My Aunt Daisy

 Last night, my phone rang after 10 pm and although that is not unusual, the picture and name on the screen of my so-called-smart phone caused my heart to race.  When I glanced over at the phone with the intention to let the call go to voice mail, I saw my father's name and number. I grabbed the phone and tried to hide my concern as I said hello. My parents (and I) tend to avoid phone calls after 10 pm...because we usually fall asleep in front of the television around 9 or 9:30!

He shared his usual greeting, "Hey! What are you doing?" followed by "Where's Maya?" (As if he didn't know the answers!) He asked what was new and after I said, "nothing at all" he said, "Well, I have some news." I held my breath and waited for him to share his news. He solemnly said, "Aunt Daisy died today."  This came as a total shock because I knew that other relatives were older and sicker but I did not know that she had been in the hospital for two weeks. So, my cousins are making arrangements for a Saturday funeral down in Georgia, where dad and his siblings grew up...and got in more trouble than the law allowed!

 I was looking through my photo albums but could not find a picture of my Aunt Daisy. She was a card! She reminded me of Eartha Kitt with her wonderful laugh, wide smile, and her unique voice. She lived in New York and the trips to her house were always fun even though I was the baby cousin and was not allowed to go into the basement with my older cousins.  She let me cook the rice once...long before I knew how to cook anything...and proudly told everyone "Carla made the rice" which was code for, "It's sticky because she stirred it instead of letting it cook undisturbed!" This would not be a crime in most households, but these folks were from Georgia and messing up the rice is a cardinal sin! (I have since repented and made amends...and made better rice, too!)

I remember my crazy cousins who used to hang out in the basement, probably listening to Parliament Funkadelic records and doing what older teenagers do in the basement without supervision...draw your own conclusions. I'm not telling all of the family business, but that's only because I have no firsthand knowledge because they never did let me hang out with them. I guess they thought the girl from Jersey didn't know what was going on. Hmph! Even if they didn't let me hang with them, I knew they loved me. We still sat at the table and cracked jokes and my cousin Lena would take me to the store. (This was a big deal for me. Remember, I lived in the suburbs, so walking in the streets of NY for a bag of chips and a soda was HUGE!)

I also remember hot summers in Dover, Georgia where my Aunt Daisy had a beautiful brick house built across the street from the one my grandparents lived in. There are pecan trees in the yard and a shed with a bunch of broken down trucks and cars waiting for the Grim Reaper to tow them away. Next to her house is the "shop" where my grandfather sold pickled pig's feet, candy, sodas and God knows what else. There were pool tables and a jukebox and I remember putting money in so my mom could hear the Manhattans singing "Honey you, are my shining star, don't you go away..."  I liked Aunt Daisy's house because she had air conditioning and a television with cable so we could watch more than three channels.  I could dash from the shop to her house to the yard and then back to the house only to be scolded for "opening and closing that door"! Ah, the good old days. Now, I am among those who warn the little ones about trafficking in and out of the house. My last memory of that house is walking past it holding my father's hand after his mother died. Of course, there was drama about who would ride in the limousine (all the way across the street to the church that was less than a mile away!) and there were all of the other emotional markers of grief like fussing, fighting, and crying. It was a quiet moment of tenderness that I will always cherish. It was a moment of calm in the storm of grief all around us.  That beautiful brick house will always be a symbol of the complexity and beauty of what it means to me to be a Jones.

This weekend, the family will once again gather in that house and tell stories and share memories and shed tears. Aunt Daisy's life will be celebrated and her loss will be grieved. Our lives were made richer for having her with us. I pray that God will comfort my family with happy memories, kind words, and loving embraces.

Shalom