GREAT AUNT KATHY

“Come a little bit closer, I can’t quite reach you” my Great Aunt Kathy used to say, just before she would hit me. But sometimes she would say that and give you a dollar or 2, maybe even a fiver. Either was a huge amount to a child in the late 1950’s and throughout the 1960’s as well. Sometimes she would give you a candy bar or a hug or tell you a wonderful story, usually but not always about some family member present or dearly departed.

Kids loved (at least I did) to get the low-down on family members, so I would take a chance, hoping she hadn’t heard about whatever stupid or bad thing I’d done lately. The payoff could be as enormous as she was, all 5 foot, 400 pounds of her. She hugged hard and hit hard, harder than any man, woman or child I knew.

A full head of thick raven black hair turning a bit silver made her look even more ominous. Her voice could be heard exactly where she wanted it to be heard, whether 6 inches or 6 feet or 6 blocks away. She was practically a ventriloquist. If she wanted you to hear what she had to say, you heard her, and could not deny it.

She preferred to speak loudly, however, so in the rare times that she was speaking softly to someone I knew it was a pretty funny story or some new or old scoop about someone known to all. I accustomed myself to her voice range and soon found it easy to hear her without being too obvious about it; many others also knew when Great Aunt Kathy was speaking softly that it was usually something ah, let’s say something revealing….

She was always funny or informative so one could do worse than listen to her, especially compared to the rest of the dum-dums that comprised most but not all of both sides of my extremely large family and their circle of friends and neighbors.

As much as we all wanted to be near Aunt Kathy (she did not like to be called Great Aunt Kathy), it was risky at best. One did not want to be on her “shit list”. For instance; I was stupid enough to point out to her, while remaining within her reach, that “I could see why you don’t like to be called Great Aunt Kathy. It not only refers to you age but also your size. It’s like being called Really Really Great Great Aunt Kathy”.

While others in the room helped me up off the floor, a full 10 feet from where I had been standing, having been launched there by a single back-handed swipe of her huge left hand, my parents, appalled, forced me to apologize to Aunt Kathy for whatever I had done to upset her like that. Dutifully I marched back into her living room to make amends for pissing her off, convinced that she was only going to clobber the hell out of me again as soon as I got close enough.

Sitting in “her” chair in “her’ living room, watching me approach, she looked like the portraits of Queen Elizabeth I’d seen, only much more formidable. I walked up to her, held her hand, got down on one knee, and bust out laughing. To everyone else’s horror but to my surprise Aunt Kathy started laughing too. She picked me up, hugged me hard, and, still laughing, set me back down. Leaning over she whispered in my ear “If you ever call me Great Aunt Kathy again I will kill you”. Everybody wanted to know what she had whispered to me but I told no one, and Aunt Kathy; probably because she considered the matter settled, told nobody either.

Of course I still called her Great Aunt Kathy, sometimes Really Great Aunt Kathy, but never when I was close enough for her to reach me or hear me.

THE WEDDING OF THE CENTURY

The “Wedding of the Century” occurred when I was in high school, a very small Catholic High that my Mother, her sister and brothers, and their mother (my grandma) had also attended, but that’s another story. Uncle, my Mother’s youngest brother was getting married to a woman who happened to be my father’s (the youngest of 10) brother’s daughter. No relation between them of course, but it sure did sound odd to say that my Cousin was marrying my Uncle, and I took much delight in telling everybody that little factoid. So much so that I was warned repeatedly to stop saying it that way; which I could not do. It was too funny.

Uncle, about 30, was newly returned from a stint with the Army as a Para-trooper stationed in Germany. He was hell on wheels at that time and had dozens of girl friends or wanna-be girl friends that I knew about, probably many others. He lived with us so it was easy to track his wanderings and escapades, and I lied for him to his harem many times at his request. He, like so many in both sides of my very and recently Irish family, drank heavily though his new wife soon had him tamed.

Cousin, about 28 or 29 years old, had recently left a cloistered convent where she had spent the last 12 or 13 years as a nun in training then a fully accredited teaching Nun. It was a bit of mystery as it was very unusual then to hear of someone leaving the Catholic Priest-hood or Convent. So unusual that she had received a special dispensation from the Pope himself to leave and still be able to remain a Catholic in good standing, which she did. Her parents proudly displayed this letter of special dispensation signed by His Holiness on their wall. Whispers about a “breakdown” abounded, but I knew she was just fed up with the convent life and because she was people thought there had to be something wrong with her. Within a few months she was re-acclimated to the outside world, met Uncle at a party and the rest, as they say, is history. Though it seemed an unlikely match at the time they are still married today, well over 30 years later.

The wedding reception was held at the VFW in McKee’s Rocks. The VFW was “the” place to hold your wedding, at least in our poor neighborhood. Most couples settled for the smaller, older and much less expensive Firehall or their Church’s basement or even their own basement or living room if possible. A fine event at the VFW was not to be missed, and this wedding between two members of extremely large families promised to be An Affair To Remember. Hundreds of invitations were sent out, all RSVP’d, and at least a few hundred more besides that number showed up. I never had the nerve to ask what that had cost or who paid, but something like that would have been way beyond the budget of most people attending.

There was an open bar all night long, and much food. From 6 or 7 pm until 1 or 2 o’clock in the morning people ate, drank, danced and celebrated the newlyweds. The band played late, having received a substantial cash bribe to play hours beyond their scheduled contract. The VFW was open after hours anyway, to members and their guests, and they were making good money out of this. Uncle and most of our family were so well known there they were not rushed to get out. Again I’m sure a few well placed gratuities here and there made things easier. In fact I saw a few tips being dispersed, though I didn’t make the connection between the cash changing hands, the bar staying open and the band playing longer at that time; things like that became clear to me soon enough.

