On Mother’s Day, celebrating an aunt who is a true survivor
Lorraine Murray’s latest book is “Death Dons a Mask,” a comical mystery. Her email is lorrainevmurray@yahoo.com.
She’s barely 5 feet tall and has chocolate-brown eyes and a husky voice. The baby in an Italian-American family of six children, she was 11 years younger than my mom — her sister Grace — who helped raise her.
When my husband and I visit Aunt Rita in her Florida condo, she throws wide the refrigerator door and lovingly extracts goodies that tempt even the most ardent dieter. Cookies perhaps? Some provolone cheese and fresh fruit?
“No, really, we’re not hungry,” my husband protests, but she doesn’t seem to hear him — and when he eventually caves in, she asks, “Is that all you’re having?”
She is what I call a true survivor. The love of her life, a handsome man named John, died suddenly after a few years of marriage, leaving her with two babies.
She scrupulously scrimped and saved to send her little ones to Catholic school although that meant living in a small apartment with few frills.
When her children were in their teens, she married a widower with three children, and the blended family hit some snags as they struggled to get along. But she always maintained her fervent faith in Christ and a solid prayer life, which were her bedrocks.
She survived a bout of lung cancer a few years ago, and goes back for checkups every three months, always confiding beforehand, “I hope God gives me more time, since I have so much left to do.”
Her second husband died a few years ago, and she now lives alone in the condo they once shared. Despite inevitable bouts of loneliness, she keeps remarkably busy — at 93 — with knitting, water aerobics, reading, bridge games — and praying before the Blessed Sacrament at her church.
We have plenty of traits in common, that’s for sure. We commiserate with each other about our baby fine hair, which is impossible to style, and talk about diets while dipping our hands into a box of chocolate truffles. We also have a tendency to waffle wildly when making decisions.
Recently I met her and her daughter at the airport to travel out west to visit my sister. Aunt Rita and Julie were flying in from Daytona Beach and Tampa, respectively, and we needed a convenient rendezvous spot.
“Why don’t you both come to my gate?” Aunt Rita suggested on the phone. “OK, that sounds good,” I replied.
“Or we could go to Julie’s gate,” she said. “Yes, that could work, too,” I said, with a little less enthusiasm because I knew where this was headed.
“Or we could meet somewhere else,” she added.
Still, she didn’t waffle a bit on that day long ago when I screamed bloody murder because I had fallen from my bike and skinned my knee on the brutal pavement.
Instead, she grabbed a bottle of orange medicine and painted a jaunty flower on my knee — which halted the hysterics immediately.
I love her dearly, especially on a day devoted to mothers. I pray the Lord will answer her prayers and give her much more time because I can’t imagine life without her. Happy Mother’s Day, Aunt Rita!
