My aunt Betty was one of the most unusual people I’ve ever known.
Long-time readers of this series will not be surprised by this. Betty, whom I’ve described elsewhere as the Midwestern Republican answer to Auntie Mame, was a fascinating mix of uncompromising morality, unrepentant hedonism, and unswerving loyalty to family, home, and using whatever means necessary to getting out of doing the supper dishes (needing to wash and set her hair was a perennial favorite, ditto ironing her thick, plushy, and not overly absorbent terrycloth bath towels). I loved her dearly for her wit, fashion sense, and willingness to be Batman to my Robin when I was a child, and even after age, the loss of her siblings, and the influence of Fox News had stolen much of her charm, I still loved her.
She’s also the reason that I love mysteries, thrillers, and police procedurals. Despite (or perhaps because) of her work as a legal secretary for one of Pittsburgh’s largest law firms, Betty adored crime fiction. Erle Stanley Gardner, Mary Roberts Rinehart, Arthur Conan Doyle, Rex Stout and Ellery Queen and Dorothy Sayers, Ed McBain and P.D. James and Hugh Pentecost and Dell Shannon...her membership in the Mystery Guild brought her both classics and new titles, all of which she read, then passed on to my mother and me. She also subscribed to Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, still the finest crime magazine in print, and as soon as she’d finished each issue I’d devour it in my turn.
Needless to say, I owe her a lot.
Betty’s been gone for over a decade now, thanks as much to her own stubborn refusal to take her tamoxifen after a mastectomy as anything else. I think of her often, though, and since Monday would have been her ninety-fifth birthday, I’ve decided that tonight’s diary will be composed of what I like to think of as Aunt Betty’s Greatest Hits: the introductory anecdotes to these diaries that showed her at her best, weirdest, and well, most intensely Betty. These are not the only stories I could tell about my beloved aunt (to paraphrase one of my favorite movies, “I could do that all day”) but they’re some of the best, and it only seems fitting to celebrate her birth anniversary by sharing them again.
So venture beneath the Non-Plimsoll Line to learn about my aunt’s adventures in cooking, hairdressing, and musical appreciation, and wonder just how my long-suffering mother refrained from strangling her older sister despite ample provocation….
Aunt Betty and the Great Thanksgiving Dessert Debacle
One memorable Thanksgiving, my aunt Betty decided we should have Lady Bird Johnson’s favorite dessert.
I have no idea why my aunt, a lifelong Republican, wanted to sample a dish from the kitchen of a Democratic First Lady. The only time I ever recall her mentioning a Democratic politician outside of campaign season was the time she dreamed that she was riding in a taxicab driven by John F. Kennedy, and, no she did not get this idea from reading The National Enquirer. I also have no idea if the recipe in question actually was Lady Bird Johnson’s favorite dessert; our copy of The First Ladies’ Cookbook featured her famous Pedernales Chili, lemon cake, and pecan pie. I suspect that Betty got the recipe from one of the happy housewife columns in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, even though she was about as far from a housewife as it’s possible to get.
Not that Betty’s home wasn’t immaculate; not only was she a fanatic for cleanliness, she’d insisted on a white silk brocade sofa in the living room despite its utter lack of practicality. Her brother Oscar, who actually owned the house, used to sit there reading the Sunday papers despite Betty’s belief that he would somehow get ink or fingerprints or something all over the pristine fabric. It was his way of reminding her that she may have chosen the furniture, carpet, paint, and curtains, but he paid the mortgage and the taxes, and if he wanted to sit on Betty’s uncomfortable pride and joy, well, he would.
Unfortunately for Oscar, Betty, and their brother Louis, the third member of the household, Betty’s household skills only extended to cleaning, decorating, and nagging. She didn’t like to cook and wasn’t very good at it, and when holidays came around she all but threw the roasting pan, pie plate, and side dishes at my mother with a cheery assurance that she’d set the table and do the dishes. That she rarely actually touched a dirty dish because she needed to wash and set her hair so she’d be presentable for work the next day was, of course, merely a coincidence.
So it was that my long suffering mother was the one who actually had to prepare Lady Bird Johnson’s favorite dessert. I’m not sure exactly what went into it, being but a child of tender years, but the final result was a giant sphere the color of diluted Pepto-Bismol that had started as a package of red Jell-O (flavor unknown), either sour cream or Cool Whip, raw cranberries, various sweet spices, and another type of small, firm, round fruit. I think cooking wine was involved, but since I flatly refused to have anything to do with it I’m not sure.
