I have been blessed with some quirky folks in my life – a whole parade of them.  I seem to attract them or am attracted to them.  One of them was my Aunt Irene.  She was in a class of her own.

I grew up a military brat and really have little to no memory of my extended family before I was 10.  We had just come back from Hawaii and were driving across country from California to Virginia with stops along the way to visit friends and family we hadn’t seen since before our three years in Hawaii.  Some of them we hadn’t seen even in the years before that.

One of them was my Aunt Irene in Kansas City. 

Oh my.  She was larger than life.  A brash redhead, but vulnerable.  Sincere and irreverent.  And her name.  I just loved that name.  I vowed then and there if I ever had a daughter I would make part of her name Irene. 

Up until then, the women I met were straight-laced, often officer’s wives ever conscious of their husbands’ reputations.  Or church ladies.  Warm and nurturing yet somewhat distant with kids.

She was short, possessed of remarkable breasts, chain-smoked, and had just given birth to her youngest child that first time I met her – that I could remember meeting her.  Kansas City in January was cold, and we were miserable after the tropics, but the 250- watt laughter of my Aunt Irene blew the cold away. 

She called me Connie Lynn as did all my family because my dad was known as Connie.  Later he became Conrad and I became Connie, but Irene called me Connie Lynn until she died.

While we were there, she took us to see the park.  In that 1970 winter, Kansas City, Missouri sprayed the park with water creating ice sculptures of trees.   It was breathtaking.  My grin must have been huge because she said, “You like that, Connie Lynn?”  I was somewhat shocked.  I was of that generation of kids that should be seen, but not heard.  She acknowledged my presence and wanted my opinion.   Pretty heady stuff.

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