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| Doris James Rotondo |
I have a sense that images in memory, known and unknown live within us, and may arise spontaneously, welcomed or not. This phenomenon first reveal itself to me in literature and art, which can awaken associations through symbolism in words or images. Then, I became more aware through writing of my own "stored" images, some deep, some at the surface. Also, I began to "see" what others disclose when the soul speaks, either shared consciously, or, unbeknownst to them, seemingly in casual converstaion or an off hand remark.
To an astute listener, observer and delver into such things, as I consider myself to be, these images or experiences, once spoken, seem to ray out like a holograph, fill the space in a room or in my mind. One such image appeared yesterday and here I will set down what I heard and saw.
If one word only could have described my godmother Aunt Doris, it would be “eccentric.” Every time she saw me, she would say in her high, lilting voice, "Oh, there's my fairy goddaughter!" Funny, kind and open, she was a enigma to the rest of the family. For one thing, she always carried an enormous, usually rather gaudy bag, out of which she pulled various items and gadgets: a metal tea ball, a large thermos of tea (probably spiked), caramels and licorice for lovers of sweets, artificial sweeteners (before anyone heard of them), and other novelties deemed (by her) absolutely essential for all outings. These items, like her countless phobias and fears, seemed to be extensions of her self. No one in the family understood the need for the ever-present bag, much less the reason for her fears—the origins of which were unknown (maybe even to herself), although the nature of them were often displayed and shared off-handedly, as freely as were the contents of her satchel.
I have a vivid memory of her wearing a beautiful blue coat with a wide "ermine" collar when she arrived for holiday and family gatherings at my grandmother's house. Her fragrance quickly wafted through the room on the coolness of a snowy evening. The cousins ran to greet her with hugs and kisses which left lipstick smeared on our cheeks. She was a sight to see: frizzled hair, thin painted-on eyebrows, shiny pancake makeup face and lips of ruby red. My sister and I could not wait to try on the coat left on the bed in the upstairs room. We asked for her make up bag, which she freely let us look through and experiement with. Then we painted and powered and looked in a mirror imagining we were our more grown-up selves.
If one word only could have described my godmother Aunt Doris, it would be “eccentric.” Every time she saw me, she would say in her high, lilting voice, "Oh, there's my fairy goddaughter!" Funny, kind and open, she was a enigma to the rest of the family. For one thing, she always carried an enormous, usually rather gaudy bag, out of which she pulled various items and gadgets: a metal tea ball, a large thermos of tea (probably spiked), caramels and licorice for lovers of sweets, artificial sweeteners (before anyone heard of them), and other novelties deemed (by her) absolutely essential for all outings. These items, like her countless phobias and fears, seemed to be extensions of her self. No one in the family understood the need for the ever-present bag, much less the reason for her fears—the origins of which were unknown (maybe even to herself), although the nature of them were often displayed and shared off-handedly, as freely as were the contents of her satchel.
I have a vivid memory of her wearing a beautiful blue coat with a wide "ermine" collar when she arrived for holiday and family gatherings at my grandmother's house. Her fragrance quickly wafted through the room on the coolness of a snowy evening. The cousins ran to greet her with hugs and kisses which left lipstick smeared on our cheeks. She was a sight to see: frizzled hair, thin painted-on eyebrows, shiny pancake makeup face and lips of ruby red. My sister and I could not wait to try on the coat left on the bed in the upstairs room. We asked for her make up bag, which she freely let us look through and experiement with. Then we painted and powered and looked in a mirror imagining we were our more grown-up selves.
She didn't mind, and we were in heaven.
There was always laughter in her company, usually at the table after dinners where it seemed we sat for hours. Aunt Doris was often at the center of conversation and source of laughter. She was well aware of her aura, as we laughed about the bag, about the fears, about the idiosyncrasies and occurrences in her life.
She told us of once having excitedly run up on to a stage to receive a prize at an event after hearing the winning number called out which matched the ticket in her bag. Then in front of the hundreds of people was told by the MC that the ticket she was holding, though with the correct numbers was from another event entirely! Then there was story about an outdoor luncheon she and Uncle Frank attended. They had filled their plates with food, sat down at an empty picnic table—on the same side, whereupon it toppled over onto them, food and all, which evoked another hardy round of laughter. It was also well-known that she wherever she visited, she took a souvenir: a piece of silverware from a restaurant, a glass or towel from a hotel room.
These, as well as many other stories told and retold at family gatherings, inspired such good humor and warmth. It was all part of the "Aunt Doris experience," and, in a way, a kind of odd family bonding, which no one more than Aunt Doris enjoyed and looked forward to.
She was a mystery, not only related to the stories of odd occurences, and the huge bag with its jumble of curiosities within, but also for the even heavier burden of the fears she also carried with her wherever she went. Some of the fears I recall hearing about included elevators, tall buildings, crowds, and any mode of transportation. Uncle Frank had to hire a series of live-in lady companions to stay with Doris so she not be alone. Once, when a relative appeared as a guest on a local television program, she was afraid to watch--another mystery to us all. Despite her fears she had to sometimes muddle through, especially being in a car, as how else would she get to the family gatherings to reveal the medley of miscellany and tell her stories? Both of which were accompanyed glancing at each other, rolling of eyes and, of course, lots of laughter.
I suppose some of the adults may have known something more about her anxieties than we children did. We mostly felt only the lighter mood and the laughter surrounding the lovable oddity that was Aunt Doris, who, by the way, could play a mean honky tonk "Limelight Blues" on the piano.
Yesterday, I saw Aunt Doris for the first time in many years. The family doesn't get together often anymore, as we did when we were young, lived in closer proximity to each other, and our grandparents were still alive. Now, some thirty years later, the cousins are all married with families of our own. But there she was Doris, a little older, a little heavier (so was I), still jovial and had the fabled "bag" with her. This one matched her pink sweatshirt decorated with lace and cowgirl fringes. We were all ready to be entertained, and she did not disappoint.
