She was barely 5 feet tall. But like all tiny dogs, my Great-Aunt Mary had no idea.
With her wild red mane outlining her face like the sun, she shared the Vaudeville stage with the late W.C. Fields. Visiting her Dayton, Ohio – home was always an adventure, as she rationed out her brazen opinions while swallowing whole garlic cloves.
Wanting to see our eyes when our bangs hung there, she pulled one of the longest bobby pins imaginable — out of nowhere — sweeping them away into a mound at the front of our foreheads, leaving me, my sisters and cousins laughing at our funny faces.
Another character, her parrot Chico, lived long after her almost 100-year-long life. “Chico’s a bad, bad boy,” she said to him daily, along with some choice profanities. The spooky part — after her death Chico lived on and on, reciting her words in the sound of her voice, screeching from the other room.
She shared with us her rich history rolled out in exciting tales of suspense, such as the one of her home. She often talked about the family who had lived there before her and died, claiming she saw them sometimes.
“One night I had fallen asleep on the couch and awoke to this bright light,” she told in her shrill, raspy tone. “The father was standing behind the mother, who was seated on the floor, here, rolling a ball to their baby. They looked at me and disappeared.” After that story, I always felt the others living there, thinking I saw their faces in the wavy glass of her old French doors.
Other interesting parts of her life included her marriage to the late war hero, Emerson R. Smith, who served in the U.S. Army, American Expeditionary Forces, during World War I. On July 9, 1918, he was presented with the Distinguished Service Cross for extraordinary heroism in action while serving near le Channel, France, on July 26 of the same year. I am told he was a loving, great and generous man, so perfect for Aunt Mary.
Another sadness came long before, around midnight one Christmas Eve, when a crash killed Mary’s mother. The accident turned her into the mother of her sister, Della, giving her a critical role in the fate of Della’s children, who were sent to St. Joseph’s orphanage upon Della’s death in the late 1930s.
Aunt Mary also collected and catalogued the family American Indian history, saying we are related to Chief Pontiac, an Ottawa war chief, who was killed in 1769. She showed us photographs of a couple of the Indian graves of his descendants.
She also had a photograph of my grandma Della, herself, their mother and great-aunt, who was a full-blooded American Indian. Underneath the photo, it has lines pointing at the faces, with the words “American Indian,” underneath the arrow pointing at the woman. I wish I knew the whereabouts of these treasures, but feel lucky to have seen them.
While Great-Aunt Mary is gone, the rich memories she shared are with me.
So glad I listened; and that is all.
Published in The Herald
Beneath The Bones 
