Tomorrow it will be five years since my Aunt Mary died. To honor her I think I’ll make taco soup, even though it’s spring, just so I can see her handwriting on the recipe in my notebook. Afterward, I’ll have some wine, though not from a box like she kept in her refrigerator. And while I’m enjoying it, I’ll emulate the way she pursed her lips with pleasure as she sipped her pumpkin spice Baileys on the porch at the bed and breakfast in Council Grove one crisp fall evening.
Though she is gone, I’m surrounded by wisps of her reminding me she is still close. The hummingbirds and orioles she loved at the feeders outside our living room window. The lilies of the valley she dug up from her flower bed faithfully popping up in mine every spring. The green plaid dish towel she gave me, now faded to beige, but still drying dishes with the best of them.
I miss hearing her say, “Well, kid…” and “God love it,” during our conversations on her deck in Kansas City as we reminisced about Uncle Bud (her husband), my mother (his sister), and all the others Aunt Mary is probably laughing with right now. And I miss her tiny self standing in her doorway, waving goodbye as I regretfully drove away each time.
I told Aunt Mary I wanted to grow up to be an old lady just like her. True to form, she took it as the compliment. She had a way of making people feel loved despite themselves and if anyone could be called a ray of sunshine, it would be her. She was a good Catholic and even though I’d been raised Protestant, she was my go-to person any time I needed a candle lit for someone or some situation.
She was also a hard worker. Even in her retirement she actually enjoyed cleaning houses for people. She was even a Heavenly Duster at her church, keeping things tidy for the Almighty.
She often talked about having a fiery temper. About the time she gave the neighbor’s visitor what-for for a parking indiscretion. And how mad she was at the miscreant who stole the green (bowling) gazing ball I’d made for her from her flower bed by the alley. I’m sure Uncle Bid and my three cousins would have temper stories to tell, but as a niece who wasn’t around all the time, I don’t remember her being really angry, except at my dad and step-mom after the debacle that was our wedding.
Aunt Mary was there after my mother wasn’t. When I was in grade school, even when we didn’t see them often, I always knew she and Uncle Bud were there, in Kansas City loving me from afar. When I grew up, she became a friend, filling that role for my mother who couldn’t, connecting me to Mom’s childhood and young adulthood since Aunt Mary, Uncle Bud, and my parents had all gone to high school together.
A time when having that friendship meant so much was the weekend Bayley got married and Aunt Mary rode with us to St. Louis. It was a hard day because it was also the anniversary of my mom’s death. But Aunt Mary made it better, chipper as always. We talked nonstop all the way with Floyd snoring off and on in the back seat.
On that trip, I learned that Aunt Mary was a rebel, voting her convictions each time even when it wasn’t the way her father or husband voted! I also came to realize how trying this time of life was for her, losing Uncle Bud, family, and friends, yet staying strong, accepting the losses with grace and gratitude for those lives well-lived.
Another thing I learned on that trip was that Aunt Mary and I could lean on each other in stressful times. She leaned on me physically, needing an arm to hold while walking, a guide through confusing situations. But I was able to lean on her emotionally and helping her helped me focus on someone other than myself and my feelings. Our mutual leaning helped us both get through and enjoy the weekend. One thing that made me laugh was the day of the wedding when we’d walked downstairs and I realized I’d forgotten something in the room. Rather than retrace our steps, I asked her to sit down in the lobby and wait for me while I dashed back upstairs.
“Don’t take too long,” she chirped. “I might meet a millionaire and run off.”
“Well, Donald Trump is in town for a debate this weekend,” I teased.
The face she made and the words she said were priceless, but probably not politically correct to repeat.
Above all, Aunt Mary believed in and encouraged me, especially when it came to my writing. She was always tickled to see a book with my name on it. When I started writing the Hotdog book, she read the first terrible drafts. As the years passed without publication, she kept the faith, believing in it more than I did at times, though I’ll never forget her dire yet lighthearted warning: “Well, Kid, you’d better hurry up if you want me to see it, because I won’t live forever!” Did I mention that she was also honest to the core?
Aunt Mary loved our kids and my husband, Floyd, too, and when he was so sick and I didn’t know if he was going to make it, it comforted me to think that she and my mom would be there to greet him with welcoming smiles if it was his time.
Today I imagine her smiling at this glorious spring day, with the scent of last night’s rain still in the air. She’d chuckle about the flower bed I’m constructing from an old metal bed frame with pots of flowers for the quilt. And I imagine sitting out there again on the swing watching the hummingbirds zoom by.
I miss you, Aunt Mary. God love it, I miss you so much.
Hugs,
Dale
Me, too. It was a hard one to write.
My mother was Aunt Mary to her neices and nephews. I didn't have that particular type of relationship with her. But her sister Jean was...well, I think the song at the end of the movie La La Land sums it all up. Here's to the dreamers and those of us fortunate enough to have wonderful aunts https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SL_YMm9C6tw