A December Morning

A December Morning with Aunt Marietta

I sit on the porch this December morning, a borrowed Labrador at my feet; the laptop perched in my lap.

My Aunt Marietta comes to mind today. Maybe because I have a doctor’s appointment.

Aunt Marietta was the eldest of my Grandmother’s eight daughters. For many years, if I was close enough to provide the service, I ferried two of my aunts who live in Ocean City, Maryland, to see Aunt Marietta in Dover, Delaware. We stopped in Milford, along the way, to pick up my mother. The sisters liked to get together for a long afternoon’s lunch. It was always like watching children at play.

One of the perks of driving my aunts and Mother the hour or two to Dover was captaining what I affectionately named “the Jesus Mobile.” My Uncle Bill, married to my Aunt Pete (who picked up her nickname from a pet rooster she adopted as a child), purchased a colossal Buick Roadmaster in the mid-nineties. It is a beautiful burgundy machine, kept garaged. While Uncle Bill was alive, the Roadmaster was parked for protection with giant, long feather-duster sliders engineered on both sides of the car in the garage. It was almost like a cacoon for a car.

That opulent Roadmaster is still a beauty. However, I imagine my Uncle Bill would be horrified to see the large “Jesus Stickers” in the rear window and on the bumper. I cannot for the life of me recall what either of them says, but I believe “I love Jesus” is the one on the left. And so we would lumber in that wonderfully wide, boldly chromed automobile, up the Rehoboth Highway. The horn was boisterous, reminding me of what the angel Gabriel’s horn must be like when sounded. As we would make our way through traffic, I’d sound that titanic horn, saying to other drivers, “Move over! Jesus Mobile coming through!”

We were at one of those effortless, almost lazy luncheons at Aunt Marietta’s when she imparted a slice of her impressive wisdom to me. My other aunts were in the kitchen with my mother. I sat with Aunt Marietta, now 90, in the living room. We chatted for a little while. Then, she looked over at me and asked, “You want to know a secret, Ricky?” Of course I did. She leaned a little to her left; I leaned a tad forward, prepared. “Getting old isn’t for sissies!” She proclaimed.

I laughed then. I’m laughing now, as I write this.
Getting old isn’t for sissies.

Aunt Marietta lived another year. Passing away at 91, she had never wanted to lay claim to the Cropper heritage of edging centurionism. Her mother made it to 100 and 8 months. Our Aunt Violet was strong and healthy right up to her passing at 96. Aunt Marietta had firmly stated to all of us, I think, that she did not want to live as long as her mother did. I vividly remember asking her on one of those sojourns with my aunties what she was doing lately. Looking at me quite seriously, but stating almost off-handedly, she answered, “Waiting to die.” That shocked me at the time, but I knew that she really was just being patient.

Aunt Marietta has been gone two or three years, now. Her vibrancy and witticism remain with all of us in our vast family.

I’m not sure why I was thinking about her this morning, sitting on the porch with an old borrowed dog at my feet. Maybe it was my walk with Katie this morning, and her lying at my feet now. We had jogged the distance from the pond to the cottage. I wouldn’t want to take bets on which of us was the most winded. In dog years, Katie’s 84. In people years, I’m fifty-five.

Perhaps it is because I have yet another doctor’s appointment today. There have been a lot of those since March, when all my body parts had a meeting, laying me out in the parking lot of Wal-Mart in Pocomoke City, Maryland. I thank God when I can remember, for not letting me croak right there. The embarrassment of having to tell people I died at Wal-Mart is a shame I would not want to bestow on my family. Under a palm tree, with a glass of chardonnay in my hand; OK.

This morning, thoughts of my beloved Aunt Marietta swirl around and through me. She imparted many things to me over numerous years. In her last few, she’d spout some unforgettable one-liners.

“Getting old isn’t for sissies.”
That’s my personal favorite.
I shall both share and take that advice to my heart.