CREEK ROAD GANG
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A Fairy God Aunt
Patricia Zita Krischcopyright 2009
When I was a child, I sometimes wished for a fairy godmother. In reality I did have a sort of fairy god aunt. She was Aunt Becky (Rebecca Coolott), my paternal grandmother’s sister and the undisputed matriarch of Dad’s extended family. Her status did not depend on maternity; she was childless, but rested instead on a vibrant, dominating personality. That she was a moderately rich widow didn’t hurt, either.
It is hard to imagine a less fairy-looking person. Tall and large, weighing in the neighborhood of two hundred or more pounds, she had a commanding voice and a hearty laugh. As a small child I worried about being smothered in the scent of Elizabeth Arden’s Blue Grass perfume on her bosom when she hugged me.
Her god aunt status came from being the source of the most wonderful gifts in our childhood and through our teen years. First, came Madame Alexander baby dolls and elegant silk or organdy party dresses. Later, when I was a teenager, she gave me a silk nightgown trimmed with lavish amounts of lace, bottles of real perfume, a set of silk jewelry rolls and lingerie cases, and nylon stockings. Aunt Becky bragged how she always gave grandnieces their first pair of nylon stockings. Mother gave me my first pair, so when I got one from Aunt Becky, I lied and told her they were my first. By my early teens, I sensed how this gift giving was at least as important to her as it was to us.
Once in a while, especially after Aunt Becky had had a few cocktails, she would refer to “my baby” or “my daughter.” Her only child had been stillborn, and she was never able to have another. As an adult I look on her gift giving as a wonderfully positive response to this tragedy.
We were not the only children she shopped for. She was an important fixture of the Catholic Ladies Relief Society. One of their charities was to provide Christmas gifts to a collection of orphans and poor children. For years, Aunt Becky designated herself as the chief shopper. Since she contributed a large portion of the funds the Society used for this, I doubt anyone could dislodge her from this role. During the cocktail hour before Christmas dinner, she invariably waxed on about, “my friend, Mr. Cox,” and recounted his recommendations about the “in” toys that year. Mr. Cox owned the nicest toy store in Sacramento, and I am sure he was delighted every time Aunt Becky walked in the door. Often Mr. Cox’s suggested mechanized toys suitable for boys. I still remember the Christmas my cousin, Rob, got a walky-talky set, and we were all over that large house trying to talk to each other on it.
Christmas dinner at Aunt Becky’s was a command performance throughout my childhood. My paternal grandparents: Dad’s sister, Rita; her husband and two children; and several of Dad’s cousins came. The guest list fluctuated between a dozen and two- dozen for an Edwardian spread. It started in the early afternoon with champagne cocktails for the adults, Shirley Temples for the children, and canapés that Mother provided. Usually these were bread rounds slathered with cheese spread and topped with a slice of green olive or an anchovy and bread rounds covered with creamed crabmeat. Bringing canapés was the only thing Mother had to do for the dinner except to keep her annoyance in check since neither she nor Aunt Becky particularly liked each other. Mother claimed that Aunt Becky early on had told her she expected someone from a better background for her favorite nephew’s bride. Whether or not this actually happened, Mother felt it had and dubbed herself “the outlaw.”
During this cocktail hour at Christmas, there were some side conversations, but, for the most part, Aunt Becky dominated the conversation often asking Dad’s opinion of “that man, Roosevelt,” and later “that man, Truman.” Since Dad was peripherally involved in politics and was a Republican, she valued his opinion and liked to hear political gossip. Another favorite topic, also directed to Dad, was the activities of various Catholic charity boards. Aunt Becky was one of the founders of Sacramento’s Community Chest, and she and Dad were each active members of various Catholic and community boards.
While conversation was going on in the living room, Aunt Rita, Aunt Becky’s widowed sister-in-law who lived with her and ran the household, scurried back and forth to the kitchen to oversee the current young Asian maid and a helper prepare the meal.
