Mama’s aunt, 97 years old, is a pistol. Not to mention the sisters, of which you have already heard, but being the matriarch of the family, Aunt Mildred/Bittie (don’t know where that came from–mama says she remembers a tall, blond aunt who took over any room she walked into, and mama says that she never seemed to be unhappy over anything, only happy with dimples flashing and a good-natured personality, no matter what was happening) seemed to overcome all hardship. As in losing a husband at a very early age, with three small children to care for and support; as in moving around twenty or thirty times when young, always with the same small kids to care for; as in becoming a sheriff to support her kids, now fatherless; as in, against all odds, finding a loving, beautiful man (with two kids already!) who had lost his wife and fortunately happened upon Bittie just in time to start a new, exciting, joyful life.
Mama said to Bittie, “Betty Davis said that old age is not for sissies”, and Bittie said, “You can say that again!” But if anyone is NOT a sissie, it’s mama’s aunt. Make that “aunts”, plural.
Mama and papa spent two nights with this amazing woman who never ages and were feted and fed by the other two sisters and daughter of one in typical southern hospitality style. Plus a great dinner with their cousins who had just returned from a trip down the Volga. Who says nothing happens in small towns? It’s just that I was not there, nor even talked about much (I just know it!) and they were having so much fun that lit’ ole me (hey, I can be as southern as the next kitty) was playing second fiddle to the lemon cookies, good wine, and David’s barbequed pork ribs!! I’ll bet they didn’t even put one in a baggie for me, the %$#*!! anthros that they are!
Okay, they’re on the way back…supposedly; you never know when they might decide to turn around and have some more crab and avocado at Willy G’s or tell me they missed The Crystal Bridge in Arkansas or the Rothko chapel in Houston. These guys are so unpredictable.
Well, NOT ME.
I’ll be here, lounging around my garden, eating properly twice a day, pooping on schedule and not giving a farthing about whether they get back here to snuggle me or not.
So there.
But I hope I’m wrong.
