Raise Your Glass

When I was a little girl, I spent many a weekend in Mississauga with my Aunty Dot and Uncle Nobby.  They were the only extended family we had in Canada, and they had no children of their own, so to me they were like a second set of parents.  They took on their role in our lives with two kinds of enthusiasm: my aunt’s was emotional and grand; my uncle’s was quiet and steadfast.  They were quite a pair.

Uncle Nobby had a soft chuckle and a careful nature.  He rarely had much to say or the chance to say it.  He was a gentleman, kind and capable, and happiest in the background.  He was happiest, in fact, away from it all – out on a lake with his fishing rod or, eventually, tending his roses in his backyard English garden.  My Aunty Dot, on the other hand, was happiest at the centre of everything – her stories the funniest, her laughter the loudest of any room she was in.  She sang in elevators and danced down grocery aisles without a thought to who might be watching; she had no time at all for the kind of person who might disapprove of such things.  She celebrated life with a legendary generosity and an unfailing belief in the joys of providing comfort.

I grew up knowing that they would be there for me at every single important event in my life – big or small.  A weekend in their home meant a weekend of little-girl decadence: chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies and ice-filled glasses of Pepsi on the couch; salt & vinegar crisps from Marks & Spencer and movies in the afternoon; shopping trips to Square One; endless games of Monopoly in the evening and bubble-baths deep enough to swim in; staying up late to play games of cards and Scrabble; curling up next to my aunt under a thick down comforter and falling asleep to the sounds of Johnny Carson.

In the way of little children, I became aware at some point that life was filled with potentially scary changes and I knew that there were some things that I never wanted to end.  So I often tried to make my Aunty Dot promise me that I would always be able to visit her.  I wanted to be sure that she would never leave.  She answered the same way every time: “When you’re big, you won’t want to visit your Aunty Dot anymore.  You’ll see.”

She was wrong.  I’m big now and, my God, I still want that visit.

She would have turned 78 today.  It’s been over two years since we lost her and I still can’t bring myself to read the stories she left behind.  They’re tucked away for a day when I feel ready.  I keep her close, though, and my uncle too.  This is the picture on the wall where I write:

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This was taken before my own family moved to Canada. They camped a lot in those days, mostly I think with their best friends, Audrey and Peter.  I love that my aunt’s pants match the car.  She has written on the back, “Nobby with his pride and joy, also me.”

I’ll be raising a glass of dark rum and Pepsi tonight and thinking of her.  Somewhere she is in the midst of a card game, surrounded by laughter and loved ones, in a flouncy floor-length dress and a swirl of perfume.

What I wouldn’t give for another hug.

Cheers, Aunty Dot.