Aunt Nina’s Relics

Nina Hartley was my great, great aunt. She was the aunt of my paternal grandmother, Minne Lee Wright, although she was just ten years older than my grandmother.

She and my grandparents always lived in the same house. I later learned she owned the houses and my grandparents rented from her. The first house was a dilapidated, rambling Victorian-era house on18th Avenue in Cordele, Georgia. My grandparents lived in an apartment on the second floor. Aunt Nina lived on the first floor.

The house was constructed of gray, weathered pine boards with a few specks of white paint sprinkled here and there - the handiwork of the F4 tornado that tore through Cordele in April of 1936 destroying 276 homes and killing 24 people. My grandmother would tell me the story about the tornado and how terrifying it was. She was newly married, and my grandfather was at work. She tried to seek shelter in the first floor of the house but she could not get out of her bedroom. The pressure created by the tornado prohibited her from opening her bedroom door to escape. Although the house withstood the tornado, it essentially sandblasted most of the paint from the house. I guess Aunt Nina and her two sisters who owned the house with her did not have the money or inclination to have it repainted.

The old house also survived a fire. My dad was probably about five or six years old. It was a couple of days after Christmas. A kerosene heater in his bedroom exploded catching the room on fire. The fire department was summoned and was able contain the fire to that one room. Fortunately, my dad was in the kitchen and was not injured. The firemen told my grandmother that when they learned of the address of the fire, they knew the house and were more concerned than usual since it constructed of “fatlighter”. “Fatlighter” is the heart of a pine tree that is rich in flammable resin that is good for getting a fire started.

I have vague recollections of visiting Aunt Nina in her section of that house. I was probably about three or four years old. My earliest vivid memory of spending time was Aunt Nina was helping her with her flower garden. She had a slew of daylilies planted on her lot in the sandy soil beneath a ancient live oak. She taught me to how to "dead head" the daylilies. She told me that removing the withered blooms and not allowing it to develop a seed pod would encourage the lilies to produce more flowers. However, a bloom not yet opened looked a lot like a spent, withered bloom. So, Aunt Nina patiently monitored my choices of which flowers to "dead head" until I had mastered it. I remember Aunt Nina never talked to me like I was a child; she talked to me the as though I was an adult.

I have recollections of Aunt Nina after she and my grandparents moved to the house on East 11th Avenue. Aunt Nina bought it after she sold the Victorian house on 18th Avenue. I was about six years old. It was a duplex, shotgun style house built in the 1920s. My grandparents lived in one side and Nina lived on the other. A set of curtained French doors connected their living areas.

By the time they moved into the "new" house, Nina was in her 70s. Nina was tall and lanky but with ample bosoms despite her lean build. She was unlike other Southern women her age at that time. Other women in their 60s or 70s wore floral house dresses. The more trendy ones wore those garish, polyester, brightly-colored double-knit pant suits that were in vogue in the early 1970s - wash and wear, no ironing required. Nina did not care about clothes or being "in style". She always wore slacks - winter as well as the scorching hot South Georgia summers. They were always drab in color - charcoal, black or dusty brown. She wore mens' short-sleeve T-shirts in a lighter shade of drab sans a bra not being the least bit concerned about her sagging breasts or her very obvious nipples resting just above her waistline. In the winter she wore lightweight, cotton cardigans from the drab collection over the t-shirts. She wore thin, dingy, mens' cotton socks who's elasticity were long gone so they bunched up around her ankles. On her long, narrow feet, she sported sensible leather flats. She wore wire-rimmed glasses. Wire-rimmed glasses were in vogue in the early 1970's among the younger folks; however, these looked circa 1910. Typically juxtaposed against this this backdrop of drab was a selection from Nina's stash of brightly-colored silk scarves tied around her neck. A beautiful, diamond art deco dinner ring graced her long, elegant fingers. And every so often she would pin a very nice brooch atop of the top button of her worn, misshapen, pilling cardigan.

When Aunt Nina passed away, my grandmother inherited that diamond dinner ring. Just a few years later my grandmother passed away, and I "inherited" that ring. I use the word "inherited" loosely. My grandmother's extended family was notorious for showing up right after a relative died and helping themselves to the deceased's possessions for "something to remember them by". My mother bluntly asked my grandfather for that ring the day of the funeral before "those damned vultures toted it off." As lovely as it is, I rarely wear that ring for fear of losing it.

