These Are a Few of My Favorite Things

My aunt has passed. That's how mother instructed me to describe it to others. In truth, the woman was not my aunt. She was my father's aunt. I never knew her in life, though she sent me Hallmark cards, always Hallmark, on all major holidays for the duration of my life up to the present. Lest her estate specify that I should continue to receive these postal niceities, I expect I have received my last Hallmark card.

That I never met the woman in life is entirely the fault of mother. Mother has always preferred not to speak of father, nor to speak of his family. The therapist my mother sends me to told me that, if I am curious about my father and my father's heritage, I ought to simply ask mother to elaborate. I told my therapist that this seemed like an unwise decision, that mother likely has her own reasons for not discussing father in much detail. My therapist asked if I thought that this was reason enough to never know about half of my family, half of where I come from, half of the lump sum of all the experiences, knowledge, love and hate that brought me into existence. I told him I did think it was sufficient reason, that he had never seen mother bellow when asked to discuss things that she would rather not discuss.

Prior to my father's aunt's death, mother had only ever mentioned her to me once that I can recollect. In my youth, I asked mother who it was that sent me Hallmark cards on the major holidays. I asked because these were the only cards I ever received, that I have ever received. Moreover, these cards were always filled with the script of an elderly woman, always wishing me great growth, maturity, and fun with my schoolwork. Mother explained that the woman was father's aunt. She was quite old and lived in Minnesota. I asked if I would ever meet her, and mother said it was rather unlikely.

"Harold, she is a decent enough woman. But she is simply.....N.O.O.C.."

Here, the therapist my mother sends me to interrupted, asking what "N.O.O.C." means.

Not. Of. Our. Class.

With regards to travel, this would indicate that we would be invited to sleep on a couch or, worse, an air bed on a floor somewhere, mother explained. The poor woman would not even suggest a hotel to make us more comfortable. I asked mother if this meant that N.O.O.C. meant that she particularly wanted us to be uncomfortable.

"Don't be stupid, Harold," mother told me.

Over the years, I have come to understand that being N.O.O.C. has other implications beyond travel arrangements and accomodations. With regards to dining, it involves a great deal of convenience food and chicken. With regards to outings, it involves strip malls and discount warehouses. With regards to entertainment, it involves a complete disregard for the theatre, opera, and museums. Here, I objected and reminded mother that we often saw large groups of children at these locations on school field trips. This reminded mother of another N.O.O.C. characteristic: public schools raising their children.

My therapist asked me why it was that mother and I went to visit the home of my father's recently departed aunt in Minnesota, in light of mother's generally strict adherence to the N.O.O.C. travel veto. I was unable to provide a sufficient answer because, in truth, I have little grasp of the situation myself. The phone rang, and I answered. I could tell immediately that it was either a first-time caller or a wrong number.

"How could you possibly have known that, Harold," asked the therapist my mother sends me to.

"Because I answered, gasping, 'Please....help....I...I've...I seem to have cut myself...deep....quite deep...I've changed my mind...please, send help...' "

The man on the phone line seemed genuinely concerned, asking where I was in the house and whether or not I had removed my shirt to act as a bandage. This is how I knew he had never called our home before.

Mother snatched the phone away from me and apologized to the man, indicating that I was just being theatrical and would be just fine. Mother listened to the man on the phone, nodding as if to goad him on. When she spoke, she covered the phone receiver with her cupped hand, sliding her eyes over to me, watching my watching. Two days later we were on a plane to Minnesota.

Being an uninteresting sort, my therapist pointed out that we headed to Minnesota for my father's aunt's funeral, that the phone call had been a family member or friend or possibly even a lawyer informing mother of the situation. I told him this was a terrible interjection for the sake of dramatic tension in my storytelling. My therapist told me that our conversations were meant to be therapeutic, not dramatic.

