Our Aunt Jolene
Dad’s oldest sister, Aunt Jolene blew into town in the middle of the night.
She was armed with knowledge, ready to straighten us up, and make us all do right.
My children would do this and that, she’d shout from Daddy’s confiscated Lazy-Boy throne.
She was a self-proclaimed expert, since she had never had any of children of her own.
Dad thought having Aunt J was great; You are just like Mom, he’d tell her politely.
“No offense,” she replied, “But that old woman was wound a bit too tightly.”
On Wednesday she made the family an outrageously ugly pot of mushroom soup.
The baby got away after gagging while trying to choke down that chunky goop.
She cleaned our rooms while we were in school, and threw away all of my really good stuff.
One look from Dad, and I knew not to give her any of my usual angry guff.
“How long is she staying?” we kids would sneakily yet stealthily and steadily ask our Mom.
We piled into one of our empty rooms, conspiring, hoping the answer would be “not long.”
On Thursday morning we were told at breakfast that Aunt Jolene would be staying ‘til Sunday night.
She cleaned Mom’s kitchen at nine, sorting out the silverware drawer too, and was gone that very night.
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