grandmother who chased her daughter around with a butcher’s knife, one of two aunts named after flowers, an uncle nearly named after tree wood who would sit on his own tombstone in the attic, another aunt reputed to be too mean to have children, a mother who knew more about military troop movements than the Pentagon and a father who had his own ideas of “fatherly love.” Willett’s Way chronicles the sometime hilarious, sometimes sorry adventures of a young woman coming of age in a family whose motto, “There is the right way, the wrong way and the Willett’s Way,” was the guiding force behind this eclectic collection of individuals.