Once again, she performed and we laughed together; only this time without Uncle Frank who had since passed away. I know everyone must have imagined that expression on his face, and his unique laughter when she began her act in that high pitched voice and tinkle of laughter. This time she pulled from her bag a battery-run ash tray designed to whisk away the smoke from her cigarettes. Out came an extra set of batteries (in case), the saccharin packets, a cigarette bag—containing several packs of off-brands and a fake plastic cigarette complete with lit ash on and a rising smoke feature meant to help her stop smoking. She had purchased it some years ago, never used it, but continued to carry it with her, as she still meant to write to the manufacturer regarding her dissatisfaction with the “contraption.” We all laughed heartily, just like old times.
In the past, we had occasionally her her refer to her mother as "Mrs. James" in a sarcastic tone. This time, however, she looked a little different as she spoke, and my delver's sense became finely tuned, as an image she lived with all of her life became visible to me. And this I felt one as a source responsible for her eccentricities and anxieties. It was only a moment, a glimmer—created with a few words, and, even though we all laughed again later, in that moment I empathized deeply, with more of an understanding and compassion for her suffering.
I knew her mother had left the family at some point, but Doris told us that Mrs. James would take her aside whenever she visited to speak smoldering, hateful words about the father, words which Doris said she did not understand. I rememberer her father, Mr. James who had a printing shop below the family apartment, as a kind and quiet man with whom Doris lived when she and Frank were first married. It was obvious that she adored her father. What stood behind the harsh words, and the look on her mother's face described when she uttered those harsh words to Doris about her father must have seared into her young girl’s soul and remained there as a tender wound that must have, in part, formed the fearful woman she became. And of course this was most likely only part of the story.
As Doris conveyed this memory to us at that last family gathering, an image of the scene she described appeared to me, as Doris seemed for that moment transformed into her mother—taking on the same tone and contorted facial expression her mother must have used to denigrate and discredit the father.
I am certain Doris was compelled to occasionally conjure up that image and re-encact it so that she herself could view it, like some grotesque Veronica’s veil of the vulverable little girl who had borne her own cross, which she carried, not in her bag, but impressed upon her heart. This, however, was the first time I had seen it--explaining in part the mystery of Aunt Doris.
It was a revelation in the midst of frivolity, a gift of insight and understanding to me, and I honored the fleeting moment in my own way then, and share with you now, my own images and memory of my generous, funny, kind and wounded Aunt Doris--a recollection of the the joy she brought to the family along with the sorrow she endured.
Yesterday, I saw Aunt Doris for the first time in many years. The family doesn't get together often anymore, as we did when we were young, lived in closer proximity to each other, and our grandparents were still alive. Now, some thirty years later, the cousins are all married with families of our own. But there she was Doris, a little older, a little heavier (so was I), still jovial and had the fabled "bag" with her. This one matched her pink sweatshirt decorated with lace and cowgirl fringes. We were all ready to be entertained, and she did not disappoint.
Once again, she performed and we laughed together; only this time without Uncle Frank who had since passed away. I know everyone must have imagined that expression on his face, and his unique laughter when she began her act in that high pitched voice and tinkle of laughter. This time she pulled from her bag a battery-run ash tray designed to whisk away the smoke from her cigarettes. Out came an extra set of batteries (in case), the saccharin packets, a cigarette bag—containing several packs of off-brands and a fake plastic cigarette complete with lit ash on and a rising smoke feature meant to help her stop smoking. She had purchased it some years ago, never used it, but continued to carry it with her, as she still meant to write to the manufacturer regarding her dissatisfaction with the “contraption.” We all laughed heartily, just like old times.
In the past, we had occasionally her her refer to her mother as "Mrs. James" in a sarcastic tone. This time, however, she looked a little different as she spoke, and my delver's sense became finely tuned, as an image she lived with all of her life became visible to me. And this I felt one as a source responsible for her eccentricities and anxieties. It was only a moment, a glimmer—created with a few words, and, even though we all laughed again later, in that moment I empathized deeply, with more of an understanding and compassion for her suffering.
I knew her mother had left the family at some point, but Doris told us that Mrs. James would take her aside whenever she visited to speak smoldering, hateful words about the father, words which Doris said she did not understand. I rememberer her father, Mr. James who had a printing shop below the family apartment, as a kind and quiet man with whom Doris lived when she and Frank were first married. It was obvious that she adored her father. What stood behind the harsh words, and the look on her mother's face described when she uttered those harsh words to Doris about her father must have seared into her young girl’s soul and remained there as a tender wound that must have, in part, formed the fearful woman she became. And of course this was most likely only part of the story.
As Doris conveyed this memory to us at that last family gathering, an image of the scene she described appeared to me, as Doris seemed for that moment transformed into her mother—taking on the same tone and contorted facial expression her mother must have used to denigrate and discredit the father.
I am certain Doris was compelled to occasionally conjure up that image and re-encact it so that she herself could view it, like some grotesque Veronica’s veil of the vulverable little girl who had borne her own cross, which she carried, not in her bag, but impressed upon her heart. This, however, was the first time I had seen it--explaining in part the mystery of Aunt Doris.
It was a revelation in the midst of frivolity, a gift of insight and understanding to me, and I honored the fleeting moment in my own way then, and share with you now, my own images and memory of my generous, funny, kind and wounded Aunt Doris--a recollection of the the joy she brought to the family along with the sorrow she endured.
January - 1990
Aunt Doris
passed away in 1996, alone in her little cluttered house in Gloucester, New Jersey. Her only son,
Frank, Jr. (Frankie), committed suicide a few years later.