Dinner was served in Aunt Becky’s long, formal dining room on a table set with heavy embroidered linens, silver water goblets, sterling flatware, and etched crystal nut cups. After the many-course dinner was finished, the first dessert, a plum pudding, was brought out. For the presentation, Aunt Rita would soak sugar cubes in brandy, arrange them at the base of the pudding, light the sugar cubes in the kitchen, and bring the plate to Aunt Becky’s place at the head of the table.
“Ah, wonderful!” Aunt Becky would say. But as the years went on, glaucoma stole much of her vision. Then, unable to see the flames and usually, by that time, a bit tight, she would complain, “There’s no fire. Pour more booze on it! More booze, more booze!”
Aunt Rita would try to convince her that the pudding was indeed flaming but would eventually give in, bring out the brandy bottle, pour more on the pudding, and set a match to this new puddle of alcohol. “Ah, that’s better,” Aunt Becky would say.
As children, we gagged over this dessert since, by the time it was served, it was soaked in brandy. We preferred the cake and ice cream served after an hour or two’s respite. During the break, some of the adults helped clean up the table and wash the dishes with my father heading the list of workers. Mother resolutely stayed out of this. She felt she was doing her duty by coming, an unwanted obligation in being part of Dad’s family, and she wasn’t about to wash dishes, too.
Aunt Becky, of course, did not do dishes. Often, during this interval, she elected to amuse the younger children. She would tell us that there was a witch in her bedroom. Did we want to come up and see the witch?
“There’s not a witch,” we’d say. “There aren’t witches.”
“Oh, yes. There’s a witch in my bedroom.” Turning to the older children she’d ask, “Isn’t there a witch in my room?”
“Oh, yes.”
After we agreed to try to see the witch, she would get someone to distract us for a few minutes (we needed the time to get up our courage), and then we would creep up the stairs to the second floor. Aunt Becky’s large bedroom was on the left at the top of the stairs. About the time we’d almost reached the top we’d hear, “Woooo” coming through the doorway.
“Did you hear that?” one of us would ask.
“Do you think there really is a witch?” another would say.
“Nah, witches aren’t real.” One of the older of us would venture a peek inside. “There’s no one here.” This declaration would be followed by another, louder wooooing noise and then the clatter of our feet racing down the staircase and sometimes a thump from one of us crashing into the wall of the landing during our descent. “There’s a witch in Aunt Becky’s bedroom. There really is!” we’d blurt out to whatever adults were in the living room.
As an adult, I love the image of that large, elderly lady, with her blue rinsed hair, getting down on her hands and knees on the far side of her bed in order to play the witch.
When we were children, my sister, Anna Rita, and I got the same Christmas gift from Aunt Becky, but my birthday presents were more lavish. Aunt Becky had a few pets, and I was one of them. Sometimes she said it was because I had spunk; at other times she said I reminded her of her favorite sister, Etta, who had died young of leukemia. Whatever the reason, it caused me problems with Mother. Mother was pleased that one of her children was basking in this sunshine but resented that Anna Rita did not share in it. Mother thought Anna Rita was not favored because she looked more like Mother than I did. It was clear to me from a very young age that Anna Rita, the first grandchild, was our paternal grandmother’s favorite. I felt entitled to be somebody’s favorite. Could I help it that my special fairy god aunt was rich and unusually generous? However, at home, I kept my enthusiasm for Aunt Becky under wraps.
Mother often grumbled about Aunt Becky being so domineering and claimed most relatives kowtowed since they were all hoping for some inheritance. She usually managed to be gracious to her, but I remember one evening when Mother lost her temper. Dad was working late at the office, and Aunt Becky called to complain that Dad had not done enough for her lately. Since Mother already resented how much help he gave that household, she started arguing with her, something most people never did. I could hear Mother’s voice getting angrier and angrier, and she finally shouted, “I’m not going to listen to this!” and banged down the phone.
Turning to Anna Rita and me she said, “Oh, she’s impossible,” and proceeded to tell us about the conversation. In a minute or so, the phone rang again, and, as Mother later reported it, Aunt Becky said, “I’m not used to people hanging up on me.”
