Since the age of ten, I haven’t had a grandparent in my life,but that gap has been more than filled by my Aunt Frankie, my daddy’s older sister. Last week at the age of ninety-nine, she underwent surgery for cancer and came through with flying colors. Her prognosis continues to be good.
I spent the weekend with her and marveled again at her courageous spirit and the incredible filing system that is her memory. Although she is beginning to repeat many of her stories and needing to be reminded of more current events, she can pull names and events to the surface with amazing clarity.
I don’t know many ninety-nine-year-olds, but I don’t imagine there are too many who read the daily newspaper or weekly news magazines. Perhaps one secret of Aunt Frankie’s longevity is her motivation to stay connected to people and events.
Her name is actually Ida Frances, but Frankie stuck and it fits. You won’t meet anyone more “frank.” Of course, at her age she’s probably earned the right to say whatever she likes, but her frankness is nothing new. My mother was so known in the family for her tact that her grandchildren created a new verb: “MawMawing it” in our family dictionary means to practice the ultimate discretion in avoiding saying anything controversial or unpleasant. Aunt Frankie doesn’t need a verb - or an adjective. Her name suffices.
She’s the kind of friend that the Proverbs writer must have had in mind when he speaks of iron sharpening iron. There probably were some feathers ruffled in the past ninety-nine years as the result of Aunt Frankie’s direct style of communication.
She used to love to discuss differences in doctrine with her Baptist friends. These discussions were not for the faint of heart. What was invigorating to Aunt Frankie could be intimidating to anyone else. Now those differences don’t matter as much, although she did tell me that her surgeon was a "good Baptist boy."
Aunt Frankie never read romance novels or watched soap operas. She prefers real life – and doesn’t mind asking questions or voicing speculations. She loves to recount our “love stories,” in front of us. The actual facts may be fairly straight, but the “spin” she gives the story can be unsettling. In the retelling, there are “details” that never happened except in her own mind. It’s amusing if it’s someone else’s story. Embarrassing if it’s yours!
Thankfully, I learned fairly early to look past her words and straight to her heart, which is unfailingly generous and compassionate. And Aunt Frankie has actually become less blunt with age. Usually there’s at least one comment on my appearance whenever I see her. If she doesn’t say anything at all, I know she is holding her tongue. Lately her line has been, “I found a picture from your bridal shower, and you were so thin!” I know exactly what she means.
It took me awhile to learn to appreciate her. She called me her “golden girl” when I was little because she loved to see me wearing browns and yellows, colors I hated. I could always expect an “ugly dress” under the Christmas tree from Aunt Frankie. My mother was always grateful – I hope enough for both of us.
When she stayed overnight, she had to share a bed with me. She had the audacity to report to me each morning how much I had kicked her during the night. It usually made me feel either guilty, embarrassed, or mad. Staying at her house was an entirely different matter. After a long day of riding my cousins' bicycles or horses, I loved going to sleep in her airy bedrooms and hearing the night sounds of the country through the open windows. And when she would take me to campmeetin' for a week, it was a child's paradise.
During my teens, Aunt Frankie expressed an interest in my friends, my clothes, my music, my reading – my life – that I resented. I didn’t think it was any of her business. I didn’t realize that her concern led to fervent prayers. Only Heaven will reveal how different my life might have been without her prayers for our family and me.
During times of crisis in our family, we turned to Aunt Frankie. She always came. And stayed as long as she was needed. And I learned to love her more and more.
Nowadays her interest in me and my family is a balm. I look forward to hearing the phone ring and finding that she’s on the line. There’s an art to conversing with her, especially by phone. It involves yelling and rephrasing sentences on my part because of her hearing problem. Trying to understand what she is saying is also difficult because her voice sounds something like a very bad cell phone connection, cutting in and out. And sometimes there is a bad cell phone connection, cutting in and out.