The rest of the meal had been the traditional mid-American turkey, stuffing, corn, mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, and green vegetable, all prepared with Mum’s customary skill. It was tasty if not imaginative, and we were all well on our way to the traditional mid-American turkey coma when Mum decanted Lady Bird Johnson’s favorite dessert from the mixing bowl she’d used in lieu of a Jell-O mold, made sure the quivering mass didn’t break, and carefully set it down in the middle of the table.
Oscar, mild-mannered as ever, merely asked what it was. Louis, who worked in a steel mill, glared at it and asked Betty what the hell she was thinking. I think I said “yuck!” which got me a quick and quelling Look from Mum. My father frowned a bit, and Betty told Louis that this was the First Lady’s favorite dessert so it had to be good.
And so Mum took the dessert, which was somewhat lumpy from the cranberries, back to the counter and carefully dished out portions on Betty’s best china. I don’t exactly recall what my uncles said, but I do know that Oscar ate surprisingly little. Louis may have used words of vulgar language. Betty simply sniffed and lifted her spoon. Mum waited. I may have giggled, or perhaps I just said “yuck” again.
The first person who spoke was my father. He took a bite, chewed, took another bite, and repeated the process. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then turned to Mum.
“Martha,” he said, in a voice of utter calm and certitude, “Don't bother making this again.”
I’m not sure precisely what happened next, but I do know that Lady Bird Johnson’s favorite dessert took up nearly as much of the refrigerator as the leftover turkey. Unfortunately it seemed to need a bit more cooling than the turkey to stay edible, since Mum and Betty both got sick from eating the leftovers the next day.
Needless to say, Mum took Dad’s advice, and future holiday desserts reverted to family favorites like apple pie, cookies, fruitcake, and Lady Borden French Vanilla ice cream. The recipe itself disappeared, as I found to my great disappointment when I went through Betty’s cookbooks after her death a few years ago. I did find an Ann Landers column about a divorced bride who’d sung “The Second Time Around” as she walked up the aisle toward her new husband, but I’m pretty sure Mum was responsible for that.
I’ve also since learned that Lady Bird Johnson’s favorite dessert was actually from-scratch lemon squares, which sound absolutely delicious but do not involve cranberries, cooking wine, or Jell-O molds. All of which is probably just as well, since it’s hard to imagine the White House chefs agreeing to make something that resembled a giant pink ball of Pepto-Bismol, let alone serve it to heads of state.
Aunt Betty Goes to the Hairdresser
One fine day when I was fifteen, my aunt Betty went to the hairdresser.
Now, this is not an unusual occurrence by any means; Betty prided herself on her meticulous grooming, which included getting her hair professionally cut and permed, then carefully washed, dried, and put up in pin curls at night so she would look her usual dazzling self at the office the next day. Even during the free-and-easy 70s, when I wore my hair long and loose and Mum got by with a blow dryer, Betty's routine did not change one iota. She'd found her style and was sticking to it, and if it went from bouffant to layered to just below her shoulders as the years went by, the changes were so gradual that the end result in 2005 wasn't all that much different in spirit from the victory rolls she wore just after World War II (see above)
That this may have been a reaction to a most unfortunate shingle bob she received as a five year old in 1929 did not occur to me until years later, when I found a picture of her with her siblings and her mother. She looks rather like a slimmer version of the little girl on the Fat Emma candy bars, and is scowling ferociously at the photographer (presumably my grandfather or possibly my uncle Julius, the only sibling who isn't in the shot).
Of course, the fury might have been directed at my mother, less than a year old, who had just displaced Betty as the spoiled little sister of six doting older brothers. I didn't find the picture until after Betty's death, and never would have dared ask even if I had. There were certain things one simply didn't bring up, and the slightly deranged sibling rivalry that later caused Betty to feed Mum an entire package of Ex-Lax under the guise of chocolate candy was one of them.
Regardless, Betty took great pains to ensure that her hair looked the way she wanted it to look. Her hairdresser, Andy, patient man that he was, made the occasional suggestion, but over the years resigned himself to doing what he was told if he wanted a nice fat tip. He had a wife and kids to support, after all.
That is the only explanation for why he went along with the temporary insanity that overcame my aunt that fine summer day. You see, she'd recently turned 50, and found a gray hair (or two, or three). Being Betty, my aunt decided that this normal (and unnoticeable until she showed it to you) sign of aging was Not To Be Borne. And because she was Betty, my aunt, who prided herself on her stylish clothes, her perfect manners, and her flawless taste, decided that if she was going to go gray, why, she might as well go whole hog and get her hair frosted.
