Cupping my hands on the sides of my face, I’d press my nose against the bowed screen door and peer into the dark room.

"Come on in," Aunt Mabel would call in her raspy voice, as she slowly rolled her heavy body upright on the sagging, threadbare couch, and slipped her bare feet into worn rubber thongs. Carrot-colored strands of hair streaked with gray cascaded across her generous bosom.

Pulling me close with pale, fleshy arms cinched in the sleeves of a red and yellow muu-muu, she would plant a squeaky kiss on my cheek. Then through a gravelly chuckle, she would mumble an apology in Mom’s direction for not having tidied up before we arrived.

"I just couldn’t get started this morning," she would say. Fact is, she never got started. A thick layer of dust covered the plastic flower arrangement atop the TV/stereo cabinet, and the collection of movie magazines, creased open to half-read articles. The sweet smell of bacon hung in the air and mingled with the stale odor of soiled carpet and yesterday’s trash.

Mabel’s first four children were all aspiring make-up artists, their skills honed from years of applying various shades of blue eye shadow, black liner and mascara, pasty facial powder, and pink carnation blush each morning before school. When they returned home in the afternoon, they could count on her being there, curled up on the couch, half-listening to the drone of a soap opera.

Lisa, the last girl, chubby and warm, toddled around barefoot in a faded outgrown cotton print dress, and dingy, hand-me-down panties. Her curly chestnut hair and brown skin, in stark contrast to that of her blonde, fair-skinned sisters, exposed her mixed ethnic background. Her father was Samoan, we were told, though she shared her siblings’ surname, and she called their father, "Daddy."

The three eldest of Mabel’s children, Sonya, Paulette and Diane, formed a singing group in the 70's and performed at a number of local country-western clubs. All their costumes were sewn by their mother, without dress patterns, on an old sewing machine she had set up in the kitchen.

They cut a record once, "How Much, How Many", a tale of love lost. It was written by Aunt Mabel.

Over the years, battered hopes and broken marriages brought the girls home to their mother from time to time. It seemed Aunt Mabel was never without a household of offspring, and their offspring.

Aunt Mabel bore one more child in her mid-forties, her only son, Warren, before Mother Nature mercifully imposed her fool-proof method of birth control. Warren lived with his mother until she died, at first for her support, then later to care for her.

Sometime back, while sorting through a box of old photos, I came across a portrait of myself as a grinning, dimpled two-year-old. Printed in soft sepia, it had been brought to life by the feathering of subtle shades of gold, blue and pink into the hair, eyes, cheeks, and clothing. I remember being told that Aunt Mabel earned a salary at this for a time in her life.

Aunt Mabel’s death didn’t make the six o’clock news. She left no mark on the world. Her quiet legacy is only the portraits she endowed with a soul, and the love with which she enriched the lives of those lucky enough to be a part of hers.

The Line

We all sat primly in our designated positions in the large hall, dressed in our flowing, virginal white gowns, white stockings and white leather scuffies. Having just marched in, and spoken our required pronouncements in turn, we listened quietly as Mrs. Vitale, the bethel guardian, read through the day's announcements.

This term I was running for "the line," which in the vernacular of the Job's Daughters organization, meant that I was vying for the elected position of Honored Queen. In order to become Honored Queen, one must first be elected by the other members of the bethel (the organization's term for a chapter), then progress through the four lower positions, each held for six months, before being crowned Honored Queen.

The process is very somber and dignified. We were instructed not to tell anyone of our decision to run until the nominees were announced by the bethel leader. A secret ballot election would be held a few weeks later, and the winner would be announced.
Mrs. Vitale began to read the day's announcements.

"I find it necessary to remind those girls who are running this term that you are not to tell anyone of your decision to run. Campaigning of any kind would be unfair to the other candidates and is strictly frowned upon."

I hardly heard anything after she spoke the first few words. Though she had not mentioned my name, I knew her remarks were directed at me. I felt the heat of my humiliation radiate through my body. I froze in my seat, praying to just disappear and never be seen again. For a moment I couldn't see anything around me, as if I had lost all peripheral vision. At the same time, I felt as if all eyes were fixed on me.

My mother had worked hard during my first few years as a Jobie. She volunteered to chaperone events, bake cookies and cupcakes, and generally do all she could to support me during this time. Believing that politics were involved, she thought it would help me to win if she was an active volunteer.

"Don't worry," she told me. "It's okay to tell a few friends you're running. No one will find out. Just drop a hint here and there. I'll bet everyone else does."