Upon arriving in Minnesota, mother and I were picked up by a middle-aged woman with half inch salt-and-pepper roots sprouting beneath a cloud of curled red straw. She drove a faded green Chevrolet with comforters lining the entire backseat. She explained that she had gone into labor not once, not twice, but three times in that very backseat, all boys and all healthy as the Lord meant them to be.

Mother insisted that all three of us fit into the front seat.

My father's aunt's house is a small, tidy place with yellow painted walls. From the decor, I could tell that she was fond of cherubs. From the pictures, I could tell that she was fond of fashion. In every picture of my father's aunt, she was wearing a clearly preconceived outfit with matching shoes and purse. In every photo, the shoes matched her purse precisely. I wandered the house and looked at every photograph, every album, every snapshot. In each photo, there were matching shoes and purses. The face changed often - here smiling, here tired, here playing angry at the cameraman for catching her unawares. The scenery changed often - here a kitchen, here a park, here outside some monument to history that is only important to the tourists of the world. No matter the age, weather, or circumstance, this woman always had matching shoes and purse.

I made my way upstairs where mother was orchestrating a mass cleansing of my father's aunt's previous things. Mother had a group of women in the linen closet, directing towels into one box, while sheets went to another, and quilts into yet another box altogether.

My therapist interrupted me here, asking whether or not I thought mother had a tendency to take over situations. I told my therapist that he ought to ask my mother whether or not she had a tendency to take over situations.

I went into my father's aunt's bedroom and opened her closet. Hanging in even rows were all the outfits I had seen in the photos. My father's aunt arranged her closet by length and then color. First, short sleeved blouses, starting with the reds, then pinks, then oranges, then yellows, and so on down the rainbow spectrum. Patterned blouses were inserted by their predominant color. Next came the long sleeved blouses, again in color order. Then came short skirts; the woman evidentally owned not a single set of shorts. Then came long skirts and a brief assortment of slacks.

Along the top shelf of the closet, I could see a long row of hats. These hats were clearly purchased for funcationality and not style. There was a wide-brimmed red hat, presumably for ladies' luncheons. There was a floppy straw hat, presumably for afternoons gardening or picnicking. There was a black hat with a small pullover black veil, presumably for funerals and mourning.

Finally, at the bottom of the closet were a row of shoe boxes, seven long and three tall, twenty-one boxes in all. I began at the upper left hand corner, working my way across the rows before moving down to the middle row.

The first box contained a pair of patent leather bone pumps with a scuffed right heel and a matching patent leather purse. I removed the shoes from their box. The pumps were cold and stiff in my hands, and I placed them along the side of the bed. I picked up the purse and felt a bulge from within. Inside the main compartment of the purse I found a plastic cigarette lighter, a packet of pocket tissue, and a clear plastic rain bonnet. I placed the empty purse in front of the shoes. Then I placed its contents in a row before the purse.

I opened the second box. It contained a pair of patent leather black pumps, no scuffs, and a matching patent leather purse. Again, the purse contained a plastic cigarette lighter, a packet of pocket tissue, and a plastic rain bonnet. Again, I placed the shoes, purse, and contents in a row along the side of the bed.

Every box revealed a patent leather duo, in red, tan, ivory, navy blue, even a particularly loud dark blue and green plaid concoction. And within every purse, the same contents: the plastic cigarette lighter, the packet of pocket tissue, the clear plastic rain bonnet.

As I took down the wall of boxes from my father's aunt's closet, I constructed a fence of their contents on the floor beside my father's aunt's bed.

Twenty-one pairs of patent leather pumps.
Twenty-one patent leather purses, matching.
Twenty-one plastic cigarette lighters, color in no relation to the purses.
Twenty-one packets of pocket tissue, all opened and mostly unused.
Twenty-one clear plastic rain bonnets.

In the hallway, I could hear mother remarking to the family that it was amazing how much clutter and rubbish could be amassed in even the smallest house over a lifetime.

All the women in the hall agreed.