Happy Anniversary to My Aunt and Uncle

For their 50th Anniversary April 9, 2005

By Claudia Johnson

Martha and Richard, 1950s

Since you two are at the place in life where there is absolutely nothing a person could buy for you, I guess my gift will have to be produced by one of the two talents I have. You most likely don’t want anything sewn, so I’ll have to resort to writing.

In some distant future when some nosy genealogist (like me) researches our family, we will appear as mere lines on a family chart. It will indicate that I am the daughter of Martha’s sister, Okaleen, and Richard is Martha’s husband, making him my uncle by marriage – proof positive that the most accurate family tree cannot begin to diagram relationships.

You two as a couple and individually are part of the very fabric of which my life is crafted, perhaps in many ways, a part of the stitching itself.

As long as I have conscious memory, you are woven in it, a recurring pattern, comfortable and comforting.

Edward, Richard & Martha, 1955

The memory of the day my little brother was born has you picking me up and taking me to the old hospital at Ethridge. I am not sure if this is true, but no one has ever told me this, so I think it is real. And there’s this little nagging detail that supports that it’s a credible memory. I think we looked in the refrigerator, and a bottle of something was spilled…maybe Geritol? I might have spilled it, who knows? But there you were, ready to give my brother his middle name just as you did me.

Some of my most treasured childhood memories are waiting for you all to get to the house on a weekend. I’d beg to stay up if you were running late. It was the best part of the week. Life never has been better than those nights of you adults talking in our old house, laughing and joking, and me listening (and getting in trouble for butting in).

Russell home in Donaldson

I remember crossing the Cumberland on a ferry when you lived in Donelson, going to Rudy’s Farms, touring the Hermitage and driving to the Parthenon to see the giant lighted nativity scene on the lawn. 

I remember an ice cream parlor in the Arcade downtown that gave away helium balloons, the Christmas and Easter displays for children in the department stores before there were malls, the big neon Coke advertisement that magically poured the coke into a glass at some intersection in Nashville, going to Zayre’s where Mama bought me some pink flip flops and a little flower watering can, later those big hamburgers at the Castner Knott grill, a horrible day at Teresa’s daycare when someone was in the hospital, your address (3805 Briar Cliff Court) and phone number (VE2-7240) and that your bathroom was lavender.

Almost every youthful memory of my Daddy and Uncle Richard is related to hunting or fishing, either coming or going or cleaning the kill or catch or eating it. Sometimes I can still smell the exact combination of that smell of crappie, biscuits, gravy, perked coffee and scrambled eggs after a fishing trip on Old Hickory Lake. Barry, Teresa and I would still be sleeping, and the aroma would wake us up, daring us into the kitchen-dining area.

That was the smell of happy days, of daddies that we could count on and mothers who made sure we had the best piece of fish and the biggest biscuit.

Teresa Lynne

The safety of that placed never changed, but the world outside of it is hard. It is those smells and tastes that gave us strength for  later, when we needed it most.

One of the happiest days of our lives was July 3, 1964. We waited all day to find out about “the baby.” When Uncle Richard called, he talked to me, too, and told me that she had a head of long black hair. I thought she might look like Priscilla Presley with that description. Thankfully, she was prettier. She and I — heck, we all — fussed and fought, but I have loved her since the minute I knew she was in this world.

Claudia, Teresa & Barry

When Aunt Martha was working at Castner Knott and Uncle Richard would come down before sunrise on Saturday mornings, Barry and I would awaken to find ourselves sandwiching Teresa Lynne. We both wanted to hug her. When Tim was big enough, all four of us would end up piled in that bed. Our Mama (or Aunt Okie) having done 500 things before we even woke up, might be in the garden or cutting the yard or cooking something we all loved for lunch. She’d be worried that Aunt Martha would be tired and have a wreck on the way down that night, worried that she would be hungry – not that anyone in our family has ever missed a meal or a snack.

Claudia, Teresa, Tim & Barry '60s

If all four of us kids were there and we had one coke and one candy bar, mother would measure and cut absolutely equal parts of the candy bar and pour the sweet brown liquid equally into crystal wedding oat glasses. 