“Then get used to it,” Mother said and slammed the phone down again. By this time, Mother’s chest was heaving, but she seemed inordinately pleased with herself. Dad, however, was unsettled when she later related it to him. Eventually, it all blew over although I suspect that Dad didn’t lose much time in sending Aunt Becky flowers or a fruit basket accompanied by his profuse apologies.
When I was sixteen, Aunt Becky was operated on for colon cancer, and Dad sounded distressed each time he talked to the surgeon and after visiting her in the hospital each day. “She’s not doing well,” he’d say in a worried tone. Then one day he came home for dinner with the usual spring in his step. “She’s turned the corner,” he announced. “When I walked into her room, she was sitting up, spitting mad. ‘That Bishop Armstrong,’ she said, ‘after all I’ve done for him! He must not be praying hard enough for me, or I wouldn’t be in so much pain.’”
The following November I was overwhelmed with my birthday gift from her. She gave me a set of jewelry: earrings, bracelet and a ring that she had purchased on a trip to Alaska in the twenties. Each piece included an opaque blue and green stone surrounded by gold nuggets. “I’m too old to wear this now,” she said. “This isn’t in my will. I wanted to be sure you got it.” I didn’t want to think there would come a time when she wasn’t around. Her cancer went into remission for several years. (She did not die until 1964, ten years after her surgery. She was eighty-eight years old.)
There were a few more Christmases at her house after the surgery, but then putting them on became too much for either Aunt Becky or Aunt Rita. Mother prepared an elegant, but much simpler, dinner at our house, and the aunts came to that. I could tell Aunt Becky was disappointed at not being the hub of her usual extravagant event, but I think she appreciated Mother’s kindness. In a family full of blood relatives who had enjoyed Aunt Becky’s Christmas dinners, it was Mother, the self-styled outlaw, who made sure she was always included in a family celebration.
It is hard to imagine a less fairy-looking person. Tall and large, weighing in the neighborhood of two hundred or more pounds, she had a commanding voice and a hearty laugh. As a small child I worried about being smothered in the scent of Elizabeth Arden’s Blue Grass perfume on her bosom when she hugged me.
Her god aunt status came from being the source of the most wonderful gifts in our childhood and through our teen years. First, came Madame Alexander baby dolls and elegant silk or organdy party dresses. Later, when I was a teenager, she gave me a silk nightgown trimmed with lavish amounts of lace, bottles of real perfume, a set of silk jewelry rolls and lingerie cases, and nylon stockings. Aunt Becky bragged how she always gave grandnieces their first pair of nylon stockings. Mother gave me my first pair, so when I got one from Aunt Becky, I lied and told her they were my first. By my early teens, I sensed how this gift giving was at least as important to her as it was to us.
Once in a while, especially after Aunt Becky had had a few cocktails, she would refer to “my baby” or “my daughter.” Her only child had been stillborn, and she was never able to have another. As an adult I look on her gift giving as a wonderfully positive response to this tragedy.
We were not the only children she shopped for. She was an important fixture of the Catholic Ladies Relief Society. One of their charities was to provide Christmas gifts to a collection of orphans and poor children. For years, Aunt Becky designated herself as the chief shopper. Since she contributed a large portion of the funds the Society used for this, I doubt anyone could dislodge her from this role. During the cocktail hour before Christmas dinner, she invariably waxed on about, “my friend, Mr. Cox,” and recounted his recommendations about the “in” toys that year. Mr. Cox owned the nicest toy store in Sacramento, and I am sure he was delighted every time Aunt Becky walked in the door. Often Mr. Cox’s suggested mechanized toys suitable for boys. I still remember the Christmas my cousin, Rob, got a walky-talky set, and we were all over that large house trying to talk to each other on it.