A Polka, in case you don’t know or haven’t heard or seen one, is like a waltz except about one thousand times faster. Add in a bunch of drunks who only know a few basic steps and dozens and dozens of couples who do know the dance, and it can be a Comedy of Errors.

I was a senior in high school and Great Aunt Kathy was now 78 years old, still packing 400 pounds on her 5-foot frame. After having me fetch her several strong drinks, including one I had to take back to the bartender and inform him that this drink was nowhere near strong enough, Aunt Kathy decided she wanted to dance.

I was closest to her. In a moment we were spinning across the very crowded but fortunately very large dance floor of the VFW, and having a hell of a good time. The band was playing “I don’t want her, you can have her, she’s too fat for me”, the “Too Fat Polka”, which I though extremely funny and very ironic since I was dancing with the biggest gal by far there at the time.

Oops, a minor mis-step on part and Aunt Kathy tromped on my foot. “Ow, Damn”, I said silently, follow by another unspoken thought, “I can’t let that happen a second time, I could be crippled for life.” Oh-Oh, now a major mistake, did I turn the wrong way at full tilt or did she? A moot point, I decided, as we both fell and rolled and bounced our way across the next 20 feet of dance floor, taking about 7 or 8 other couples, twirling around at full speed, along with us.

Half of the 50 or so couples dancing stopped to help but mostly to stare. Half of the other roughly 300 guests ran to the scene of the disaster, ostensibly to help. It was a sight to behold! Expensive suits coats and pants were torn, high heels were broken, fake pearls were rolling about everywhere from some woman’s broken cheap necklace. Many dresses were upside down, including Aunt Kathy’s. Assholes and elbows were everywhere; and the band played on.

Aunt Kathy and I sat on the floor, looking around; then we both started laughing uncontrollably at this incredible carnage that we had created. It took 5 of us to get her back on her feet, and Aunt Kathy, still laughing, promptly picked up where we had left off, dragging her partner, me, directly back onto the dance floor. She was making the correct turns this time, I was glad to note.

No fewer than 100 people chewed me out for almost killing that poor old woman, and all I could think was “Huh? She almost killed me, and several others too!” I laughed out loud without saying anything; though I do that often…

THE CARD GAME

My Mother was fond of company and cards. A better card player I did not know, and that in a tough town. She liked poker but her favorite was a game very popular way back but not well-known today, a card game they called 500 bid, much like bridge but quicker and more ruthless. It was played with a partner, and the more the merrier. If everybody could kick in 5 bucks or so, she would arrange a tournament if 30 or 40 could play; and the money was divvied up three ways, 1^st getting most, 2^nd a nice pile. Even 3^rd place was enough to worry about. To the rest nothing except the evening’s entertainment; which was what most of them cared about above all. I looked forward to these events as well, food and drink a-plenty. Everybody brought something good to eat and something strong to drink. I was one of the few males there and some of the gals would think nothing of flirting with a 16 or 17 year old, especially when drinking all night.

The fact that I was a good card player helped me fit into this older crowd, and my partner, Great Aunt Kathy, was at least as good as the best of them, my Mother. Aunt Kathy was as drunk as a skunk this particular evening, but we still enjoyed a commanding, almost insurmountable lead at the 10-minute break. Unfortunately, 10 minutes was not enough time for half of the 30 mostly women to go upstairs to the only bathroom in the house and return to their tables. There was a line halfway down the steps waiting to use the facilities.

Being one of the few men there meant I had a distinct advantage; I could and did take a leak outside against the house. Being Great Aunt Kathy must have had its advantages too, for she simply stomped up the stairs past every gal in line, opened the bathroom door and evicted the current occupant, who luckily was about done. There were plenty of complaints from the ones waiting in line though none, I noticed, were loud enough for Aunt Kathy to hear.

Only when Aunt Kathy had taken up almost the entire break and was still tying up the only bathroom did the complaining get louder. My Mother and her sister Aunt Merc, short for Mercedes, her Christian name (though I secretly called her the old battle axe) went up to see what the hell was holding up the re-start of the tourney. I couldn’t do anything until my partner came back so I tagged along, well behind.

Aunt Kathy had passed out while sitting on the (only) pot. First things first, they had to get her out of there, all 400 pounds. My Mother and Aunt Merc, along with the help of the many women waiting their turn at the Water Closet, as the bathroom was called, tried in vain to move her or at least wake her. My Uncle was called in to assist, and he proceeded to enlist me in this endeavor.

With a Herculean effort made possible by us squatting beneath her bare butt on either side of the toilet throwing our head, shoulder and back into the upward thrust while Mom, Aunt Merc and 3 other women pulled on any part of Aunt Kathy they could get a hold of, Uncle and I managed to lift Aunt Kathy to her feet; awakening her in the process. “Don’t forget to flush the toilet” she said while hitching up her undies and smoothing her dress, and headed back to our table and her drink.

Aunt Kathy and I finished the tournament in 1^st place and split a pot of 80 dollars, a huge sum of money in the late 1960’s. My brain still bears the image of her huge bare ass stuck to my face, neck and shoulder. I wouldn’t erase that memory if I could; over 30 years later the recollection of it causes me to laugh out loud at apparently nothing, though I do that often…