She asks about each of us, remembering details from the conversation before. Sometimes we don’t quite get what the other is trying to say, and she gives up with a little laugh and changes the subject. We say “I love you,” and hang up. I’m so thankful I can look forward to those conversations for a while longer.
I spent the weekend with her and marveled again at her courageous spirit and the incredible filing system that is her memory. Although she is beginning to repeat many of her stories and needing to be reminded of more current events, she can pull names and events to the surface with amazing clarity.
I don’t know many ninety-nine-year-olds, but I don’t imagine there are too many who read the daily newspaper or weekly news magazines. Perhaps one secret of Aunt Frankie’s longevity is her motivation to stay connected to people and events.
Her name is actually Ida Frances, but Frankie stuck and it fits. You won’t meet anyone more “frank.” Of course, at her age she’s probably earned the right to say whatever she likes, but her frankness is nothing new. My mother was so known in the family for her tact that her grandchildren created a new verb: “MawMawing it” in our family dictionary means to practice the ultimate discretion in avoiding saying anything controversial or unpleasant. Aunt Frankie doesn’t need a verb - or an adjective. Her name suffices.
She’s the kind of friend that the Proverbs writer must have had in mind when he speaks of iron sharpening iron. There probably were some feathers ruffled in the past ninety-nine years as the result of Aunt Frankie’s direct style of communication.
She used to love to discuss differences in doctrine with her Baptist friends. These discussions were not for the faint of heart. What was invigorating to Aunt Frankie could be intimidating to anyone else. Now those differences don’t matter as much, although she did tell me that her surgeon was a "good Baptist boy."
Aunt Frankie never read romance novels or watched soap operas. She prefers real life – and doesn’t mind asking questions or voicing speculations. She loves to recount our “love stories,” in front of us. The actual facts may be fairly straight, but the “spin” she gives the story can be unsettling. In the retelling, there are “details” that never happened except in her own mind. It’s amusing if it’s someone else’s story. Embarrassing if it’s yours!
Thankfully, I learned fairly early to look past her words and straight to her heart, which is unfailingly generous and compassionate. And Aunt Frankie has actually become less blunt with age. Usually there’s at least one comment on my appearance whenever I see her. If she doesn’t say anything at all, I know she is holding her tongue. Lately her line has been, “I found a picture from your bridal shower, and you were so thin!” I know exactly what she means.
It took me awhile to learn to appreciate her. She called me her “golden girl” when I was little because she loved to see me wearing browns and yellows, colors I hated. I could always expect an “ugly dress” under the Christmas tree from Aunt Frankie. My mother was always grateful – I hope enough for both of us.
When she stayed overnight, she had to share a bed with me. She had the audacity to report to me each morning how much I had kicked her during the night. It usually made me feel either guilty, embarrassed, or mad. Staying at her house was an entirely different matter. After a long day of riding my cousins' bicycles or horses, I loved going to sleep in her airy bedrooms and hearing the night sounds of the country through the open windows. And when she would take me to campmeetin' for a week, it was a child's paradise.
During my teens, Aunt Frankie expressed an interest in my friends, my clothes, my music, my reading – my life – that I resented. I didn’t think it was any of her business. I didn’t realize that her concern led to fervent prayers. Only Heaven will reveal how different my life might have been without her prayers for our family and me.
During times of crisis in our family, we turned to Aunt Frankie. She always came. And stayed as long as she was needed. And I learned to love her more and more.
Nowadays her interest in me and my family is a balm. I look forward to hearing the phone ring and finding that she’s on the line. There’s an art to conversing with her, especially by phone. It involves yelling and rephrasing sentences on my part because of her hearing problem. Trying to understand what she is saying is also difficult because her voice sounds something like a very bad cell phone connection, cutting in and out. And sometimes there is a bad cell phone connection, cutting in and out.
She asks about each of us, remembering details from the conversation before. Sometimes we don’t quite get what the other is trying to say, and she gives up with a little laugh and changes the subject. We say “I love you,” and hang up. I’m so thankful I can look forward to those conversations for a while longer.
