Dear Aunt Myrna

by Kit Duncan

I helped Aunt Myrna bring in her luggage, the same two huge brown Samsonite cases and the smaller overnight bag she had brought with her last summer. With considerable effort, I dragged the smaller of the two big cases to the guest room and was breathing hard when Aunt Myrna heaved the larger of the two cases on top of the bed. Mama followed behind us with the little case, then smiled at us and said she'd get some water on the stove for some tea.

  Aunt Myrna's appearance hadn't changed much over the last year except that the white in her disheveled hair seemed a little brighter and more ample. She still wore the same neutral colored layers of clothing and old brown sandals.

  Without saying a word, Aunt Myrna opened the largest suitcase on the bed and reached in, picked up a book, opened it, and with her nose to the seam, inhaled deeply. When she had finished she looked at me with a grin, and without being invited, I climbed up on the bed on the other side of the suitcase, grabbed another book, opened it, and smelled it.

  We smelled at least six or seven books each until Aunt Myrna finally spoke. "Now, I wonder which of these jewels you'll want to keep here this year?" she asked.

  I looked through the books carefully, but had never heard of most of them. "Little Women ," I read the title. "How's this one?"

  "Good choice. Four sisters. You'll really like Jo."

  "Sisters, huh?" I set the book back down. "And this one?" I asked. I held up another book.

  Aunt Myrna put on her bifocals and took the book I was holding. "Hmmm," she said thoughtfully. "Jack London. He's okay. Not one of my favorite authors, but pretty interesting, especially if you like dogs and wolves and such as that. Ever been to Alaska?"

  "Is that outside Kentucky?" I asked.

  "Oh, a bit."

  "I've never been past Indiana."

  "Well, then, you've probably never been to Alaska."

  I set White Fang aside, and we both kept digging through the books.

  "This one looks interesting," I said, and to show I was serious about it I smelled its pages.

  "Let me see," Aunt Myrna said, taking the book from me. "No. I don't think you're quite ready for Hemingway. But you'll probably enjoy him in a few years. Laura will pin my hide to the wall if I leave that one here. I'm afraid this one was written when he was still pretty influenced by Lawrence. Hemingway was never quite as bold, some say vulgar, as Lawrence, but he could be a little bit racy."

  "When will I be old enough to read Lawrence?" I asked.

  "Perhaps after I'm old enough to read him," Aunt Myrna said.

  "When will that be?"

  "Probably never. Not his novels anyway. Maybe his critique on some American authors. He's not a bad read there. But now, if you think you might like Hemingway, you'd probably enjoy The Old Man and the Sea. Let's see if I have a copy in here. I thought I did. No, doesn't look like it. Well, I'll see that you get a copy."

  I picked up am extremely fat book, opened to the first page, and read out loud "'Call me Ishmael.' That's a peculiar name, isn't it?"

  "Moby Dick. Very good book. A little long-winded. Pretty thick context. You might lose interest. You might get a kick out of it. Want it?"

  I held onto the book a minute, smelled it, then set it aside. "What else you got?"

  "Spoken like a budding connoisseur!" Aunt Myrna beamed. I looked puzzled. "Well, just this once," Aunt Myrna said. "It means, well, it's like being an expert, or someone who fancies something with a passion and becomes quite knowledgeable about that thing. The main thing about being a connoisseur is that you are discriminatory, you weigh and evaluate differences, you consider the various samples of a group before you make your selection, like blends of coffees or teas, of, oh, any number of things. You...."

  "Aunt Myrna?"

  "Yes, Kate?"

  "What other books did you bring?"

  I finally selected Grahame's The Wind in the Willows. Mama had been reading Winnie the Pooh books to me since before I could remember, and the same fellow who illustrated Milne's book also illustrated Grahame's.

  "Ernest H Shepard," I read aloud, and I flipped through the pages. "What's the 'H' stand for?"

  "Howard, I believe," Aunt Myrna said.

  I shook my head with gravity, as if knowing Ernest H Shepard's middle name made me a great scholar. To reinforce the moment, I repeated his full name slowly. "Ernest Howard Shepard." Then I smelled the pages, smiled, and said, "Yes, I think this one will do."

  Papa came home from work as soon as Mama called him to tell him that Aunt Myrna had arrived. They embraced and laughed, and Papa got so excited he said "Mein Gott!" After supper he and Aunt Myrna disappeared on a long walk up past Birchwood, and I didn't see them again until it was nearly dark.

  "Papa sure does like Aunt Myrna," I told Mama as we were putting away the last of the dishes.

  "He's man to have her," Mama said. "And she him. She's been through a lot."

  "Mama," I said when we were sitting on the front porch a short time later. "What's Aunt Myrna been through?"

  "Oh," Mama said, "I spoke out of school. It's not for me to tell another's misfortunes. But now, listen here, Katie, I don't want you?."

  "Katie!" Danny ran around the corner of my house, very much winded. "Come see! Dad's got an engine to put on the go-cart! Come on, quick!"

  I tossed a obligatory wave to Mama and rounded the corner behind Danny.

  CHAPTER 18