When I Grow Too Old to Dream: A Memoir of Aunt Alice

Of all the people who have passed through my life, none has been as important to me as my Aunt Alice. I cannot remember a time when she was not a part of my existence. It's a good thing for me she lived until I was grown -- it would have made an unbearable gap if she hadn't been a part of my growing-up years.

My mother was her youngest sister, beautiful, witty, and popular, but also unstable, changeable, and mercurial. My father was the rock of my life, but Alice was the steady hand that helped me through the marshes of childhood.

Taken feature by feature, she was a homely woman -- small green eyes, overly generous nose, long, narrow face. But taken as a whole, she was vibrantly alive and attractive. She never lacked for beaux. She had worked her way up in the Northwestern Bell Telephone Company to the position of Chief Operator, and she was fiercely loyal to her employer. I remember her crossing some picket line, unmindful of the epithet "scab" hurled at her. Her duty was to keep the service going while the regular union employees were on strike. This was in the 40s, when opportunities for single women were not especially promising. Liberated before that term had more than a dictionary meaning, she never married. She went her independent way, buying her own little house, paying her own way on bus trips across the country to see relatives and new places. My brother recalls she came out from Minnesota to visit him when he was stationed at the Navy base in San Diego in the 1950s.

She was forever buying little extras for her many nieces and nephews that their parents couldn't afford. Everyone in the family agrees she was a "character," and we all have our favorite story about her -- how she loved to use her privileges on the switchboard to listen in to various boyfriends' phone conversations (strictly forbidden, of course); how she smuggled liquor across the Canadian border under her dress during Prohibition for the sheer hell of it; how she pushed her lethargic, dreamy sister off porches simply because she couldn't stand static people. But for me, she was more than the sum total of funny stories. She was more than an indulgent aunt, an interested godmother. She was a very special friend.

Even her house held a special fascination for me. Tiny, compact, and very neat, it smelled of the incense she burned to cancel the smell of the gold-tipped cigarettes she occasionally smoked. It also smelled of Prince Matchabelli perfume with tops that looked like crowns, all arranged in jewel tones on her bureau. Her closets were full of the most extraordinary clothes, for her figure was neat and she was proud of it. Chiffon dresses, silver and black high-heeled sandals, big picture hats, and the simple suits and blouses she wore to work. I remember a muskrat coat that smelled vilely when it got wet, and peculiar set of furs with real fox heads that simultaneously repelled and attracted me. In her bedroom was a three-mirrored dresser littered with boxes of jewelry and fancy powders and rouge pots that I dug into without a qualm. I asked her once if I could have all those treasures when she died, and she told the story over and over, as if I were some great wit.

The only thing of hers I ever really wanted and never got was her bicycle. She bought a beautiful green-and-cream Schwinn for herself, and no one was allowed to ride it except her. She biked to her job with it in the summer, and -- dressed in a natty slack suit -- rode it miles to visit friends and relatives across Minneapolis. I was seriously offended by her attitude, but my mother understood. She explained to me that all her life, Alice got hand-me-downs and secondhand toys. Only once did she get something new for herself, a wonderful little doll carriage. She was so possessive of it that she used to hide it under her parents' big high bed for safekeeping. Unfortunately, one day my grandfather threw himself massively on the bed, collapsing the whole thing and smashing the doll carriage beyond repair. I understood better about the Schwinn bike when I came across a picture of my mother, standing next to her very own old-fashioned, but obviously new, bicycle. She must have been about twelve, then. Being the youngest and prettiest daughter, she was petted and indulged by her father. Alice had to fight for whatever she got.

Given all that, the really curious thing was Alice's lack of envy toward my mother or anyone else. She had her share of gossipy ways, of course, but she never showed any real animosity toward anyone else. Her sense of herself was so powerful, her identity so secure, she didn't need to pull anyone else down to make herself look better. She was Miss Alice Lowe, dammit (pardon my French, she'd have said), and proud of it.

One of the nicest things I remember about our relationship was the fact that I was never treated like a child by her, never sent along to play while grownups talked. I used to sit on her lap when she came to our house and listen to her and my mother discuss all the gossip from the telephone company. The world of business was very interesting and, it seemed to me, full of intrigue. And of course, there were endless discussions of Alice's boyfriend, John Meyers. I think he was married, although he may have been divorced, which would have precluded any thought of marriage to my staunchly Catholic aunt. But I really don't think marriage was ever in her mind with any of her beaux. She just liked to have a man around occasionally who wouldn't disturb her life in any way.

