Just This Banjo

Aunt Mannie

The cards began arriving so early in my life that I have no childhood memories without them. Every holiday without fail until my sixteenth birthday. Valentine's Day, Saint Patrick's Day, my birthday, Easter, The Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Always addressed in an old-fashioned way to Master Patrick Costello. Always with a few dollars tucked into the card and signed from my Aunt Mannie.

I did not get a lot of cards from relatives when I was a kid, so being able to rely on something in the mail every holiday meant a great deal to me. Even more so after my mother explained to me that Aunt Mannie was not really my aunt.

Her real name was Marion, and she was a cousin so distant that to this day, I still have a hard time grasping just how we were related. My mother knew Marion when she was growing up, and after I was born, Marion decided to start sending me cards on the holidays. Somewhere along the way, my mother and I started calling her my Aunt Mannie.

It is hard to put into words how it feels to be loved by somebody who has no obligation to do so. It warms the heart the way a fire in the hearth warms your hands and face.

When I was twelve, my mother took me on the long bus and subway ride across Philadelphia to visit Aunt Mannie for the first time. It was one of those perfect days in that space between Christmas and New Year's when the decorations are still up but the pressure of the holiday was over. After what seemed like an eternity of travel, we found ourselves at the front door of a little row house. We knocked, and Aunt Mannie answered the door.

She was a small woman, but not frail. She spoke in a flat Philadelphia accent. She wore an apron over her housecoat and a sweater over that.

Aunt Mannie hugged us and then rushed into the kitchen to make us some lunch. As she cooked, I looked around the place and slowly took the situation in.

My mother had explained to me a few times over the years that Aunt Mannie was poor, but until I walked into the house where she lived, I did not understand just how poor Aunt Manie really was. She was living with another one of my distant cousins. She had a room of her own, and that was about it.

It hit me that every card, every dollar tucked into those cards, and even the stamps represented a sacrifice this kind lady had made for me.

It was almost too much to process. I started to feel overwhelmed, but the next thing I knew Aunt Mannie was serving us the best dang grilled cheese sandwiches I have ever had and mugs of hot soup.

We enjoyed our lunch, and then it was time for us to start the long trip back home.

As we were leaving Aunt Mannie tucked a couple of dollars into my pocket. I tried to argue, but she just smiled and gently shoved me out the door.

Once I knew how to get to Aunt Mannie's place, I went to see her whenever I could. Sometimes I would just get disgusted with school and walk from Havertown all the way to 69th Street Station – usually dragging my guitar. If I didn't have any money, I would busk until I raised enough to take the Market-Frankford line to Aunt Mannie's. She never looked surprised to find me at her door.

We talked about many things in those visits. She even taught me how to make those perfect grilled cheese sandwiches. The only thing we did not talk about was the one question that nags me to this very day. Why me? Why sacrifice for so long for someone barely related to her? I once started to ask her, and she gently placed her cool hand on the side of my face for a moment before walking back into the kitchen to prepare more food.

The last time I saw her, I could tell something was wrong. As soon as I walked in, she got all excited about her new copper frying pan. I looked in the kitchen, and she was making grilled cheese sandwiches on a copper dustpan.

Before you ask, yes, I ate that sandwich. I couldn't bring myself to upset her. Sometimes loving someone requires accepting the occasional dust bunny in your lunch.

At her wake, my father walked with me to her coffin. I loved him for that. As we stood there, I asked him if he knew why she did so much for me.

Dad shrugged and said, "She loved you. No other reason than that."

I keep her picture on my desk. I think of her almost every day. Her example has influenced a lot of what I do as a teacher and as a human being.

Thankyou, Aunt Mannie. I love you.