You remember frosting, don't you? That strange little forerunner of highlighting that involved the oh-so-recent Youth Generation deciding that their carefully feathered and layered cuts would look just peachy keen with artificially induced gray and silver streaks? Never mind that it added ten (or twenty, or…) years to one's apparent age. Frosting was stylish and fashionable and too, too chic for words, especially when practiced by the best New York hairdressers and their disciples in the hinterlands. Everyone from teenagers to dowagers was doing it, and if the results seldom looked as good on Mrs. Kovalchick or Ms. Andrade as they did on Lauren Hutton or Farrah Fawcett-Majors, well, it was good enough for Pittsburgh, so there!
And so Betty, whether out of a desire to keep up with the blown-dry, middle-aged panic, or a little of both, sallied forth to Andy's and, without telling anyone but possibly Mum (she sure didn't tell me), had her naturally dark chestnut hair transformed in a veritable croquembouche of silver, platinum, and pale, pale blonde streaks, swirls, and poufs.
I don't recall what her brothers thought, although it's likely that Oscar, her usual chauffeur, shook his head and chewed his peppermint Chiclets rather than argue. Lou, less polite and more profane, muttered something about her being a damned fool and stalked out of the room to wash his hands. I stared for a moment, then lied and told her it looked great. Mum, who had learned long since not to pick fights she couldn't win, contented herself with a terse nod and went back to making dinner.
What her co-workers thought is unknown, but the fact that she didn’t come home the next night crowing about how they’d loved her new ‘do, so there! speaks volumes.
Regardless, Betty, who had thought that giving herself the gray hair that Nature had kindly refrained from unleashing on her quite yet would make her the belle of Pleasant Hills, soon found herself less than pleased to get such a graphic preview of the inevitable. That is why on Saturday, less than a week after undergoing the long, dramatic, and expensive procedure that transformed her from a youthful fifty to a dead ringer for one of weird spray painted sprays of silver-gray pampas grass that used to adorn furniture showroom windows, Betty went back to Andy and paid him even more money to dye her hair back to its natural brown.
We rarely spoke of this incident in the years that followed since Betty was, understandably, a bit sensitive on the subject. Mum did bring it up the day that Betty, who had found a few more gray hairs, came home from work with a bottle of Grecian Formula and demanded that Mum apply it to her scalp rather than doing it herself, but of course there are things that sisters can discuss that are forbidden to others.
Me, I stayed out of it.
That is, until the day I turned twenty-five and Betty casually mentioned that she thought I'd look wonderful if I went to her hairdresser the next time I was in Pittsburgh and got my long, straight, naturally brown hair cut, permed, and (you knew this was coming) frosted…..
Aunt Betty and Mozart’s Italian Symphony
My Aunt Betty once sent my father on a wild goose chase.
Not literally, of course. The only hunting my father ever did was going after Nazi soldiers early in 1945, which really doesn't count unless the Germans around St. Nazaire and Lorient had decided that shooting at Dad's unit while wearing feathers and honking would somehow bring glory to the Reich. No, this was all part of Betty's attempt to serve as a musical consultant to my parents, and with her usual grace and style, she managed to wreak havoc with a merry laugh and a big, bright laugh.
It was sometime in 1955, soon after my parents got married. Mum had worn a tea-length organza gown in a delicate blush pink, Dad had worn a white dinner jacket, and by all accounts they'd cut quite the dash at their reception. The honeymoon was somewhat less successful - between Betty filling Mum's purse with rice as a prank (so much for pretending that they weren't newlyweds) and Mum coming down with sun poisoning during their trip to Conneaut Lake, it was not precisely the stuff of which dreams are made - but overall they were quite happy that first summer furnishing their home, getting to know each other in the most intimate way, and generally settling into married life.
Part of settling in meant building a record collection. Dad, ever the tech buff, had constructed one of those exotic new toys called a "high fidelity stereo system" so that he and my mother could listen to long playing records in style, comfort, and with the full richness of sound they deserved. They both loved show tunes, Dad loved jazz, and between them they soon had a fine selection of home entertainment choices for nights when they didn't feel like watching television, reading, or indulging in less cerebral activities.
The one thing missing from their collection was classical music. Dad had taken piano and trumpet lessons while Mum had studied violin in her teens, but neither was particularly up on Bach, Beethoven, or Brahms, let alone Rachmaninoff, Chopin, Haydn, Chaminade, Schubert, et al. It was a woeful gap in their knowledge of high culture, and assembling a good classical library was a priority.
This was why they turned to Betty.
