Memories
I suppose that someone who lives for 95 years is bound to touch quite a few lives. I doubt that anyone would have expected that a never-married Italian woman from West Virginia could have an impact on so many people. Aunt Jo impacted all of our lives.
The interesting thing about Aunt Jo is that she was a little different for each of us. I hesitate to speak for any of the other relatives, especially those who came before me. I'm fairly certain that for my cousins, Toni and Kenny, Aunt Jo was a surrogate mother after their own mother (and Aunt Jo's younger sister), Millie, died at such a young age from cancer. If I remember correctly, it was Cindy who accompanied Aunt Jo to the World's fair in... uh.. was it 64?
Maybe Rene, whose mother was Aunt Jo's first cousin, said it best. Aunt Jo made each of us feel special. Rene explained that even though Aunt Jo had dozens of godchildren (literally) and Rene was in the Rochester, NY area seeing Aunt Jo only occasionally, Aunt Jo always remembered Rene's birthday and wrote to her regularly. Aunto Jo loved us all so much that each of us really FELT loved.
For me, Aunt Jo was several things. She was my traveling companion. It all started when I was very young (pre kindergarten) and Aunt Jo would let me stay with her on weekends. Aunt Jo's house was my escape, my mini vacation.
Aunt Jo took me to Long Island, NY. She took me to New Jersey and Rochester NY. She met me and a friend in Tampa and traveled home with us. My sister and I drove to Ft. Lauderdale with two of my sons to drive Aunt Jo back from there - all of us in a little Mustang, no less! When Rene got married, Aunt Jo rode with me a week early. She was the best co-pilot ever. We made the trip in something like 5 hours!
I also have Aunt Jo to thank for my obsession with makeup. I remember that weekends at Aunt Jo's usually meant baking bread and trips "to town." Aunt Jo wasn't one to sit still for long. On Sunday morning, though, I would watch as Aunt Jo prepared for church. She'd smear orangey-red rouge on her cheeks, paint her lips a matching color and magically, she was transformed. She somehow seemed to stand taller, hold her head higher. She was still Aunt Jo, still as loving as ever. But there was something about her when she put on that makeup, something about the scent of gardenia wafting from the bathroom after her morning bath, that made me believe that I was in the presence of a Grand Lady.
Aunt Jo bought me my first makeup. I was perhaps 5 years old. It was the early 60s and after my begging and begging, she finally relented and bought me a tube of frosted white lipstick. I had to promise to never tell my mom and I wasn't allowed to wear it out of the house, especially not to church. But at Aunt Jo's house, inside the tents I'd crafted with the blankets that had wrapped the rising dough for Aunt Jo's fresh bread, I'd swipe that frosted white lipstick over my little girl lips and pretend I was as glamorous as Aunt Jo on Sunday morning.
Aunt Jo gave me, perhaps, the best beauty tip ever. She turned me on to Extra Virgin Olive Oil. When my son, Jesse, came down with diaper rash the doctor ordered some hideous purple stuff to smear on his bottom. Aunt Jo would have none of it. She ordered me to fetch the bottle of olive oil from the kitchen then she proceeded to massage it into Jesse's irritated little behind. Almost magically, within two diaper changes, Jesse's diaper rash was virtually gone. Several years later I ran out of moisturizer and remembered Aunt Jo rambling on about how healing olive oil is. So I grabbed the bottle I had in the kitchen and rubbed some of it into my face. Best stuff I ever used. (Great for razor bumps, too!)
After Aunt Jo passed away, as I was sitting next to her on her hospital bed waiting for the rest of the family to arrive, I held her hand. For the past several weeks, I had been afraid to hold her hand, they were so brusied from the IVs and seemed so sore. I'd brush her hair back from her face, stroke her face and kiss her, but I didn't dare touch her hand or arm.
As I sat there, holding her hand, I thought about all the babies those strong hands had held. She held my dad when he was a baby. She held Cindy's granddaugther, Abby, just a few years ago and Toni's granddaughter even more recently. And she held every baby in the family in between. Aunt Jo loved babies and babies loved Aunt Jo. Those hands were strong and sure, and babies knew instinctively that they were in the arms of love. Being held by Aunt Jo was a blessing that has followed each of us through life.
Aunt Jo is the thread that ties us all together. Despite the fact that she never had children of her own, we are all her children. Aunt Jo is what has kept this ever-growing related group of people a Family.
