Carol

I think the last time I saw my aunt Carol was on Christmas day, 2005. She was at my wedding, but I don't know that I got much more than a glimpse of her from across the crowded reception room. My husband has never met her, and she has never seen my son.

She is, however, the centerpiece of some of my fondest childhood memories.

When I was very young, Carol and her husband --my mother's brother, Rick-- didn't have any children. They lived in this great big old house, one that I vaguely remember as being kinda spooky. I don't think I ever went upstairs, actually, a reality that probably contributed to its mystery. The kitchen had a bold, black and white tile floor. Their guest room was green, and in it was a big, beautiful bed with lots of fluffy pillows.

Every now and then, Carol and Rick would invite Beth and me over for a spend-the-night party. Some nights, we would stay in the big, beautiful, green room and get to sleep in the big, beautiful, fluffy bed. I remember imagining that I was a princess; they certainly made me feel that way.

On other nights, Carol, Beth, and I would set up camp in the den. We'd spread out our sleeping bags, raid the kitchen for junk food, and beg Carol to let us make prank phone calls. Once, it seems like Beth attempted to call "The Time Man" (226-6101) but reached my parents' number instead, probably waking my dad up from a deep, restful sleep. We'd stay up all night (of course, it was probably only until 10 pm) watching old tv shows on Nick at Night and having a grand old time. I look back on that now, as an adult, and am amazed at the love that Carol must've had for us. Why would two, childless young adults willingly agree to take two 8-ish year-olds off our parents' hands for the night? I don't know, but they did.

In the mornings, we'd eat chocolate chip cookies and drink coca-cola (from original bottles!) for breakfast before Rick would take us out on his double-seater bicycle. On at least one visit, Carol had to lay me down flat on the bed so that she could get my jeans zipped up after I'd filled up on cookies and coke, or so the story goes. She'd always cackle with laughter whenever she told that story in the years that followed.

That laughter is a defining trait of my aunt. You can hear it from all over the house when she's around, no matter what room you're in. She's the type of person who can laugh AT you (not with you) without, somehow, making you feel bad about yourself. All you want to do is laugh along with her.

One time, in the middle of a big family dinner at one of the local restaurants, Carol convinced me, a naive, litte girl, to try an anchovie. "They're delicious!" she promised with a straight face, then promptly lost her composure as I gagged and sputtered after falling for her lie.

Carol's unconventional style, her refusal to conform to people's expectations, her unabashed affection for her nieces, nephews, son and daughter... all characteristics of this aunt of mine that I will tell Parks about one day soon. And maybe, just maybe, I will one day be regarded as Anna Claire's or Mallory's or William's coolest aunt. If I am, I won't be able to take the credit. I will have learned it all from Carol.