Betty's one talent for something that did not involve clothing, makeup, getting out of chores, and cooking so badly my uncle Lou learned to make an acceptable dinner to keep himself and their brother Oscar from starving to death, was piano. She was talented enough that the family had invested in a huge upright grand that probably weighed as much as a Buick, and if she didn't practice nearly as much as she should have, she was good enough that most of the time it didn't matter. Even as an elderly woman she could still play fairly well, and I inherited a huge stack of five-finger exercise books, sonatas, popular favorites, etudes, and so on. Asking her for advice on what all-time toe-tappers would enhance their parties and private recreational moments of a non-physical nature only made sense.
Most of Betty's suggestions also made sense, even if they were a bit heavy on 18th and 19th century German/Austrian orchestral pieces. That was the accepted canon of the day, and after all, what's not to like about Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony or a nice Handel oratorio? It's a good, solid (albeit stolid) grounding in the Western tradition, and listening to those selfsame recordings as a child and teenager inculcated a love of fine music that eventually led me to the glories of the Italian and French Baroque.
The trouble was when Betty said that their collection would not be complete without a recording of Mozart's Italian Symphony. Dad had been vaguely aware that there was an Italian Symphony but hadn't heard it was by Mozart. Betty seemed very sure, though, so off he went to the local record shop. He'd shopped there before and knew they had a reasonably good classical section, so he was fairly confident that he'd come home with Mozart's Italian Symphony as a gift for his bride.
The clerk blinked, checked the store's records, and then informed Dad that no such recording was in stock. They did, however, have a nice version of Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony by the Boston Symphony, would the gentleman be willing to accept that instead?
Dad shook his head. "No, no. My sister-in-law specifically recommended the Mozart. Can you special order it?"
The clerk frowned. "I did check our catalog, sir, and I'm afraid I didn't see any piece by that name. Are you sure of the title?"
"Betty knows a lot about music. I'm sure she's right," said Dad.
"I'll take another look," murmured the clerk. He riffled through some paperwork, shaking his head the whole time, and finally said, "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but the only Italian Symphony I could find was by Mendelssohn."
"Huh," said Dad. It was his turn to frown. "Are there are any other record stores that might carry it?"
"You might try a couple over in Shadyside, but we all order from the same suppliers," said the clerk. "Are you sure you don't want a copy of the Mendelssohn? It's a wonderful piece and the Boston Symphony does a fine job."
"Let me do a little research," said Dad, and left without purchasing a single item.
It’s not clear how much time Dad spent over the next few days (or was it weeks?) trying to track down Mozart’s Italian Symphony, nor how many record shops he visited. What is clear is that he finally gave up, bought a copy of Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony, and knocked back a couple of beers to take the edge off his frustration.
A few weeks later he and Mum were visiting Betty and my uncles. They’d had a good dinner (almost certainly cooked by Mum since Betty had been de facto banned from the kitchen after an attempt to make baked apples using Red Delicious) and were now relaxing over dessert when the conversation turned to music. Oscar, who was almost as interested in new technology as Dad, was interested in getting his own high fidelity stereo system when he purchased a house in a couple of years. Who better to ask for advice on equipment than his new brother-in-law?
Dad was happy to comply. He’d been the mid-20th century equivalent of a technology junkie since childhood, and since he’d actually built his own stereo from the transistors on up, his advice was sound. Soon enough Oscar knew exactly what he would need and where to get it. The only question was what long-playing albums to purchase, and of course that meant asking Betty.
Betty was equally happy to comply. She’d just advised Mum and Dad, after all, so was quickly rattling off the same recommendations: a lot of Beethoven, Bruch’s Violin Concerto, light classics like Strauss waltzes, Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony –
Dad jerked in his seat. “Wait a minute. What did you say?”
Betty blinked over her coffee cup. “I said Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony. You know, the one that goes da-DA-da da-DA-da da-DAAA-da-da, da-da-da-da-da – “
“Mendelssohn?” Dad exclaimed. “You told me it was Mozart!”
“I did?”
“I went all over town looking for it! The clerks at the record stores must have thought I was crazy!”
“Oh,” said Betty. She broke into her usual bright, charming laugh, the same laugh that had kept her siblings from beating her to death with the nearest heavy blunt instrument at least a hundred times over the years. “Guess I was wrong. Sorry!”
It is only the grace of God and the fact that my parents’ record collection was several miles away that prevented Dad from breaking Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony over her head.
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Do you have a beloved relative who nurtured your love of reading? An eccentric aunt who drove everyone she loved crazy? Are you someone’s beloved and annoying aunt, uncle, or parent? It’s a cool late summer night here in New England, so pour yourself a glass of your favorite tipple and share….
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