Hooked

The other day, I told my youngest daughter about my favorite aunt, Libby. She lived nearby and had no children of her own. She was, as I recall, a good cook, though given my mother's limited repertoire and aversion to anything with flavor, it just could have been that she did cook.

Libby drove -- something my mother didn't do back in those days -- and she would occasionally pick me up in her little Chevy Nova to take me to a crafts store. My mother would never have been caught dead in such a place. Libby tried in vain to teach me to knit, and to crochet, but I had inherited my mother's impatience and pitiable lack of small motor coordination. But I loved to hook rugs. It was simple and rhythmic -- wrap the wool around the hook, push it through the hole, hook it onto the edge, pull -- and so satisfying when the skinny strands of wool would gradually morph into plush designs.

My aunt -- my father's older sister -- was as chubby as my mom was thin, as unselfconscious about her appearance as my mom was obsessed. She smoked, she ate, she had a deep throaty laugh. There was an indescribable comfort to curling up in the embrace of her presence; she was certainly no substitute for my mom, but she was one of the people in my life who could occasionally be called upon to fill in the gaps. Without her and her Chevy Nova, my hooked bunny rug with the powder blue background would have retained its rough edges and never been sewn into a pillow.

I've often felt that my own children have missed out, not having any relatives nearby to fill in the gaps, to pick up the slack. A close friend offered to take my daughter shoe shopping the other day -- not so much because my daughter needs any shoes but because my friend, the mother of sons, enjoys borrowing some "daughter time." She's never had anyone's hair to braid, never shopped for homecoming dresses, never had the dubious pleasure of sharing her home with a miniature version of herself (raging hormones and all).

My daughter and my friend always enjoy the novelty of each other, and are as comfortable with each other as, well, a favorite aunt and niece. But when I told my daughter about the whole favorite aunt thing, she seemed puzzled. "I don't need a favorite aunt, mom. You take me anywhere I want to go."

For me, it don't get any better than that!