Saturday June 1 marks Marilyn Monroe's 87th birthday. She's certainly a cultural icon and an interesting performer, but this post isn't really about her. It's about what she reminds me of, which is the summer I spent with my Great Aunt Margaret just outside of London. It wasn't really a summer, just two weeks in July and two weeks in August many years ago, but it made a lasting impression.
Aunt Margaret was my grandmother's youngest sister, though they did not really grow up together, as my grandmother was thirteen years older and left their village in Western Ireland for America when Margaret was just five or six. Eventually Margaret left as well, settling in London where she found work as a nurse during World War II.
I first met her when she and another sister who had settled in London, my Great Aunt Anne, visited America for the Bicentennial. They were rosy cheeked, buxom middle aged women, and I found them fascinating, so much like my Nanny, but somehow different, foreign...always laughing, smiling, winking, drinking gin. Not that Nanny wasn't fun, but I think their natural charm combined with their novelty made them pretty irresistible.
In the fall of 1986 Margaret (who was the first person to ever call me "ginger-headed") visited again, this time by herself. Anne was unwell and would soon pass on. Margaret arrived just as my grandmother suffered a mild heart attack, and she helped nurse her back to health during her stay.
One evening I paid them a visit at Nanny's apartment, and along with a few elderly aunts from my grandfather's side of the family, we spent the night playing cards. I peppered Aunt Margaret with questions about London, particularly the theatre scene. "Come visit. Anytime you like," she told me.
Well, that was all the encouragement I needed. I started saving every penny I could for my trip, and nine short months later, there I was being met by Aunt Margaret at Gatwick's international gate.
London was everything I'd hoped it would be--great museums, theatre (Diana Rigg in Follies on my birthday was a highlight) Hyde Park, Madame Tussaud's, day trips to Dover, Brighton, and more. It was all great, but it's the time I spent with Aunt Margaret that has meant so much to me over the years.
I was pretty skinny that summer, and like any wonderful old relative she never stopped trying to feed me. Tea, scones, digestive biscuits, lots of grilled fish, enormous breakfasts, and my most favorite--rhubarb tart with rhubarbs picked from her own garden, covered with a homemade custard. Every time I complimented a dish she'd smile and say the same thing in her lilting brogue, "Oh, it's ever so easy to make!"
One day I came home from a local record shop with the out of print London cast recording of Gypsy with Angela Lansburry. Aunt Margaret got it into her head that Gypsy Rose Lee was buried in a churchyard cemetery on the outskirts of London and convinced her son Kevin to drive us around for hours on a Saturday looking for it. For the record, she's buried in Inglewood, California, but we didn't know that then and so we soldiered on, taking in several old churches along the way.
Aunt Margaret was part of her neighborhood watch. Once a month or so she'd have to stay up all night to keep lookout on her block. While I was visiting her turn came so I told her I would stay up with her. It happened to fall on the 25th anniversary of Marilyn Monroe's death, and the BBC was showing her movies all night long. While we should have been protecting Gilbert Road we were watching Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, Bus Stop, and How to Marry a Millionaire. Every once in a while during a commercial break one of us would get up, pull back the lace curtain and give a perfunctory peak out the window.
Being somewhat removed from our immediate family, as well as a healthcare professional, I guess it was easier for Margaret to speak freely, and so she was the first relative to ever ask me about my mother, to acknowledge, and to help me acknowledge, that there was something wrong, that her life was a daily struggle for stability. It was a brief conversation, but it was a huge gesture.
One morning as the end of my trip was nearing, Aunt Margaret reached into her jewelry box and pulled out a simple gold pin with a dark green square stone. She squeezed it into my hand saying, "bring this home for your mom." I still have and treasure it.
I don't feel like this post is quite doing her justice, but I absolutely adored my Aunt Margaret, and I'm all at once sentimental and euphoric whenever I see Gentlemen Prefer Blondes...or eat a rhubarb tart. I hear they're ever so easy to make.
