Crazy Auntie V

I had been having a very bad week, month, year--ok, decade--as demonstrated by my current abode, a one-room, rent-by-the-week "apartment" converted from a 1930s motel in this dying small town. The town boasted two convenience stores, a school (consolidated) and six churches in a two-mile radius. I always wondered why, with so many devout Christians, the parking lot outside my door was alive with druggies and hookers all hours of the night.

I was looking forward to a pleasant walk to the post office. Midway it became not so pleasant. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and a deluge of rain followed. Suffice it to say I looked like a drowned rat and smelled like a wet dog by the time I reached my destination. My appearance results from my unkempt hair and giving up makeup for Lent. (I didn't say I wasn't devout.) The smell came from Ginger, the little mutt I take everywhere as my unofficial service dog. You want me to have her along. Me having a panic attack is not pretty.

Imagine my surprise when the post office lady said I had to sign for a package. She then presented me with a large box, return address some legal eagles in Dallas, Texas. I didn't know of any outstanding warrants, traffic tickets (no car), or other reason I should be getting a shipment from lawyers. But I signed the receipt and then asked the woman how I was going to get it home in the rain without it falling apart. She gave me a trash bag.

So, here I was, back home, sitting on the cold floor in wet clothes looking at the box. I finally worked up enough energy to pull the packing tape away in a long strip and open it. Inside was another box. It looked like a boot box but it was totally covered in a collage of sorts. And I knew. This box was from my crazy Auntie V. She cut out magazine and catalog pictures of all kinds and decorated boxes, shelves, lamp shades, anything that you could glue stuff to.

There was a letter affixed to the box with a big rubber band. The letterhead was for a legal firm and indicated that they were the executors of Veronica Vanelia Vanessa Crosby's estate. I was stunned. Three names all beginning with V. No wonder she made us call her Auntie V. My crazy Auntie V was dead. And she sent me a box decorated in her own peculiar style.

I was always kind of her favorite because I would eat her collard greens and blackeye peas when the other nieces and nephews turned up their noses. Which reminded me that I hadn't had lunch. A fried baloney sandwich with onion later, I changed out of the wet clothes into some old sweats while remembering all the reasons we called her crazy (on the down-low, of course). The blue eyeshadow and fake eyelashes, ruby red lips and bouffant hairdo contributed. She was always dancing to the oldies in her leggings and sweatshirts (if you were lucky--to see her in a tank top was not pleasant). She could out-curse a sailor and then pray the longest blessing over food you ever heard.

I remembered playing games with her, too. We would make up all kinds of stories about things, people, places, signs on the side of the road. That house is haunted, she would say, and we would be off on a paranormal fantasy. She used to say I had a gift. I would act like I was looking for it until she punched me gently in the arm and rolled her eyes, explaining for the umpteenth time that the gift was my imagination.

Remembering that she liked to play pranks, too, I scooted back a full arm's length from the box and gingerly lifted the lid and set it aside. The box was stuffed with old letters, all addressed to Miss V. Crosby, reminding me that Auntie V never married. Bundles were tied with bits of yarn, scraps of ribbon, even a haystring. Every remaining crevice contained dried remnants of corsages, torn theater tickets, pieces of costume jewelry. Yes, pieces--they all appeared to be broken.

I started pulling the letters from the box, noting return addresses. There was a bundle my Uncle Harvey wrote to her when he was in Europe in World War II. Family legend was that he landed on Normandy beach the day after D-day. Another bundle was from my grandparents, now many years gone. Theirs were written in pencil. No ballpoint pens then, and they couldn't afford a fountain pen. A fat bundle secured with a fancy ribbon bore the name Chance Reynolds in the return address. I never heard of Chance, and a ring was tied into the bow. It looked like an engagement ring. Was that clear stone a diamond? Auntie V was engaged but never married. But she kept the ring. Out of spite? Out of grief?

The side of the now-empty box appeared wonky, like something had been hidden inside. I carefully separated the layers of cardboard and spied something black. It was a notebook, the pocket variety, with a soft black leather cover. The pages were filled with Auntie V's spidery, frilly longhand with tiny illustrations on some pages. I began to read.

She had recorded bits and pieces of the stories we had invented and repeated to each other so many times. There were true stories, too, like when cousin Jerry got sprayed by the skunk and when little Chrissie put lipstick on with a permanent marker. It was a nice journey down memory lane but I didn't really get the point until I reached the last page. It was a letter to me.

Dear Vannie, Hello, sweet girl. You didn't expect to hear from me out of the grave, did you? I've heard what troubles you've been in, the mistakes made, the spot you're in. I'm writing to remind you of the gift. Here are the stories to spark that fire once again. I am including the name of an editor friend who has promised to consider your first book of stories for publication. Look closely at all the contents of the box. You will find more stories (in the letters) and you will find something more important--a way for you to make a new life. I love you. Your (crazy) Auntie V.

I spent the better part of the night examining the contents hidden in that box. One thousand dollars in crisp hundred dollar bills were hidden in the sides of the box. A false bottom revealed a lease for an apartment in Dallas, an airline ticket (one-way) there, and a gift certificate for a laptop, cellphone and service for a year.

I guess I failed to mention that I was named for my Auntie V? Vanessa Crosby. That's me. Yeah, she knew we called her crazy behind her back. We did it because we loved her. She tolerated it because she loved us.

My guardian angel, wonderful, loving Auntie V.