In October of last year, my mom’s 101-year-old aunt passed away.
I was saddened when I first heard the news because dear old Aunt Molly was very loved and quite the character to all who knew her. But she lived a good life – a full life – blessed with a loving daughter, grandchildren and great grandchildren; and a handful of nieces and nephews, and grandnieces and grandnephews, who just adored her.
Aunt Molly wasn’t a rich woman, financially speaking, but she had a heart of gold and would give you the shirt off her back, if you needed it.
As a child, I keenly remembered wanting a new outfit for my Ken doll and never had any money to buy it. We didn’t have allowances in those days. Mom barely had enough money to feed us, let alone buy a silly suit for my Ken doll. So Aunt Molly, discovering my little wish one day, decided to play a female version of Robin Hood and came over the house with a jar full of change that she had collected from the under sides of her couch cushions.
“Lucie,” she said, while I was sprawled out on the living room carpet playing with my Barbie and Ken.
“Do me a favor, honey, and count the money in my change jar. Let’s see if there’s enough money for this new suit for Ken,” she smiled while winking at my mother.
I knew the exact cost and counted each coin with anticipated excitement.
“Oh my God,” I exclaimed to my aunt as I finished the tally. “There’s enough money for my Ken outfit and money to spare!”
“Are you giving all this money to ME, Aunt Molly? Or do you want some of it back?” I selfishly continued, all the while praying that she didn’t want the inconvenience of lugging any of the left over change back to her house.
“No, Lucie,” she responded. “It’s all yours, Honey.”
That was my Aunt Molly.
And when it came to eating, she was always on some special “See food diet”; whatever food she SAW, she inevitably ate. But according to her doctors, she wasn’t supposed to be eating it.
You could never set out a plate for her to join you in your meal because “the doctor said” she could never eat whatever it was you were making.
So, you’d reluctantly set the table (minus a dish for Aunt Molly) and start serving the food.
“Ya know, “ she began. “The doctor said that I shouldn’t be eating too much pasta any more, but what do they know? Cazzo! A little pasta ain’t gonna kill me, for God’s sake. Gimme a little taste of that, ok?”
“OK,” one of us would respond. “But Aunt Molly why don’t you let me get you a plate and some silver ware and I’ll make you a small plate of food?” the individual would kindly suggest.
“No, no, sweetheart. I can’t have this any more. Just get me a spoon and I’ll just take a little taste, OK?” she responded.
So, a spoon would be gotten and Aunt Molly would commence to tasting.
A few tastes and an empty plate later, Aunt Molly would be gently poking me in my ribs and asking, “Lucie, maybe you want some meatballs with your pasta? The meatballs look kinda good. The doctor says I shouldn’t be eating any meatballs, but what do doctors know? Cazzo! A taste of meatballs ain’t gonna kill you, for God’s sakes! Maybe get us some meatballs, honey, ok?” she implored, all the while continuing her part of the dinner conversation.
“Ok, Aunt Molly,” I responded. “But seriously, why don’t you let me get you your own plate and I’ll give you a smidgen of pasta and half a meatball?”
“Cazzo!” she answered, “Didn’t your mother tell you? I can’t eat this stuff.”
“Yeah, we know, Aunt Molly,” I started to say, and then everyone at the table chimed in, “’Cuz the doctor said you shouldn’t be eating it. Right, Aunt Molly?” we teasingly asked her.
“Cazzo!” she again responded, using her favorite Italian swear word.
“Darn doctors don’t know anything these days,” she continued while scooping up another spoonful of pasta.
“What ‘cha gonna do?” she lovingly added while nodding her head and smiling.
“What ‘cha gonna do?”
My mom’s aunt was a kind, loving, beautiful little character, who I’ll always remember chatting and nibbling at our kitchen table. She had a memory that never failed to amaze me and a heart made outta gold. She was one of my first advocates and heroines and had a story and a smile to share with anyone and everyone that’d give her just a “taste of time”.
R.I.P., Aunt Molly. You’ll forever be 50 to me, dear heart.
You’ll forever be 50 to me…
Have a great day, People, and I’ll catch ya the next time, looking at life from my shoes.