Aunt Jimmie

She’ll tell you her name came about because her mother lost her older brother, Jim, to an accident not long before Aunt Jimmie was born. Her middle name, Quay, has no rationale other than that her mom liked it. Maybe she read it in a book somewhere. And while the name Quay might not have been making the rounds of new Itawamba County, Mississippi, babies in the early 30’s, it suited Aunt Jimmie just fine because she was not, and is not, too much like anybody else.

And that’s a good thing. She adds spice and ballast to the family, demanding little, but garnering a whole lot of respect from the cadre of nieces who treat her like the mother she never was.

We all had our own supermoms, but Aunt Jimmie was never too far away to fill in on a babysitting night or to come along for a vacation. Once, she even drove a few of us to Disney World in her sky-blue Monte Carlo. If I’m not mistaken, that was where she helped me pick out the huge stuffed Chip—or he could have been Dale, because who really knows the difference—buying him on the spot. When nobody else would, she and her younger sister, Aunt Nelda, rode the Spider with me at the county fair, opening up a whole world of possibility in my Spider-fearful life. After that, the Tilt-a-Whirl wasn’t even a challenge, although I still struggle with the Glass House of Mirrors.

Everybody needs an Aunt Jimmie in their life.

Her older brother was my dad. He was actually everybody’s older brother even if he wasn’t. I’m fairly certain there was never a problem that he couldn’t solve, or die trying, and everybody knew that. Like when a major turn of events put Aunt Jimmie on a one-way plane from the Northeast to Alabama some 60 years ago, he was on hand to meet her at the airport and help get her settled and employed near his young family. From that point on, the door was quite literally always open for her impromptu weeknight dinner drop-ins, and we regularly returned the favor, stopping by her apartment for many a Sunday afternoon visit. Mostly, I just liked to marvel at her well-kept living room with the Thinker bookends and long leather couch and bouncy white dog named Fluff. She was the career lady when there weren’t just a whole lot of them around.

So that’s how I grew up with Aunt Jimmie. And then she retired and moved back home to Mississippi to mother a whole new brood of grand nieces and nephews. She just started over because she wanted to and because she could.

Her 88th, or maybe 89th, birthday is next week, just a day or two after Mother’s Day. The nieces who coordinate her care or check in regularly, are joining her for a home cooked meal to celebrate. Of course, Aunt Jimmie is not cooking the meal, which has nothing to do with her age. She wouldn’t be cooking the meal even if she were only turning 38. The career lady has never cooked. We learned early on to only list her for paper products for any family get-togethers. You could count on her for paper products. That, and condiments for the burgers. Maybe charcoal and lighter fluid. On a wild hair, you could ask for a cake so that you could sample the one she picked up from Wal-Mart.

As the only quasi-baker in the family, I’m charged with producing a birthday cake. The savory-chef niece is bringing the meal and the other two specialize in organizing and clean-up. We’re the complete package.

So, I’ve been thinking about what kind of cake she would like. I’m fully aware that if the tables were turned, she’d be on a fast track to a local bakery or Piggly Wiggly, with absolutely no remorse, but I’m determined to make a one-of-a-kind. And that’s probably a certainty as it’s unlikely to be repeated. Her mom, my Mama Belle, was famous locally for her caramel cakes which graced most Carolina Methodist Church bake sales. And yet, I don’t think I have her original recipe. In fact, I’m pretty sure she, too, had no original recipe so I’m leaning on Southern Living and am well underway. Caramel cake, it is. For Aunt Jimmie.

For Aunt Jimmie, who has always been a self-reliant single unit with no adjoining name and no outward indication of missing it. Not Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Doris. Not Uncle Wayne and Aunt Mavis. Just Aunt Jimmie. More than enough. Uncompromising and steady and a whale of an example on how to manage on your own and thoroughly love life and family.

You’d never know that she had no children of her own, given the wealth of framed images of graduations, weddings, and family activities that line her family room shelves. You’d never know it from the number of contacts on her Life 360 app or the many times the words “Aunt Jimmie” crop up in text messages sent back and forth among the “younger” generation. The nieces who once had parents, now have none, so all that pent-up caring is now focused on Aunt Jimmie, who graciously endures it. She even smiles a lot and makes it look effortless.

You might think she’s the lucky one. Or maybe not. After all, she is seldom alone, and probably gets a bit too much encouragement to do things she really doesn’t want to do. It’s just like being married or with children—neither of which she asked for, come to think of it.

But I’m pretty sure we’re the lucky ones to have been blessed with Aunt Jimmie. She’s been the sidekick, the safety net, the sure thing, our parents’ sister, and now the family standard bearer.

The world would definitely be a much better, and much more colorful place if everybody had an Aunt Jimmie in their life.

So, here’s to Aunt Jimmie. Happy Mother’s Day! I mean—Happy Birthday, Aunt Jimmie!