Aunt Sally, whose laugh was as full and real and nourishing as her generous hug of a body, ever in shorts and oftener-than-Christmas in Santa suspenders. Those piercing teary blue eyes, sparkling with such Joy at just being together with her family.

Aunt Sally, bearer of the Best Christmas Presents - remember the year that everyone but me got a “Screamin’ Munchies” shirt with caricatures of candy bars and sodas saying “Eat Me”, and I cried then she cried because they only had adult sizes and she finally gave me a yellow Adult Medium that I wore for so many years it stopped being a dress and became a stretched out worn beloved rag of a shirt.  Or the year the biggest present ever ever seen under a tree had “Richard” on the To tag and “Aunt Sall” on the From tag, and it was a burnt-orange brushed-suede bean bag chair! Or the boldness of gifting a 16-year-old boy with bright blue Micky Mouse sheets that of course followed me to college and even grad school and Africa.

Aunt Sally, baker of magic - Nanaimo bars (always an extra batch just for my dad which he’d hide in the garage and of course we’d sneak into), fudge, Swedish pepparkakor, meringues. She’d zoom up in her hot yellow Honda CRX “Flutterby” and we’d be in contortions reaching for hugs, presents and sweets all at once. It just wasn’t a family party until she arrived. Even in her darkest depressions she would fight her way out and somehow be that Beacon for us.

Aunt Sally, friend - Her family wasn’t just us adoring nephews; her heart was big enough for All. Popping down to her small border town for a visit was like a scavenger hunt. We’d start asking at Bob’s Tavern, find out “She was here an hour ago” and be sent down to Eagles Club, then to the Wagon Wheel, eventually finding her laughing and storytelling and so happy to show us off to her friends, like it’s the most natural thing of the world that we would just show up and find her there. 

Aunt Sally, survivor - That drunk driver, her little Honda Civic so crushed they didn’t even bother to pull her out for a while. But she wasn’t done living, and blew that insurance money on a world-wide party tour with wild Aussie friend Jude, bringing me back a grey tank top of a bamboo-pipe organ from Thailand.

Aunt Sally, young hippy - The night I showed up at her trailer to ask her how to be a hippie for an upcoming theme party, she pulled out the photos, the hot pants and fringed vests, Barry McGuire’s Eve of Destruction album, the jewelry and more jewelry, and I spent the whole night on the old dusty green chesterfield reliving a whole era with young Sally.

Aunt Sally, old hippy - Yes, our childhood idol and fountain of youth got old. She got hurt, got down, got sick and tired, but I believe we were always there to remind her of her golden interior, of her glow that lights our whole family. Like Santa’s helpers we became co-conspirators in the Legend of Aunt Sally, propping her up and compelling us all to Believe and remember. My last two visits to the simple, tavern-like home she finished up in - not alone in her hoarder-trailer but in a home with friends and care and light - she drank me up like elixir. I played piano and sang for her, let her show me off to her friends, accepted gifts of old photos and a ring from her grandmother. Her joyful tear-brimming eyes still sparkled with the same message, the same gift as always - that we loved each other and would always be richer and fuller for that love.