Do (or did) you have an Aunt Betty?

Everybody deserves one.

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Enjoy this week’s article!

Note: This essay was inspired by two pieces from fellow Substacker, Stephanie Raffelock. (Thank you, Stephanie.) The first one is titled, “How To Be An Old Woman,” and the second is titled, “The Journey Home.” The pieces are linked below.

I can’t wait to hear about YOUR Aunt Betty figure. As always, you’re invited to share in the comments.

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Do (or did) you have an Aunt Betty?

Everybody deserves one.

Recently, Husband and I took a roadtrip to Arizona. This is something many Midwesterners do every winter to escape the snow and cold for a bit. We don’t go every year, in fact, we’ve only gone a few times, but I’m thinking maybe we should change that.

The trip was pretty great except we missed our Titus. This was our first roadtrip without him since he died in January. Titus loved roadtrips. Loved hotels. Loved meeting/greeting new people. Most people love Frenchies, and most Frenchies love people. Well, Titus certainly did anyway. If dogs can be introverts or extroverts, Titus was definitely the latter. He was the perfect traveling companion. Luckily, we have lots of fond memories, and I’ll likely never check into a hotel again without thinking about him.

On our way home from AZ, we drove through Denver, as we had decided to stop in and visit my Aunt Betty who lives there. It was wonderful to reconnect and reminisce.

It’s impossible to introduce you to Aunt Betty properly in a short piece like this, but I’ll give it a whirl by sharing a few memories. I hope you have or have had an Aunt Betty figure in your life, too. Everyone deserves one.

Betty is my mother’s little sister. There were 10+ years between them. When my parents were dating, Betty was often a tag-a-long. I love the old photos of her proudly standing next to the two lovebirds smiling away. (Unfortunately, I couldn’t locate one, but I’ll keep looking.)

The last time I had seen Betty was 17 years ago. I know, that’s a long time between visits. Her last trip to Minnesota was to visit her dying sister — my mother. I will remember that visit always. Saying goodbye to a sibling has to be a heartache unlike any other. Witnessing their goodbyes was hard enough.

Betty has always been actively involved in my life and in the lives of my siblings and cousins, too. We knew she cared and not in that obligatory sort of way some relatives care. No, Betty’s caring heart was/is the real deal.

Every summer my parents, siblings, and I made the eight-hour drive from our house in Madelia, MN to visit my grandparents who lived in Park River, ND. By that time, Betty was out on her own, first in college and later, getting started on her teaching career. But she came back to Park River to see us when we there whenever she could.

When she did, she often took me and my sisters on outings. (My brother was too little. Plus, he was a boy, after all.) Sometimes, it was just to the local swimming pool that she took us. Park River is a small rural town, but having a public swimming pool made it seem bigger, more reputable somehow. There was also a movie theater. And a Dairy Queen. In my young eyes, those were amazing amenities for a town to have. Amazing amenities and a cool aunt that took us to them and elsewhere as well.

What could be better?

It was at the movie theater one summer where Betty figured out the mystery of what was making me throw up every summer when I visited Grandma and Grandpa. Orange pop. (Do you call it soda? In the Midwest, we call it pop.)

While at a movie one summer, Betty treated me to popcorn and an orange pop. I promptly thanked her by throwing up. It must’ve been a big movie premeir, too, as the place was jam-packed. I still remember those looks of disgust and annoyance from the people sitting next to us.

Who could blame them?

It was humiliating (and likely mortifying for my sisters) making our group exit, stepping over people, and trying to avoid the unpleasant mess I had just made. Oops.

But Betty was unphased. She calmly escorted my sisters and me out like it was no big deal and told me there was no reason whatsoever to feel badly. Back at Grandpa and Grandma’s house, it was Betty who let me sleep in her bed while she tended to my upset tummy all night. She wasn’t one bit worried I might have another episode and possibly make a mess all over the carpeting, much less right there in the bed.

Then there was Betty’s August 1963 wedding. She chose me and Kay, my next-older sister, to be candlelighters. My oldest sister Susan was selected for some other role — a more prestigious one, I’m sure. I can’t remember what it was, though. The pressure was on. Even at our tender ages, we knew this was an important assignment that we didn’t want to screw up. I don’t think we did either.

When we were old enough, we sometimes got to go to Betty’s house to spend the night, or if we were really lucky, more than one night. There was always fun to be had at Betty’s. Games. More games. TV shows we didn’t normally get to watch. More movies. Her dog Mitzi. Rides in her convertible. But no more orange pop. We had switched to Fresca. (Can you still buy Fresca?)

