Her name was Lucy.....

Her name was Lucy.

My Great Aunt Lucy was born in Virginia 1887, a mere 22 years after the Civil War. The youngest of 9 children, she was somehow different from the others. It’s almost as if she had ended up in the wrong litter – a poodle among boxers! She never married. Well into her 70s, she kept her hair died blonde and wore it long, curly, and wild. She wore too much makeup. She wore lots of rings (mostly big) and lots of bracelets. She always wore a large hat – and she wore a fur muff in the winter. She had piercing, sparkling eyes. I was completely fascinated with her when I was a child.

She was creative. To supplement her Social Security income, she started sewing doll costumes – everything from Southern Belles with ruffles to the Merry Widow in black velvet and fur. She lived in Washington, DC at the old Willard Hotel, at a time when it was mostly a rooming house when its former grandeur had faded, and it was inhabited by all kinds of people because it was affordable. Lucy didn’t mind not having a house of her own or husband or children. She was the Belle of the Willard and was never at a loss for company.

How I used to look forward to my visits with Aunt Lucy! Since my parents and I lived with my grandmother(her sister), my parents had no choice! We drove from Baltimore to Washington to visit her, or Aunt Lucy took the train from Washington to stay with us for a few days. Those visits were wonderful for me. Aunt Lucy used to bring me trinkets or a doll or something “girlie.” I loved her eccentric clothes and hair and how she always smelled of perfume.

Now, what brought all this on? I’ve been trying to find if there are any living relatives, especially on my mother’s side of the family, and I happened upon a little bit of info on Aunt Lucy in my Internet search. It said she was born, lived, and died – and gave her Social Security number.

When I went through my memories of Aunt Lucy, I realized that I inherited many of her traits without even knowing. I wear lots of jewelry everyday. I’m single. I march to my own drum.

Guess this apple fell from a tree two generations back.