Aunties

Today I am remembering my “aunties.” Not my biological aunts or aunts by marriage, but older ladies who were our neighbors and friends of my mother and grandmother. “Mrs. Weight” was too formal for my relationship with her, but calling her Bertha would not have shown the proper respect. I didn’t invent this; my mother instructed me on the proper form of address.

These ladies mostly lived in the tiny town where I lived from age seven until I married. Bates City’s population was 103 that entire time, although it later dropped to 85. All of my aunties lived within a block of our house, with the exception of Aunt Pink, who lived in the country outside of town.

On clement afternoons it was the ladies’ custom to go visiting. Not every day, but a couple of times a week, a knock at the door about 2:00 P.M. announced the arrival of one auntie or another, who would sit with my grandmother in our living room and visit. I do not recall refreshments being served, although my memory may fail me on that point. Surely a glass of iced tea was offered on a hot summer afternoon.

I also saw my aunties at church, at school events, and at large social gatherings. They were as familiar to me as my own family and I knew I could always turn to them for help if needed. I will never forget Aunt Ida’s kindness when my mother was in the hospital. I was twelve, and it fell to me to prepare the evening meal. I prepared spaghetti with meat sauce. After we ate I became violently ill, perhaps from anxiety about my mother, perhaps from poorly prepared food. At any rate, Aunt Ida appeared at the door to see how we were getting along. She held my hand as I vomited. She tucked me into bed with a wet cloth on my brow. She became my substitute mother that evening and I was thankful for her kindness.

I was always welcome in the aunties’ homes. Sometimes I visited Aunt Mary to play checkers. Sometimes I delivered quarts of milk to aunties and stayed to visit. (My dad, a farmer, always kept a milk cow.) Sometimes I popped in to enjoy freshly baked cookies.

I was able to help the aunties, too. One morning I was visiting Aunt Ida when her husband was taken violently ill. Aunt Ida, who didn’t have a telephone, turned to me and said, “Run home and call the doctor.” When Aunt Bertha’s husband died, I sat beside her as she lay sobbing on the couch. I held her hand and talked to her about how he was now happy in heaven.

I was a lucky child to have so many loving aunties. The world has changed dramatically since then. I don’t know whether aunties still exist. I hope they do. I hope that today’s children enjoy the love and security that aunties provide.

Copyright 2014 by Shirley Domer