Christmas dinner at Aunt Becky’s was a command performance throughout my childhood. My paternal grandparents: Dad’s sister, Rita; her husband and two children; and several of Dad’s cousins came. The guest list fluctuated between a dozen and two- dozen for an Edwardian spread. It started in the early afternoon with champagne cocktails for the adults, Shirley Temples for the children, and canapés that Mother provided. Usually these were bread rounds slathered with cheese spread and topped with a slice of green olive or an anchovy and bread rounds covered with creamed crabmeat. Bringing canapés was the only thing Mother had to do for the dinner except to keep her annoyance in check since neither she nor Aunt Becky particularly liked each other. Mother claimed that Aunt Becky early on had told her she expected someone from a better background for her favorite nephew’s bride. Whether or not this actually happened, Mother felt it had and dubbed herself “the outlaw.”
During this cocktail hour at Christmas, there were some side conversations, but, for the most part, Aunt Becky dominated the conversation often asking Dad’s opinion of “that man, Roosevelt,” and later “that man, Truman.” Since Dad was peripherally involved in politics and was a Republican, she valued his opinion and liked to hear political gossip. Another favorite topic, also directed to Dad, was the activities of various Catholic charity boards. Aunt Becky was one of the founders of Sacramento’s Community Chest, and she and Dad were each active members of various Catholic and community boards.
While conversation was going on in the living room, Aunt Rita, Aunt Becky’s widowed sister-in-law who lived with her and ran the household, scurried back and forth to the kitchen to oversee the current young Asian maid and a helper prepare the meal.
Dinner was served in Aunt Becky’s long, formal dining room on a table set with heavy embroidered linens, silver water goblets, sterling flatware, and etched crystal nut cups. After the many-course dinner was finished, the first dessert, a plum pudding, was brought out. For the presentation, Aunt Rita would soak sugar cubes in brandy, arrange them at the base of the pudding, light the sugar cubes in the kitchen, and bring the plate to Aunt Becky’s place at the head of the table.
“Ah, wonderful!” Aunt Becky would say. But as the years went on, glaucoma stole much of her vision. Then, unable to see the flames and usually, by that time, a bit tight, she would complain, “There’s no fire. Pour more booze on it! More booze, more booze!”
Aunt Rita would try to convince her that the pudding was indeed flaming but would eventually give in, bring out the brandy bottle, pour more on the pudding, and set a match to this new puddle of alcohol. “Ah, that’s better,” Aunt Becky would say.
As children, we gagged over this dessert since, by the time it was served, it was soaked in brandy. We preferred the cake and ice cream served after an hour or two’s respite. During the break, some of the adults helped clean up the table and wash the dishes with my father heading the list of workers. Mother resolutely stayed out of this. She felt she was doing her duty by coming, an unwanted obligation in being part of Dad’s family, and she wasn’t about to wash dishes, too.
Aunt Becky, of course, did not do dishes. Often, during this interval, she elected to amuse the younger children. She would tell us that there was a witch in her bedroom. Did we want to come up and see the witch?
“There’s not a witch,” we’d say. “There aren’t witches.”
“Oh, yes. There’s a witch in my bedroom.” Turning to the older children she’d ask, “Isn’t there a witch in my room?”
“Oh, yes.”
After we agreed to try to see the witch, she would get someone to distract us for a few minutes (we needed the time to get up our courage), and then we would creep up the stairs to the second floor. Aunt Becky’s large bedroom was on the left at the top of the stairs. About the time we’d almost reached the top we’d hear, “Woooo” coming through the doorway.
“Did you hear that?” one of us would ask.
“Do you think there really is a witch?” another would say.
“Nah, witches aren’t real.” One of the older of us would venture a peek inside. “There’s no one here.” This declaration would be followed by another, louder wooooing noise and then the clatter of our feet racing down the staircase and sometimes a thump from one of us crashing into the wall of the landing during our descent. “There’s a witch in Aunt Becky’s bedroom. There really is!” we’d blurt out to whatever adults were in the living room.
As an adult, I love the image of that large, elderly lady, with her blue rinsed hair, getting down on her hands and knees on the far side of her bed in order to play the witch.