After Betty and Bill (her husband at the time) moved to Denver and following a visit to my house in MN one summer, I was invited to ride back to Denver with them in their Dodge Charger, no less, to spend a week. Just me. Solo. No siblings. What a rarity. And what a ride it was. Me in the middle-front seat tucked in between Betty and Bill. My cousin Gregory — their toddler — in the backseat. I’m pretty sure he was in a carseat, but I remember they also had a mattress back there for him to use at naptime. (Can you imagine? Well, if you’re like me and grew up with no seatbelts at all in cars, you can imagine it. An unsecured mattress, why not? Yikes.)

Through the years, Betty has been the aunt who sent birthday cards and Christmas cards. Early or on time. Never late. She wrote letters too. Just because. I came to recognize her handwriting anywhere. Even her handwriting looked cool. She remembered everyone’s milestone events, attended them whenever possible, and even got on Facebook in her later years so she could keep track of what everybody was up to.

Betty was the cake cutter at my wedding. She was the first women’s libber (besides my mother) that I knew, as well as the first divorcee. She’s still a dog lover. An avid reader. A night owl. A person not afraid to share her opinions. A retired public speaker. A bleeding heart liberal — and proud of it.

Oh, and there’s also the damn cancer. We have that connection, too. Unfortunately. Like me, she’s a breast cancer survivor. Like me, she is BRCA2+. Like me, she understands the horror that is metastatic breast cancer. We are connected by joy, but by the misery that is cancer, too. (She’s not metastatic, but my mother died from metastatic breast cancer.)

I could go on and on.

But the real point of this entire story is that Betty was, and still is, a role model. She’s a woman who’s made a difference in my life and in the lives of countless others. Because she cares.

Is it really that simple?

Maybe so.

This gets us back to Stephanie’s article, The Journey Home, in which she offers readers this exercise to try:

Stand in the sunlight. Close your eyes and stretch out your arms. Now imagine your mother standing behind you, her arms open wide. Behind her, your grandmother. And behind her, your great-grandmother. Keep going back, beyond the names and faces that you know to those who you don’t know but whose lives helped to shape yours, nonetheless.

Feel them with you, warmed by the sun. Their arms and hearts open, supporting you as you face the big “what’s next.” Breathe them in. They’re part of you, always with you. They too were spun from the threads of longings—to love, to belong, and to one day come home to yourself. Thank them.

I love this exercise and encourage you to give it a try, too.

(If you’re a man, do the exercise substituting your father, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, uncles.)

When I do it, I imagine my mother, my grandmothers, aunts, and all the women in my family tree who’ve come before me — those I know and those I know little or nothing about.

My list of the women standing behind me, supporting me, and lifting me up will forever include my Aunt Betty. Those women are all still there. I breathe them in. They are part of me. Always with me.

That’s powerful, right?

Aunt Betty is now an old woman. Heck, I’m now an old woman. She doesn’t share her age publicly, so I surely won’t divulge it. But I always thought it was pretty cool that she was only 15 years older than me — she could’ve passed as an older sister.

You might want to read, When does one become old anyway? Am I old now? (Probably).

The last 17 years have aged us both. Changed us. Yet, we are the same. Connected. Forever. No matter how much time goes by. No matter how often we do or do not see each other.

I’ll end with these sage words from my friend Stephanie’s other piece, How To Be An Old Woman:

And while this culture may see those words (old woman) as ladened with baggage, I embrace them. I own them. I wear them as a mantle, a declaration that finds inspiration in the old women who came before me and continue to light my way.

I’m grateful for the women who came before me. They helped shape me. I’m grateful I’ve had, and still have, an Aunt Betty in my life.

I thank Aunt Betty.

I thank them all.

Hanging out with Aunt Betty and her senior dog, Misty.

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Now, Dear Reader, tell me about an Aunt Betty you have (or have had) in YOUR life — or any woman in your family tree (or not in it) — who’s helped shape the person you are today. If you’re a man, you’re invited to share about a role model (male or female) in your life as well.

Do (or did) you have an Aunt Betty in your life?

What is one way she helped shape you?

Might you try the above exercise from Stephanie?

Okay, I have to ask — is it pop or soda for you?

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Thank you for reading my article. I appreciate you.

As always, I see you. I hear you, and I care about what you have to say.

Until next time…

Take care of yourself, be kind to someone, and be a light.

To those who celebrate, Happy Easter! 🐰

With much gratitude,

Nancy