I know and knew then that as much as humanly possibly and somewhat divinely possible, my mother loved Teresa and Tim as much as she did Barry and me. She just did not give birth to them, but the fact her sisters did was good enough. I could never tell that any of us were treated any differently than the others, and that was very comforting. It taught me a lesson in fairness early on, not to mention unconditional love.

Speaking of love, Teresa loved watermelon, so we usually had one when she was there in summer. One night after she foundered herself on warm ones from the field, we spent a nice night at the hospital with her spewing pink puke all the way. And she loved to play “Barbies,” the pursuit of which encompassed all the Saturdays of years of our lives since I loved them too. If there is anything that I wish Teresa and I could completely recapture, it would be the sheer abandon with which we played Barbies. Mine are in my china cabinet, a memorial to our girlish, halcyon days.

Okie and Martha, best friends

I’ve often said that I had the coolest haircuts and dos because my aunt was first a beauty school student, then an accomplished beautician. It was so exciting to have her whip out that white “kit” and start “twisting” our hair or painting nails or giving a perm. It was a performance every time. Martha was the star, glamorous in her frosted, tipped, bobbed, streaked, dyed, beached or whatever-the-rage hair. Granny or Mama were the best supporting actresses. The dialogue was all ad-lib, no script needed there. Aunt Martha could hold ten clippies in her mouth, have a curler on every finger, wield two pairs of scissors and still tell the most intriguing stories of life in the big city.

Beautician

Between these sessions and the Sunday afternoons in Granny’s den, my penchant for news and story telling began. I could hardly sleep hearing the horrible stories of beaten babies, perverted men who lured little children to cars with promises of candy, missing girl scouts and wanton women who slept with metro cops (thought I didn’t hear that didn’t you?).

Aunt Mott was cool, I mean groovy. She wore hot pants and vinyl boots, red flowery culottes, a star-covered see-through blouse….whatever was the fad, and this was just for work. I recall my mother whipping up maternity clothes and other outfits for Aunt Martha, and how both women became the queens of the upscale clearance sale.

Uncle Richard, Barry & Claudia

Other fun memories are of Aunt Martha “laying out” on the picnic table Daddy built because she was afraid a worm would get on her; teaching me to eat pinto beans with the you-eat-one-I’ll-eat-one method; and (justifiably) bragging about her gorgeous legs. She was the first person I ever knew that went to a gym (Roman Health Spa, at 100 Oaks.)

Russells in 1970s

Uncle Richard was always our entertainer. My friend Connie referred to him as Uncle Funny, and it was true.  He said something when I rode home with him to Nashville one time that only I heard, but I will never cease to recall it and laugh under certain circumstances. He was driving in that relaxed salesman way that made my Daddy always say, “Man keep your hands on the steering wheel” or something related, when suddenly two birds flew out of nowhere and slammed into the car, bouncing lifelessly to the road.

Without even hesitating, he quipped, “Now that’s the way you kill two birds with one car.”

Barry thought Uncle Richard was the best thing, and Uncle Richard seemed to return the sentiment. Our Uncle Richard was the first sports nut I knew, one of a long, long line, I’m afraid. He also set the standard for lawn grooming, a standard to which neither Barry or I have ever aspired.

Trip to Florida, 1969

The two families took a trip to Florida in 1969 and another to the Smokies in 1973. Both times we all laughed till it hurt, sharing motel rooms, campers, picnics and sunburns.

Good days were when we all gathered around the piano and the adults sang while Granny, then later Aunt Martha played the piano. But there were myriads of good days, and they are really not embellished by memory or tarnished by grief.

Singing on Sunday

We have loved, lost, fought, hugged, sang, cried. We have endured illnesses, divorces, disappointments. We have prayed for fragile babies and buried aged parents and grandparents. And together, we, Aunt Martha, Uncle Richard, my Daddy, my Mama and I, waited as Mama crossed from this life to eternity, on of all days, your anniversary.

I love you both. Thanks for sharing your life with us.