Goodbye Aunt Pat

My Aunt Pat died yesterday. I've mentioned her throughout the years on this blog; a simple "Aunt Pat" in the search bar will yield some pretty funny results.

We probably saw each other on fewer than 2 dozen occasions throughout my 42 years: she lived in Lowell, Massachusetts for 74 years, and I didn't, so.

But of all my relatives (of which there have been a surprising few, for an Irish Catholic family out of Massachusetts), I always felt the most like her. Of the siblings from our respective generations (she the middle child of 5, me the second of 4), neither one of us would ever be called the smartest, or the best looking, or the nicest, or the most talented or successful, or the one anyone would be bragging about around the campfire one day.

But we both are funny, and irreverent, and just generally easy to be around. Life is hard enough; both me and Aunt Pat serve the useful purpose of lightening things up whenever we show up - you could only be so upset about things whenever one of us would wander onto the screen, so to speak. There's value in that, which I learned from both her and my mother at an early age.

I not only never dreaded seeing my Aunt Pat, I always very much looked forward to it. That gives me something to aspire to as an uncle.

I'll repeat my favorite story that I only recently re-posted upon knowing I'd be going up to visit her for the last time:

My favorite Aunt Pat moment came just over 10 years ago; my Grandma May had died at age 95 and we were up for her funeral. I stayed the night in the house she had lived for most of her life, the last 60 of which had been with my aunts Pat and Eileen (don't ask). The morning of her funeral, Aunt Pat stuck her head into my room:

Aunt Pat: You want some breakfast?
Me: Sure, that'd be great.
Aunt Pat: How about some scrambled eggs?
Me: Oh yeah, definitely.
Aunt Pat: With some bacon?
Me: I love bacon!
Aunt Pat: You want some toast?
Me: Yeah.
Aunt Pat: White, or Jewish rye?
Me: Jewish rye.
Aunt Pat: So it's scrambled eggs, bacon, and Jewish rye toast?
Me: Sounds great.
Aunt Pat: It does. Make it your goddam self, I'm in mourning.

And just like that she walked back through the door, leaving me howling with laughter.
It's the same thing my mother would have done, or myself. And it still cracks me up. 

Typical Aunt Pat.

I suppose I've also reached that age at which one genuinely takes an interest in what's left from the lives of his or her parents. Aunt Pat knitted some oven mitts? Sure, I'll take them. Will I use them, who cares - they'll always remind me of her, and so much more.

For decades I've said people should be able to listen to Aunt Pat before they die, so I'm glad I tape-recorded her and her sister and their mother 14 years ago. I'll be re-digitizing all 6 hours I caught on tape, but here's a good start.

Goodbye, Aunt Pat.  Thanks, and I promise your sense of humor will live on as long as I do...along with that RIDICULOUS accent!! :)