A Fond Adieu to Aunty Etta
by Pat Biasotti
Sadly, the last of my mother's generation, her youngest sister, has passed away. We all need one family character to bring excitement, adventure, laughs, sometimes even embarrassment to our lives. The latter you wish you could shove into the closet and slam the door. And some, like my dear Aunty Etta evoke funny stories, rolling of the eyes and become a family legend.
As the youngest of my mother's seven siblings, she was the adored and spoiled baby sister. Mom, the eldest daughter of a Kansas farmer, always helped cook in the kitchen. She was irritated when little sister, Etta. often forgot to set the table or fetch the water. Usually she hid in the big apple tree, reading a book.
However, great affection existed between the two. After finishing nursing school in Kansas City, Aunty visited my parents in California and never returned home. She was attractive and had a bevy of beaus. As a child I loved playing dress up in her discarded party dresses. My favorite was a glamorous 1920s green beaded chiffon with a multi-tiered, handkerchief hem.
That was before she met and married my uncle. After that she discarded nothing, not with a last name like MacDonald. Her frugality became a family joke. It was doubly ironic, because they lived in a stately old Victorian house in Alameda, California, and were far better off than any of her siblings.
By this time two brothers had also settled in the Bay Area. When any Kansas relatives "came out to the coast," there usually was a no-host family reunion at some restaurant. For over forty years Aunty Etta managed to avoid paying for any dinners. It was always the same script. When the bill came, she'd feign great surprise, exclaiming, "Oh, dear, I forgot to bring any money. However, by the end of the meal she always remembered to empty all the remaining sugar cubes into her purse.
Soon widowed after her children were grown, she lived many years alone in that large Victorian house. Eventually it was too much to keep up. She bought a smaller home down the block. One brother's witty comment is firmly enshrined in the family annals: "I could have a new house, too, if only I'd saved all my sugar cubes."
Even more legendary was her driving and utter lack of direction. Once, my mother swore she would never ride with Etta again after she made a wrong turn onto the San Francisco-bound ramp of the Bay Bridge. "Oops!" she exclaimed. I wanted to go to downtown Oakland." She promptly made a U-turn and headed back down the same one-way ramp.
Many years later my husband and I lived in San Jose (south of Alameda). One Sunday afternoon I answered my front doorbell. To my surprise, there stood Aunty Etta. Her mouth flew open. She stammered, "Why, Pat, what… what are you doing here.
"Well, Aunty," I laughed, "I live here."
"Oh, is this San Jose?" she asked. "I wanted to go north to Santa Rosa."
Dear Aunty Etta, no one can possibly take your place. I loved you and hope that on your last trip you took the right turn and found the road to heaven.