Aunt Vernelle

All my aunts had red hair, each a different shade. Vernelle’s was orange. That day, years ago, she poured a glass of iced tea and stuck a wedge of lemon on the glass, “like society people,” she said. She had dropsy and never learned to read. She looked at pictures in movie magazines.

We went to Woolworth’s every Saturday and that day she bought a bottle of Persian Melon nail polish. We sat at the dinette table and I painted her nails, dabbing at smears with a cotton ball. She talked about her ex-husband John Robert. “He was a good man,” she said. Smiled when I agreed with her.

She lived with grandmother her whole life. I found that 40-year old picture of her when I moved last year. It was taken on Easter Sunday. She wore a dark coat, looked tall and dignified. I didn’t really know her I thought. “Come here,’ she’d say when I was little, “sit on my lap. I want to spend some time with you.”

It’s summer. We’re on the porch and a little metal fan is blowing. Her sisters nicknamed her Babe but she wasn’t the baby of the family. She boxed chocolates at the candy factory. That day she explained to me how she knew from the design on the top whether the filling was chocolate or butter cream. “I’m good at it. The fastest one there.” she said. “Want me to make you some more iced tea?”

“I’m finished with your hands,” I said. “Want me to do your toes? It’ll look good with your sandals.” She held up each hand, “I like this color,” she said, blowing on her fingers to dry.

Sandra Giedeman