We children called Mr. Meyers just that, but Alice always referred to him as "Meyers." It was her belief that he saw other women, and sometimes in the evening she'd say to my mother, "Let's go peek in Meyers' window." Taking my brother and me for lookouts, off we'd go. First we'd walk casually by this house, watching for a telltale spot of light behind some shaded window. My brother would be posted at the fence, to warn of anyone coming up the walk, and then she and my mother and I (warned to be very, very quiet) would sneak up the sideyard to see if anything could be spied through a crack in the window. Once she caught him talking in the kitchen over a bottle of beer with his "housekeeper" -- small as I was, I recognized the quotes around that title -- and then the sparks flew. It was exciting and spooky and dramatic to be a part of these nocturnal wanderings.

I spent a lot of weekends with her, and everything we did took on a special air. I know very well that I had jelly and bread at home, but at Alice's house it was Crosse & Blackwell jelly on bakery bread, cut into tiny triangles, and Canada Dry ginger ale from a green bottle, poured into fancy glasses. On Sundays at home, I disliked going to church, but with Alice it was different. Her little church was St. Stephen's on Fourth Avenue near the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Even then the church was old and drafty and smelled of linseed polish. But the stained glass windows were fascinating, and the statues were painted in different colors. No plain white ceramic Mary inhabited this church, and the Infant of Prague statue was decorated and wore a real cloth outfit.

Even the Missions were fun. While the priest preached about saving one's soul, I fingered a glorious rosary box Alice had bought me. In the flickering candlelight it looked as if it were encrusted with real gems, and I inhaled the exotic scent of incense like some sybarite. Alice was very religious, and every Holy Thursday, we pilgrimaged across the Twin Cities by streetcar to visit all the churches we could in St. Paul and Minneapolis. I just loved going with her, boarding the yellow streetcars with their straw-patterned seats and watching the buildings rush by. I always got to put the tokens in and ask for transfers. Sometimes I would sit in a different seat from hers, hoping everyone would think I was alone and marvel at my precociousness. But I always took her hand when it was time to get off.

We were an odd pair, I think. Alice with her hennaed red hair, me with my straight black hair done up temporarily in curls (she would set it on rags the night before); she with her high heels racing swiftly up and down church aisles, me following breathlessly with short, fat legs ending in Mary Jane sandals. With abandon we lit votive candles in shimmering containers of red, blue and gold, leaving behind countless prayers in countless churches. Many, many years later, after she had died, I traveled to France and lit candles in Notre Dame and Chartres just for her. When I later visited Greece, I lit candles in the Greek Orthodox churches for her, too. I don't think she'd have minded -- there was a touch of the Byzantine in her.

The years go by so swiftly, I can't turn the hourglasses over fast enough. The memory of her is still fresh in my mind. Somewhere in that perfectly marcelled red head lurked an elf, who calls to me still.

When I smell lilacs in the spring, I think of her little house at 1921 Clinton Avenue, and of the lilac bush that stood in the front yard. The bulldozers came and chewed it up, and a high-rise stands there now, but it doesn't matter. So many memories, so many good things stored up in my heart. My aunt Alice stood between me and the unhappiness of my childhood, whether real or imagined. Alice took me away, indulged me, listened to me and teased me out of my seriousness. She called me "Sugar" and kept me on some kind of path. Her religious attitude was practical and encompassed her life, and that legacy has stood me in good stead. She didn't talk much about God and the Church, but evidence of her faith was everywhere, from the scapular she wore around her neck to the huge picture of the Sacred Heart prominently hung on her wall in the living room of that little house.

Sadly, small strokes took away her sharpness, her brightness, her quickness, and left her bedridden and uncomprehending. On my wedding day, I went to her nursing home and laid my bouquet in her hands. I fancied there was a brief recognition in her green eyes as I kissed her cheek.

She died soon after, never seeing my children, whom she would have adored. She was buried from her beloved St. Stephen's, and I sat with my first child on my lap, reliving the sounds and smells and vibrations that echoed in that familiar place.

Every so often, a tune she loved echoes in my head. I finally tracked it down, and now I have a recording of this Sigmund Romberg song, which I play in the car.

When I grow too old to dream, I'll have you to remember. And when I grow too old to dream, your kiss will live in my heart.