My Aunt Virginia died. She was my godmother,was a constant in my life and, at times, my surrogate mom.
She made the worst oatmeal and the best Rocky Road fudge. She was known for being no-nonsense and
strict, but loving. A devoutly religious woman, she attended Mass every day.
Aunt Virginia and my Mom grew up together, attended the same high school and then married the handsome and intelligent Joyce brothers. They were bonded from the earliest days of their lives.
Right after WWII, the whole Joyce clan all lived together in a two story frame house at 95 McKinley Parkway
in Buffalo. The household included my grandparents, my parents, my Aunt Virginia and her husband, Uncle Bob, Uncle Bam and his wife, Aunt Janet and a teenaged kid brother, Jack. Eventually my brother Michael and I were born into this household.
There are pictures my Dad took of all of them arrayed around an oval dining room table, an extended family sharing an evening meal. My Mom and my Aunt often told stories of those days.
Eventually the brothers all bought their own homes and moved their respective families out of McKinley Parkway.
But they often recalled those days with a wistful nostalgia.
Aunt Virginia was the only one left of this generation of my family—everyone else had preceded her in death. She buried many important people in her life: her mother and three step mothers,her brother, her father, her husband, dear friends, Aunt Janet and Uncle Bam,the kid brother, Uncle Jack and his wife, Aunt Noel, my Mom and Dad and finally her own daughter. My cousin Nancy was only 60 years old when she died from
breast cancer. Virginia was stoic through all this loss. And that’s what I think allowed her to carry on.
Lately, she has been confined to a nursing home—a good one where she was well cared for and cherished. I visited her there the last time I was back in Buffalo. I saw a mere shell of the vibrant woman
she had been.
When I spoke with my cousin Peter after his mother’s death, he said that he and his sister felt that their mother
had been caught in a loop of the movie, “Ground Hog Day”, where every day was aclone of the day before, but meaningless.
I have to agree with them.
There does come a time when death is a friend, and the passage from this life to the next one is welcome. So,
that’s where I take my solace—my aunt was ready to die. Her life on earth had come to an end and she was ready to join the “95 McKinley” gang around the dinner table in heaven.
Your story made me think about my Dad. He saw everyone in his family go before him and wondered why. He knew that God must have had a plan but didn’t understand. At 93 wise years old, he was ready to join my Mom and all of his family. Even though I was here, I knew it was time for him to be with them. I believe my Dad is happy to be with Mom after such a long separation, to be with his brother Dan, his best friend, and of course to see his parents again. I talk to them and believe in them. It gives me comfort to do this. Lucy
Lucy, what a lovely insight on your father’s life and death. You certainly were a loving and attentive daughter.
My mother had six sisters, three older and three younger. Talk about a middle child! They all married younger men, all died in chronological order, and all preceded their spouses in death.
Aunt Lonie, Alice Leona, really, is my Aunt Virginia. She was closest in age and miles to my mom. With no children of her own she so welcomed my visits. The topics of conversation have faded over time, but I can still feel her presence. We would sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee from her glass percolator. She made only one pot per day, so the later the visit, the sronger the coffee.
great anecdote–this is one thing I love about bloging–the stories people share with me.
Thanks, Jane.
I wish your story had more anecdotes about Aunt Virginia when she was at her best.
Are you allowed to add photos to your blog?
I would love to see some.
I remember the Mc Kinley Ave. area, as I went to Buffalo State.
Warm regards,
Bobbi Mastrangelo
I could add more–thanks for the comment and for visiting the blog.
Hi Kathy: This story takes me back to my own chiuldhood living in a house with grandparents, anunts and uncles. Those were the good old days. Keep on writing.
Thanks for the comment, Liz. This is one of the pleasures of writing this blog–people share their own experiences…I really love that.
Please let people know about my blog.Thanks!
An insightful piece, Kathy. Thanks for sharing. My 86 year-old father lost his two older sisters in the last month. It is sad to see the passing of a generation and all that wisdom gone from us.
Absolutely! And hard to know that the stories that are only fragments in our lives will remain so with the passing of this generation.
This piece reveals some things I didn’t know we had in common. My mother’s younger sister Millie lived with us my whole childhood. Your Aunt Virginia sounds as important to you as my Aunt Millie was to me, and I grieve with you at her passing.
My mother and her girlhood best friend, Mabel also married brothers, my dad Roy and his older brother Claude. At least once a month in my younger years we would end up at Aunt Mabel and Uncle Claude’s house where the scene was always the same; the women would gather around the kitchen table in a group that included my mother, Aunt Mabel, Aunt Millie, and usually several of Aunt Mabel’s grown daughters; the men would gather in the living room in a group that included my dad, Uncle Claude, his two teenage sons on the rare occasions when they were home, and whatever sons-in-law were in attendance. I was about the same age as the daughters’ oldest children. We usually played outside with the little ones during the day, or in the sitting room between our parents’ domains at night. As inclination struck us, we were also free to wander into either domain and listen to conversations like flies on the wall.
It was in the kitchen where I first learned about the realities of breast cancer that eventually claimed my Aunt Mabel’s life, and in the living room where I learned about the realities of war as one of the sons-in-law tearfully told about retrieving bodies machine-gunned in half. Our parents, usually so careful about conversations in our presence, seemed to forget themselves when in the safety of those rooms with each other, and that, I must admit, was part of the secret allure of visiting there.