Irene married my Dad’s brother, Max, long before I came along, so it just didn’t seem right to say, “Uncle Max” without adding, “and Aunt Irene.” When I was growing up, our family would visit other family members some weekends, and going to visit Max & Irene meant that I got to interact with a cousin my own age. (Sherry was much cooler than that baby Jerilyn — 3 years my junior. Those 3 years sure seemed like a LOT back then, so she got to buddy up with cousin, Debra.)
Irene was firm. She kept a spic n’ span house, cooked awesome food and had one rule she wouldn’t compromise. If you stayed all night on a Saturday, you had to go to church the next morning….no matter what.
My fondest memory of Irene began when I was allowed to stay over one Saturday night, but didn’t come prepared. I figured I’d do the sleepover thing and come up with this fabulous excuse to get out of going to church — hey, I didn’t have clothes! Right? Ummm…wrong.
Bright and early, Irene rolled my lazy butt out of bed, provided me a skirt of hers (which at the time I thought was hideous!!), and crammed my big feet into a pair of her shoes! We went to church. I felt like a total loser wearing grandmotherly clothes (heh…she was probably MY age back then), that neither fit nor matched, in front of a bunch of people I didn’t know, walking with a limp because my toes were smashed into shoes at least 2 sizes too small — but after that, I never planned to stay on a Saturday night without bringing my own stuff.
Somehow I’ll make it to the funeral home, but I’ll only be wearing one shoe.
Rest in peace, Aunt Irene.