Aunt Sweetie

Today I said good-bye to Aunt Sweetie, aka Juanita, in the nursing home in Jerseyville.  I thanked her for the wonderful memories that she gave me and for teaching me to cook.  When I looked into her eyes and told her that I loved her, she looked at me and blinked her beautiful blue eyes.  I think she understood.

Aunt Sweetie and Uncle Glenn had a dairy farm in southern Illinois.  During the summer, my family would pack up our sleeping bags and clothes, and stay on the farm to help out.  I was just a whisper of a girl, barely  big enough to climb up onto the hay wagon, yet I remember everyone pitching in to load the big rectangular bales from the ground to the bed.  Somewhere in the back of my memory there's a story about a snake in the hay, and someone being very frightened (not me) but I can't quite remember all of it.

There is no scent that brings back the memories quite like the smell of fresh cow manure.  I was barefoot most of the time, so I didn't mind if I ended up stepping into an oozing, odoriferous pile of poo.  A quick squirt of the garden hose, or wading at the edge of the pond, would have my feet cleaned in no time.

My brother Randy and I would go down to the pasture in the early evenings to herd the cows back to the milking barn.  I had absolutely no fear of the huge beasts.  Each one had a name lovingly given by Aunt Sweetie, and each had a unique personality given to them by God.  Who could be afraid of such wonderful animals?

After the cows were allowed into the milking barn, we would slide the wood plank over that held their heads in place, allowing them to comfortably munch on food while we took care of business at their other end.  We each had a bucket with bleach water and an old rag, and would wipe down the teats of the cows.  Then sssssssssssssllllllllllllluuuuuuuuuurppppppppppp the milking machine "fingers" would suction onto each teat.  I can hear the milk machine now, draining as much milk from each cow as possible.  When they finished, we would "strip" the cows, or use our hands to coax whatever milk was left from them.  Occasionally the dog (what was his name?) or barn cats would get a squirt in the mouth as well.

Milking took place in the very early mornings and again in the evenings.  In between times, Aunt Sweetie taught me how to cook.  I believe Malt-O-Meal was my first masterpiece.  Soon after I conquered cake mixes.

We would spend hours sitting in a circle in the shade as we shucked corn.  To this day, I haven't found an ear nearly as sweet as those from my childhood.

In the evenings we would sit around the gigantic kitchen table and play the card game Spoons.  The laugher was never-ending.  Aunt Sweetie's peals would ring out the loudest and heartiest.

I won't remember Aunt Sweetie as she was today, an emancipated almost unrecognizable person.  Instead, I will always think of her riding her unicycle, bouncing around like crazy on the pogo stick (note to self::  buy pogo stick at Toys R Us), singing "Mona Lisa" as she's milking Seven, or dipping flour from the huge silver tin that she kept in the walk-in pantry in that beautiful old house.

Thank you, Aunt Sweetie, for the memories and life skills.  You are an angel on Earth.