The Aunts

My Grandmother came from Salem, Massachusetts of old Puritan stock. Her three sisters never married and were known collectively as "The Aunts." As far as I know, these three old dears were never in step with the world around them, though they led useful and interesting lives. To us, as children, they were always kind and at the same time formidable. They took us to the beach in Salem, toting sand buckets and shovels, and then sat in lawn chairs wearing their sensible dresses and sturdy shoes while we waded into the frigid water and made sand castles. It was always an odd mixture of duty and affection, their doings with us. We were known as "Buddy's Children", which made us sound like an outreach; the eight of us classed together as a strenuous chore which my Grandparents undertook once a year, and with which the Aunts were determined to help no matter the cost. They threw themselves into our visits with everything they possessed, inviting us to their cottage, as their old carriage house was known, to visit the garden and eat strawberries. They took us to the beach and to the local outdoor Puritan museum where we always loved trying out the stocks. The Aunts, as far I remember, never got into the stocks themselves, but they willingly took pictures of us as we gleefully locked ourselves in.

The occasion I recall most vividly, however, was one Thanksgiving when I had come down from College to join the family gathering in Marblehead. Aunt Alice was delegated to take me back to the bus stop for my return to Maine on a snowy Sunday afternoon. The nearest Greyhound stop was at a local diner, just off the Interstate. It was my Aunt's understanding that we had actually to flag down the bus if we wanted it to stop. Although I think I knew better I was in no position to contradict my Great Aunt Alice, who was rock solid in her beliefs. Aunt Alice parked right in the middle of the driveway exiting the Diner and put on her flashers. As I sank down into the back seat, she opened the car door, and got out, waiting for signs of the bus. It was not long before the bus was sighted, and Aunt Alice began waving her arms frantically, trying to get the driver's attention. He slowed down, pulled over and opened the door.

"Can I help you Ma'am?"

""My niece needs a ride back to college in Maine. She is right here with all her things."

"Well Ma'am, this is the Northeastern University basketball team. We don't go to Maine today."

By this time my aunt had attracted some attention, no doubt because she was blocking the exit from the diner. The diner manager appeared and with a certain incredulity informed Aunt Alice that she would have to move her car and park it in the lot. And turn off her flashers. And stop waving her arms about. The bus, he said, would be arriving soon and there would be no need to flag it down. Besides, he said, the driver always stopped for coffee and a piece of pie.

The Northeastern University bus driver drove off laughing, and I was sure, the whole team laughed too.

At this point I finally spoke up and told Aunt Alice that I would be just fine waiting inside the diner and really, she ought to be getting home because it was snowing. And then I prayed that I would never see any of these people again.

Every time I recall this episode, I am thankful that I have known such remarkably independent people, such fearless souls who try their hardest even when they are way outside their comfort zones. They are heroes to me, "the Aunts". As odd and as old-fashioned as they were they still tried hard to live in the twentieth century without caring how they came across to others.

I think that good evangelists in the Catholic Church know what it is like to be out of step. But they remain rooted to their spots in left field, and the longer they stay there the more respected they become. Dorothy Day and Mother Angelica come to mind in recent memory, but the lives of the saints bear constant witness to how often holy lives are misunderstood.
My Great Aunts were not Catholic, and they were not saints, yet their lives each had a kind of holy quality, a fierce witness to doing what is right regardless of the cost.

Aunt Maude, the eldest of the Aunts, gave money away generously, and told no one about her gifts. When she finally, in her nineties, entered a nursing home, she spent her days on the "sick floor" caring for the people who were more ill than she was.

We should all probably wade into the deeps and try harder to be holy, even at the cost of being unsuccessful, or laughed at or just plain wrong. Mother Theresa famously reminded us that it is not success that matters in our efforts, but faithfulness.

We try, in small ways to step outside our comfort zones here in our house. We make the sign of the cross and pray a grace before meals when we are in restaurants. We do not eat meat on Fridays, even when we are at a Catholic School function and meat is one of the options. We wear crosses and medals which are often visible. But these are just the first steps. The time will come when each one of us, in some way or another, will be asked to take a more radical, public course of action which will clash and clang. I only pray for the courage to be Catholic in whatever circumstance is called for, and if it means waving my hands in front of a passing bus, then so be it. Other people have done it before me.

May God be praised for his Glory.