This First Person column is written by Cheryl Foggo, a multiple-award-winning playwright, author and filmmaker. For more information about CBCs First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

Much of my attachment to where I live came through my uncle, Rev. Andrew Risby.

Born in 1917 on a farm near Campsie, Alta., he arrived at Calgary in 1946 on a temporary preaching assignment. Temporary stretched into decades after my moms beautiful older sister, Edith, showed up for the services. Aunt Edie and Uncle Andrew ministered to Calgarys Black communities and anyone else who cared to join the party until he died in 2002.

One of my earliest memories is of sitting with him on the sheltered wooden porch of their home in Calgarys Bankview neighbourhood. We were churning cream. He insisted the ice cream of his youth on the farm was superior, which seemed preposterous to me. I couldnt wait to tell the expected guests that I had helped.

Every Sunday afternoon, they fed 30 to 50 people: church members, family, random hungry acquaintances. They made it look simple.

Years later, when I decided to bake Aunt Edies iconic chocolate cake for a special occasion, I realized I had taken for granted the amount of work that went into preparing these meals. I called her for the recipe, then spent three frantic hours on the whipping up.

Each of the dozens of appetizers, mains and desserts repeated the template of the ice cream and the chocolate cake made with skill from the freshest, best ingredients. Every Sunday.

I still dream about those feasts.

I recently asked my cousin Phillip Risby if the produce served at Sunday dinner came from their backyard garden. I was surprised by the additional context he provided. Twice a week after school, Phillip and my other Risby cousins were piled into the car and transported to large community plots on the outskirts of the city to weed and harvest potatoes, carrots, turnips, greens, beets, beans, cabbage and peas.

Their care for community can be traced through the earth of their garden, to their hands, to their table, to us. When I think of place, I see their brown hands.