Aunt Mary

My maternal grandmother had several siblings, one of her sister’s Mary lived locally and we used to visit her quite frequently. Aunt Mary married late in life and never had children of her own. She had one stepson who was quite nearly fully-grown when she met him so parenting was not her strong suit.

Visits to her house were always a bit scary. Nothing within those four walls could ever be called kid friendly. No games. No toys. No candy. No cookies. The most frightening aspect of her house was the living room furniture.

Furniture you ask?

Yes the furniture. Like a house that had been shut down in the course of some 1950’s B-Movie due to unexplainable phenomena. Ghosts, ghouls, demons take your spectral pick.

Why this odd connection?

Because every couch, chair and stool was covered in a thick opaque plastic designed no doubt to protect the furniture from the wear and tear of daily use. Sitting on one of those monstrosities felt like an afternoon spent along the equator. Your skin became clammy, sweat poured from the pores and weird noises emitted from the places where bare skin may have inadvertently come into contact with plastic.

As much as I loved her I hated visiting her house for that reason. I would usually bring a book and sit out on the porch while the sister’s visited. There was no escape though, sooner or later I would be called inside to present myself to my aunt and fill her in on my activities since or last visit.

The drive home would be a time for the breeze through slipping through the car window to dry my clammy skin and for me to debate what I would buy with the shiny new quarter in my pocket, my payoff for being a good nephew.