Aunt Jo c. 1940s
Aunt Jo's Obituary
The interesting thing about Aunt Jo is that she was a little different for each of us. I hesitate to speak for any of the other relatives, especially those who came before me. I'm fairly certain that for my cousins, Toni and Kenny, Aunt Jo was a surrogate mother after their own mother (and Aunt Jo's younger sister), Millie, died at such a young age from cancer. If I remember correctly, it was Cindy who accompanied Aunt Jo to the World's fair in... uh.. was it 64?
Maybe Rene, whose mother was Aunt Jo's first cousin, said it best. Aunt Jo made each of us feel special. Rene explained that even though Aunt Jo had dozens of godchildren (literally) and Rene was in the Rochester, NY area seeing Aunt Jo only occasionally, Aunt Jo always remembered Rene's birthday and wrote to her regularly. Aunto Jo loved us all so much that each of us really FELT loved.
For me, Aunt Jo was several things. She was my traveling companion. It all started when I was very young (pre kindergarten) and Aunt Jo would let me stay with her on weekends. Aunt Jo's house was my escape, my mini vacation.
Aunt Jo took me to Long Island, NY. She took me to New Jersey and Rochester NY. She met me and a friend in Tampa and traveled home with us. My sister and I drove to Ft. Lauderdale with two of my sons to drive Aunt Jo back from there - all of us in a little Mustang, no less! When Rene got married, Aunt Jo rode with me a week early. She was the best co-pilot ever. We made the trip in something like 5 hours!
I also have Aunt Jo to thank for my obsession with makeup. I remember that weekends at Aunt Jo's usually meant baking bread and trips "to town." Aunt Jo wasn't one to sit still for long. On Sunday morning, though, I would watch as Aunt Jo prepared for church. She'd smear orangey-red rouge on her cheeks, paint her lips a matching color and magically, she was transformed. She somehow seemed to stand taller, hold her head higher. She was still Aunt Jo, still as loving as ever. But there was something about her when she put on that makeup, something about the scent of gardenia wafting from the bathroom after her morning bath, that made me believe that I was in the presence of a Grand Lady.
Aunt Jo bought me my first makeup. I was perhaps 5 years old. It was the early 60s and after my begging and begging, she finally relented and bought me a tube of frosted white lipstick. I had to promise to never tell my mom and I wasn't allowed to wear it out of the house, especially not to church. But at Aunt Jo's house, inside the tents I'd crafted with the blankets that had wrapped the rising dough for Aunt Jo's fresh bread, I'd swipe that frosted white lipstick over my little girl lips and pretend I was as glamorous as Aunt Jo on Sunday morning.
Aunt Jo gave me, perhaps, the best beauty tip ever. She turned me on to Extra Virgin Olive Oil. When my son, Jesse, came down with diaper rash the doctor ordered some hideous purple stuff to smear on his bottom. Aunt Jo would have none of it. She ordered me to fetch the bottle of olive oil from the kitchen then she proceeded to massage it into Jesse's irritated little behind. Almost magically, within two diaper changes, Jesse's diaper rash was virtually gone. Several years later I ran out of moisturizer and remembered Aunt Jo rambling on about how healing olive oil is. So I grabbed the bottle I had in the kitchen and rubbed some of it into my face. Best stuff I ever used. (Great for razor bumps, too!)
After Aunt Jo passed away, as I was sitting next to her on her hospital bed waiting for the rest of the family to arrive, I held her hand. For the past several weeks, I had been afraid to hold her hand, they were so brusied from the IVs and seemed so sore. I'd brush her hair back from her face, stroke her face and kiss her, but I didn't dare touch her hand or arm.
As I sat there, holding her hand, I thought about all the babies those strong hands had held. She held my dad when he was a baby. She held Cindy's granddaugther, Abby, just a few years ago and Toni's granddaughter even more recently. And she held every baby in the family in between. Aunt Jo loved babies and babies loved Aunt Jo. Those hands were strong and sure, and babies knew instinctively that they were in the arms of love. Being held by Aunt Jo was a blessing that has followed each of us through life.
Aunt Jo is the thread that ties us all together. Despite the fact that she never had children of her own, we are all her children. Aunt Jo is what has kept this ever-growing related group of people a Family.
Aunt Jo c. 1940s
Aunt Jo's Obituary