‘Thank you for everything, dear Aunt Eleanor’
It’s blowing a gale here in Amagansett. The bird feeders are down, the grill’s been knocked cattywompus and the windows that Dude Man painstakingly washed on Sunday? Well, let’s just say they’re clean.
I say all this because I can’t possibly go for a walk, much less a bike ride. And it’s too early to start baking the pies. (My SIL, who arrived late last night from San Fran, is still jet-laggedly sleeping.)
So I have no excuse to postpone (yet again) writing about Aunt Eleanor.
Aunt Eleanor died almost two weeks ago. And, though she was 98 years old, I still can’t believe she’s gone. I’ll spare you all the cliches. But suffice it to say that even when a person is very very old, it can still be a shock when they die. Maybe even more of a shock, since you’re so used to them being around. (And note that I say “die,” because that’s what she did. I know this may be an unpopular view, but I bristle at the use of the term “pass” when you really mean “die.” Please say “die” when I do it. Please.)
The last time I clapped eyes on Eleanor. Last summer, at a family cookout, holding court, as usual, glass of champagne at hand
Anyway. You can read her obituary in The East Hampton Star right here for the public details of Eleanor’s extraordinary life. How she didn’t just read to kids, she founded a day care center. How she didn’t just bake, she baked cookies to lure kids to Sunday School. And how, at the age of 45, she set out to “do everything I’ve always wanted to do.”
Eleanor with her daughter Christine at her 90th birthday party. By this point, she had accomplished most of “everything I always wanted to do”
I’ve been putting off writing about her because it’s so hard to sift through all the memories I have of her. See, she was more than “just” an aunt. Dude Man’s parents died quite a while ago; his mom in 1985 and his dad in 1995. Eleanor’s house was just a couple of blocks away, so she and Uncle Buddy became like surrogate parents to us. Especially since mine were so far away.
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- Eleanor enjoying a lobster roll at Gosman’s Dock
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- My mom enjoying Eleanor at Gosman’s Dock
Speaking of my mom, she and Eleanor got to know one another rather well. We got together when Mom came to visit. And there was the memorable occasion of The Child’s college graduation, when we experienced the nightmare of an out-of-control GPS system (it directed us on the “shortest route,” which meant navigating downtown Providence, RI, an experience which, trust me, you do not want to replicate) and sharing an Airbnb in Inman Square which was supposed to be “conveniently located” to the Harvard campus but which was most decidedly not. If they hadn’t bonded before then, well, they were now effectively joined at the hip.
The scene at The Child’s graduation. Eleanor and Mom are in there. Somewhere
The Dude has some particularly good Eleanor stories, since he spent many summers at her house when he was small. He recalls her dropping him and his two cousins off at Reed Pond with nothing but sleeping bags, fishing poles and a couple of cans of beans and picking them up the next day. She’d honk the car horn and they’d emerge from the woods. They were seven, eight and nine at the time.
Dude Child practicing his snake-handling as his Bro Bill and Cousin Charlie look on
My memories are more recent ones, of course. She and I bonded over books. I’d ride over on my bike to drop one off, and she’d invite me to sit with her on the screened-in porch and dish. “He can’t marry that woman,” being one of her more famous observations on the fiancee of a shirt-tail relation. And we’d speak on the phone fairly regularly. She didn’t dish out sentimental remarks, but I treasured the time she ended a call by saying that she “loved talking to me” and “wished we lived closer.” Me too, Eleanor, me too.
Eleanor with her niece Amy and her pseudo-niece Me, at her house a couple of blocks away
Oh, and even after Eleanor sold her house nearby, we would get together in the summers at her son Charlie’s and wife Chini’s infamous Taco Tuesdays out on Lazy Point. At one of these, one of Chini’s incredibly hunky sons walked by after a surfing session, his wetsuit stripped down to the waist revealing his perfectly-toned vee-shaped torso (these are casual affairs, these Taco Tuesdays), when Eleanor remarked, “He has a nice figure, doesn’t he?”
Eleanor and me at a Taco Tuesday. (So sorry the wetsuit-suited son isn’t also in the picture)
Well, as they say on TV, there’s “much much more.” But I can’t handle any more.
Besides, there are pies to bake.
Pies from a Thanksgiving repast, past
Happy Thanksgiving, Aunt Eleanor. You gave us a whole hell of a lot to be thankful for.
Amagansett, New York. November 2023
Just came across your beautiful post about The Amazing Amagansett Aunt, the best aunt in the whole world. How I miss our chats, her quick chuckle and sense of humor, her unconditional compassion for all beings large or small, rich or poor, bad or good. She did accomplish everything she always wanted to do, and included everyone she could in her task. Thanks, Aunt El, for all the good times. Thanks, Alice, for sharing your memories.
Dear you. I simply must say that relations who aren’t really relations (!) are sometimes the BEST relations! Like Eleanor. I was not related to her in any way, shape or form. I was simply married to her nephew. But she was — and, dare I say it— still is a major part of my life. You know how some people say, “What would Jesus do?” Well, I say, “What would Eleanor do?” She was, quite simply, an inspiration and a guiding light. I miss her SO much. You, by the way, are another relation-who-isn’t-really-a-relation whom I treasure. Thank you for commenting and for being such a wonderful person.
Eleanor sounds like a queen. You made me wish I’d been lucky enough to know her. I’m sorry you lost her, and so glad you had her to dish with for so long. PS – I agree with you about “die” vs “pass.” Happy Thanksgiving, you clever thing, you! xx
Aw, thank you, Debra. As for queens, it takes one to know one. You are (next to Eleanor) the most regal person I know.
Sorry for your loss and sorry I never met her!
I’m so sorry you didn’t meet her, too, Ruth. You and she would gotten on like a house afire!
Thanks for stressing the “die” in dying. My son/dad and other family members didn’t pass, they died. They’re not “lost”; I know exactly where they live and I prayerfully will meet them again when I “pass” through the Pearly Gates.
Thank you, JoAnn. So glad you aren’t offended at the word “died.” As for your dad, he was a very special person indeed. I didn’t know your son, but I’m betting both he and Pastor Kahre are “up there.” (Definitely as opposed to “down there!”) It would be worth it to see the Pastor again just to watch him smoke a cigarette. I never knew a more stylish smoker. He’d make this little “poof” noise when he puffed. Here’s hoping the Pearly Gates is not a smoke-free zone!