A Vision of my Aunt

I was probably around 12 when I first recall meeting my aunt Roberta.  I’d heard about her for years.  They called her Bertie which I always heard as Birdie.  Aunt Birdie sounded like a fun, nice sort of person though she seemed to always incur ‘discussions’ by the adults in my dad’s side of the family.

My dad had two sisters who were a good bit older than he was.  The other sister’s name was Rose.  That was a cool name as well, but as an 8 year old, Birdie was more memorable. 

My dad, grandmother, brother and I were on our way to Kansas to see my aunt Rose and her husband Frank.  They had a son around my age.  I was an active, noisy child and it was a long drive.  I was excited about this cousin I’d never met.  We’d drive awhile and I would ask “How long til we get to Aunt Birdie’s?”  It was, in the beginning, a child’s mistake, but the more my grandmother scolded and corrected, the more firmly “Birdie” was planted in my consciousness.

“Her name is Bertie not birdie and we’re going to see your Aunt Rose.”

“We are going to see Rose not Roberta, Bunny.”

“Do not, do not call your Aunt Rose ‘Birdie!’ It’s not birdie anyway, it’s Roberta.”

“You must not –NOT- call your Aunt Rose birdie. She would not like that –at all.”

Dad began to chime in.  “We’re going to see Rose, Bunny.  Say ‘Hello, Aunt Rose.  I’m Bunny White’.”  I complied.  “Say ‘I’m glad to meet you, dear Aunt Rose.”  His voice was taking on a fun sing-song character I knew well.  I mimicked him.  “Say what a lovely house you have, Aunt Rose.”  I began having fun.  “Say what lovely brown eyes you have, Aunt Rose.”  I giggled and repeated.  “All the better to see you with my dear,” said my father. 

I retorted “My what a big Jewish nose you have, Aunt Rose.” And my father replied “All the better to smell you with my dear.”

My father obviously got his sense of humor from my grandfather.  “Willie, stop it!” my grandmother ordered. “She’s not the big bad wolf and we don’t need the child insulting her.”  That was a shock to me.  It was probably the first time I’d ever heard my grandmother talk to daddy like he was a little kid in trouble.

My dad smirked and continued “My what lovely teeth you have Aunt Rose!”

“William Howard White!”

Ooooooo.  Grandmother had pulled out the middle name.  Dutifully Dad complied.  I fell silent for a short, short time.  “How long till we get to Aunt Birdie’s?”

“We are going to see Rose.  Do not call her Birdie.”

Later I would learn that there was some bad blood between the sisters, though it was the wounded Rose who came out the better in the end.  I would also learn during that trip that my cousin was adopted but that Frank was his grandfather.  I would learn that Robert’s birth mother was Roberta’s daughter.  I’d never been convinced not to ask delicate questions.

The funny thing about it is, when I met Rose, she didn’t really seem like a “Birdie” anyway.  The trip went well and was memorable for things other than an 8 year old insulting her aunt.

Roberta had a reputation within the family.  Meeting her went much differently that meeting my Aunt Rose.  The main thing I remember was how she looked.  She was in her 60s.  I was raised in a conservative era, in a conservative community, in a conservative church, in a conservative family.  The vision of my aunt was forever burned on my brain.  She had bright pink hair well coifed. She had very meticulous, but striking make-up.  It wasn’t like a model’s make-up, but more like stage make-up: expressive and way over-done. She had on skin tight capris – we called them ‘pedal pushers’ because they made it easier to ride a bike, though probably not if they were that tight- and a halter top.  I’d seen my neighbor in a halter top before when she mowed the yard.  Most of our neighbors just closed their curtains. She wore, with the afore mentioned attire, high heels with straps that circled her legs up to the bottom of the pants.  No one I’d ever seen dressed like that –not my sisters, not my friends, not my cousins.  And besides, she was old!  I’m sure I gawked.  I remember years later seeing “Grease.”  When Olivia Newton John came out dressed as a bag girl, that was my Aunt Birdie–in her 60s.

In this era of skinny jeans and fringy things, I looked in the mirror the other day as I was getting ready to leave the house.  Starting with the roman style sandals with heels I checked my reflection moving up through skinny jeans, a slightly fitted tunic with a discrete contrasting cami to reduce the exposed cleavage but not totally eradicate it, a fringed open crocheted shrug, a sparkly necklace and matching dangly earrings.  It was a very cool look –until I got to the face.  Some how the age of the face always shocks me.  Except for the pink hair, I was my aunt!  Not Rose.

Stupid mirror.  I took my stuff and left the house.  The youth of my day can just deal with it.  I’m dressed.