My Aunt Jean

I pulled the car straight toward the oncoming traffic, pressed down on the accelerator and maneuvered past the concrete median as I completed my possibly illegal and certainly risky u-turn. As I gunned the engine and slid comfortably in between two of the vehicles fighting for position in a narrow lane, I glanced at my passenger who responded : Jeepers !! That was Aunt Jean. She had every right to release all the profanity she had ever learned or at the very least question my driving. But not Aunt Jean. She would never scold me. She was my champion.

I watched her bake biscuits and chicken and dumplings and roast. I watched her toss salads and listened to her tell stories and sometimes the stories would become tossed and she would forget what she was looking for in the cabinet and true to her form, she would just laugh. Eventually you would have to participate in the food preparation if you wanted to dine before the next morning. She was slow and steady with an emphasis on the slow. She was never in any sort of hurry. She might say she was in a rush but her body language was evidence to the contrary. You would find yourself glancing at the clock and wondering if we should just skip the meal we were currently working on and move on to the next one. But you had to just take it at her schedule and because it was Aunt Jean, you really did not mind at all. Time spent with her was always a joy. She was my reminder to slow down.

Whenever something significant happened in my life, I reached for the phone to call her. Her voice always expressed delight at the call and at whatever story we shared. I know without a doubt that had I been accused or convicted of any crime or poor decision or bad judgment,she would have declared my innocence. Nothing and no one could have persuaded her otherwise. She would be entertained in whatever I did. Aunt Jean would revel in my escapades.  She was my defender and confidante.

Her hugs and the sound of her voice sustained me. Her unconditional love gave me strength. Her laugh brought everything back into perspective. She was an attentive listener and a good coversationalist. When I was younger, her lap provided protection and security. When I was older, we had to only make eye contact to know immediately what the other was thinking or feeling. She could restore order in my world. She was my touchstone.

Aunt Jean was game for anything that I wanted to do. She would accompany me to a bookstore and sit contentedly just watching me browse through the stacks of books. It was important to her that I was happy. She was thrilled if we drove to an orange grove or patronized a local pizza parlor. We had fun grocery shopping and checking in at the neighborhood fruit stand. We had fun lounging on the couch and having late-night talks. Whether we drove to the beach or took a nostalgic visit to an old arcade, we would get a kick out of our time together.If a football game was important to me, then it became equally important to her. I adored her. She adored me.

While driving four quite elderly and not very healthy aunts and uncles to the seaside, the car had a blow-out. The tire's blow-out was about to be followed by my own breakdown but Aunt Jean made me laugh. The two uncles took their feeble bodies to the back of the car and demanded that I pop the trunk. They then announced their intentions to change the tire. One of the uncles was on oxygen and had only recently been released from a hospital. The other uncle was a small fragile aging man who did not appear to be in the running for jacking up a car. So Aunt Jean first talked the testosterone-fueled uncles out of their denial and back into the car. She then encouraged me to speed-dial for assistance. After our rescuer arrived we were informed that the hubcap was missing and had probably popped off on the highway and I was prompted to look for it. I had no sooner embarked on my roadside adventure than I was joined by Aunt Jean, walking step for step, side by side with me. She was always by my side.

I am not nor have I ever been a morning person. Inevitably Aunt Jean would comment that I should sleep in because we had nothing specific planned for the coming day. Then at some ungodly pre-dawn hour, my bedroom door would creak open and she would whisper: Doll, I'm making breakfast. Are you going to get up ? Have you ever seen baseball players curse into their gloves ?  I would just sort of bite the pillow and whimper silently. But I was defenseless. How can you not respond to someone who is ready to visit with you? I will never forget the twinkle in her eye whenever I arrived at her home. So of course I got up. Some of those early morning visits are a little foggy but by God, I was there. She was my alarm clock.

I wish I could call Aunt Jean today. I would wish her a happy birthday. Or better yet, I would drive to see her and give her a heartfelt embrace. I would arise whenever she wanted me to and I would probably drive with greater caution. She was my Aunt Jean.