When we were children, my sister, Anna Rita, and I got the same Christmas gift from Aunt Becky, but my birthday presents were more lavish. Aunt Becky had a few pets, and I was one of them. Sometimes she said it was because I had spunk; at other times she said I reminded her of her favorite sister, Etta, who had died young of leukemia. Whatever the reason, it caused me problems with Mother. Mother was pleased that one of her children was basking in this sunshine but resented that Anna Rita did not share in it. Mother thought Anna Rita was not favored because she looked more like Mother than I did. It was clear to me from a very young age that Anna Rita, the first grandchild, was our paternal grandmother’s favorite. I felt entitled to be somebody’s favorite. Could I help it that my special fairy god aunt was rich and unusually generous? However, at home, I kept my enthusiasm for Aunt Becky under wraps.
Mother often grumbled about Aunt Becky being so domineering and claimed most relatives kowtowed since they were all hoping for some inheritance. She usually managed to be gracious to her, but I remember one evening when Mother lost her temper. Dad was working late at the office, and Aunt Becky called to complain that Dad had not done enough for her lately. Since Mother already resented how much help he gave that household, she started arguing with her, something most people never did. I could hear Mother’s voice getting angrier and angrier, and she finally shouted, “I’m not going to listen to this!” and banged down the phone.
Turning to Anna Rita and me she said, “Oh, she’s impossible,” and proceeded to tell us about the conversation. In a minute or so, the phone rang again, and, as Mother later reported it, Aunt Becky said, “I’m not used to people hanging up on me.”
“Then get used to it,” Mother said and slammed the phone down again. By this time, Mother’s chest was heaving, but she seemed inordinately pleased with herself. Dad, however, was unsettled when she later related it to him. Eventually, it all blew over although I suspect that Dad didn’t lose much time in sending Aunt Becky flowers or a fruit basket accompanied by his profuse apologies.
When I was sixteen, Aunt Becky was operated on for colon cancer, and Dad sounded distressed each time he talked to the surgeon and after visiting her in the hospital each day. “She’s not doing well,” he’d say in a worried tone. Then one day he came home for dinner with the usual spring in his step. “She’s turned the corner,” he announced. “When I walked into her room, she was sitting up, spitting mad. ‘That Bishop Armstrong,’ she said, ‘after all I’ve done for him! He must not be praying hard enough for me, or I wouldn’t be in so much pain.’”
The following November I was overwhelmed with my birthday gift from her. She gave me a set of jewelry: earrings, bracelet and a ring that she had purchased on a trip to Alaska in the twenties. Each piece included an opaque blue and green stone surrounded by gold nuggets. “I’m too old to wear this now,” she said. “This isn’t in my will. I wanted to be sure you got it.” I didn’t want to think there would come a time when she wasn’t around. Her cancer went into remission for several years. (She did not die until 1964, ten years after her surgery. She was eighty-eight years old.)
There were a few more Christmases at her house after the surgery, but then putting them on became too much for either Aunt Becky or Aunt Rita. Mother prepared an elegant, but much simpler, dinner at our house, and the aunts came to that. I could tell Aunt Becky was disappointed at not being the hub of her usual extravagant event, but I think she appreciated Mother’s kindness. In a family full of blood relatives who had enjoyed Aunt Becky’s Christmas dinners, it was Mother, the self-styled outlaw, who made sure she was always included in a family celebration.
* * *
Biographical Note: Patricia (Patty) Zita Krisch grew up in Sacramento, California, and lived for many years in Chicago and for more years in suburban Philadelphia. She is currently completing a book, A House Alive with Words, about a cohort of boys living in a residential A Better Chance program to prepare for college. In an earlier time in her life she worked as a demographer studying metropolitan population patterns and taught college sociology classes. She has been a member of Virginia Newlin’s autobiographical writing workshop class for thirteen years and wrote a memoir about her mother, The Solace of Clothes. She also writes occasional autobiographical pieces of which this is one.