Wanting to win, and trusting mother's intuition, I hinted. And hinted.

After the election, a few friends came up to me to offer their condolences. One even said, "I would have voted for you, but I couldn't spell your name."

I will never know whether my flagrant disregard for the solemnity of the process was cause for my defeat. But I'm sure it was around this time that I began to see my mother as fallible, and that her advice should be considered carefully, and not followed blindly.

I'm taking a memoir-writing class. My posts for the next few weeks will be the class assignments. I'm compelled to add a disclaimer for the benefit of my writer friends that these are early drafts, and I promise to edit and polish them mercilessly before compiling and shipping them off to all the major publishing houses and await the many 6-figure offers that are sure to pour in.

The first assignment was to write two pieces inspired by a list of topics we brainstormed in class.

Aunt Ruby

Every Christmas, we anticipated the big package from Aunt Ruby. Among all the toys and clothing packed inside, was always at least one thick, red and white striped candy cane. Mom would hand it to Dad who would take it off to the kitchen and hammer it into bite-sized pieces for my two older brothers and me to share. I didn't really like the taste of peppermint, but I was always excited to get one of the jagged pieces to suck on.


With Ruby's slender frame and large round slightly protruding eyes, she bore a resemblance to Olive Oyl. Her high-pitched voice, laced with a mid-western drawl was always a source of teasing from her young niece and nephews.

Ruby was Mom's younger sister. Only 18 months apart in age, they shared a close relationship.

We always enjoyed Aunt Ruby's visits. Every few years she would fly out from her home in Dallas, where my mother's family grew up. I remember waiting in the terminal for her flight to land. We all craned our necks and peered out the large windows trying to spot her as she stepped off the plane onto the portable staircase in line with the other passengers.

Back then airline passengers dressed up for flights. Aunt Ruby usually wore a slim suit, matching hat and bag. Her job in the gift wrap department at Neiman Marcus required that she dress stylishly. Since none of the adult women I knew at that time had jobs, I considered Aunt Ruby very worldly.

One year Ruby brought a good friend with her on the trip. She and Rosa stayed in a hotel in San Francisco on that visit. I remember hushed conversations filled with innuendo between mom and dad about the men Rosa and Aunt Ruby met in the City.

From time to time, mom and dad would pack us all up and drive back to Dallas to visit the family. One such trip took place when I was about 12 years old.

This trip was special to me because Aunt Ruby took me to Neiman Marcus for a fashion show and luncheon. I felt grown up, sitting at the table with my Aunt, waiters bringing our luncheon to our table, refilling my ice tea whenever I took a sip. I remember hesitating over the salad drenched in poppy seed dressing. I wasn't sure what to do in this fancy setting with a plate of food in front of me that didn't taste good.

"You don't like the dressing, do you?" Aunt Ruby observed. "That's okay. You don't have to eat it."

Over the years, I remember hearing mom and dad talk about Ruby's troubled marriage. Roy was a rich cattle rancher who lavished her with gifts. I remember her showing off a solid gold brooch in the shape of a longhorn steer. Though divorce was considered shameful back then, mom and dad seemed to understand that the beatings made this one unavoidable.

Ruby finally found her true love, Billy, a simple farmer who owned land some distance from Dallas. Her marriage to Billy turned her from a high-class woman to a farmer's wife. She seemed to enjoy her life, though she seldom had the money to visit anymore.

Mom paid for a couple of her trips out. On these trips her attire was much different. Certainly air travel had become more commonplace by the mid-90's and the dress code had relaxed considerably. But Ruby had changed, too. She was no longer the bon vivant I remembered from my childhood. Her clothing was casual, almost tattered, her hair no longer perfectly coiffed, and her belly had begun to protrude.

She always seemed to have a beer in her hand. And wherever mom planned to take her -- to visit me or one of my brother's families, Ruby always took a six-pack along.

Mom finally got fed up with Ruby's drinking, and refused to pay for her flights. We heard that she had become ill from the alcohol, was hospitalized for a time, and had quit drinking. Then we heard that she was drinking again.

Ruby found a way to finance one last trip to visit after mom was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. She stayed with my husband and me for a couple of nights, then with my brother's family. Mom only let her visit for a short time.

I felt sorry for my aunt, who only wanted to be close to her favorite sibling, and probably her best friend in the world. Ruby seemed satisfied that she had at least had a chance to see mom one more time.

Ruby died a few years later from complications of alcoholism. Her adoring Billy cared for her until the end.