Aunt Nina's squirrel-gray tresses extended beyond her bottom but were always arranged in an intricate twist expertly secured by combs. Based on old photos, she had worn her hair as such since she was a young woman. As for most of Nina's contemporaries, they typically sported a variation of a bouffant hairstyle. They went to the beauty parlor once a week to get their hair "fixed". Getting one's hair "fixed" entailed their "beautician" to wash and set their hair in rollers with a setting gel such as Dippity-Do. Then, they would sit under the dryer for a good while reading magazines and gossiping with the other clients. After their hair was dry, the beautician would "finish up fixing their hair" by gently combing or brushing out the stiff curls, teasing, and arranging it just so into a unnatural sculpture. Afterwards, the newly coiffed hair would be encased in layers of hairspray to ensure it's structural integrity would remain unscathed until their next appointment regardless of their activities or the weather. This was just the weekly appointment to maintain their hair. Then, there may longer appointments about avery 4-6 weeks for a trim,coloring and maybe a "permanent wave”. However, as I indicated earlier, Nina never darkened the door of a beauty shop. The most attention Aunt Nina ever paid to her hair was occasionally applying some Alberto V05 to the ends of it. To address ragged, split ends, she did not trim her hair with scissors. Instead, she preferred to burn off the wispy split ends. One day as I was hanging around her living area, she let me to watch the process. She sat in her dining area on a kitchen chair and removed those combs and let her hair fall down with the ends just a few inches above the aged linoleum floor. With the exception of when she was bedridden shortly before she passed away, this was the only time I saw her with hair down. She removed a match from a box of kitchen matches and lit it. She grab a hank of her hair toward the end and lightly waved the flame along the very tips of her hair. As the fine split ends started to burn she quickly stroked the ends of her hair brushing away the burning strands. It took her repeating the process with several more kitchen matches until she was satisfied. I wrinkled my nose because burning hair is a awful smell; however, I was transfixed. I felt so privileged to be invited inside her private world to witness this.

Whenever Nina was busy with a task and obviously deep in thought in her own world, she would always whistle. By this time, Nina's front teeth were no longer with us so her whistle was just her blowing air out of her puckered lips. I am sure there was a song in her head but her whistle never betrayed the melody. This would get on Minnie Lee's nerves which is probably why Nina did it almostly constantly.

Her part of the house was like a curiosity shop for me. The kitchen was very small with little counter space or storage which was fine because Nina did not cook much. However, I remember Nina's solution for a pantry. Someone had repurposed a very old pinball machine case. Removing the playfield and stripping out the inner-workings produced a ready-made, wooden frame to install the shelves when stood on its end vertically atop a small table. No one had bothered to repaint it, so the sides still had the original stenciled designs of baseball players as a testament to its former life. I thought it was one of the coolest things I had ever seen and could not understand why parents did not have such nice things in our house. The dining /living area and Nina's bedroom were dimly lit. The window shades were always pulled down to guard against "peeping toms".

Nina had a typical green and yellow parakeet named "Tweety". I forgive her for the lack of originality in regard to his name as I have pet peeve (no pun intended) when people name their non-human family members such predictable names like Spot, Blackie, Patches, Tweety, Cocoa, Bugs, Thumper, Star, Blaze, etc. for I put as much thought in naming my pets as I did my daughters - perhaps more. I digress.... Tweety loved Aunt Nina; it was obvious. Nina liked to have coffee in the middle on the day when it was cold weather. She would makes some instant Nescafe in a green Jadite mug. Before she sat down at her kitchen table to drink her coffee, she would open Tweety's cage. Tweety would fly from his cage and land on Aunt Nina's shoulder and demand, "Coffee! Nina! Coffee!". She would proceed to feed him sips of coffee from her teaspoon in between her sips from the Jadite mug. On occasion, Nina would turn on the faucet in her bathroom and little it trickle a steady stream in the lavatory. Upon hearing that water trickling, Tweety would flutter into the bathroom, settle in the lavatory and proceed to splash and bathe joyfully. I thought Tweety was so clever.

Nina also had a Siamese cat named Prissy. Prissy had a particularly nasty disposition - even for a cat. I don't remember ever trying to pet her, so I must have sensed she was not to be messed with. I recall seeing a large bandage on Aunt Nina’s calf one time. When I asked about the bandage, she told me Prissy bitten her out of spite and left a nasty wound. I remember sitting on the floor next to Aunt Nina's kitchen table. Prissy bounded onto a kitchen chair next to me. I was staring at her while she groomed herself. Prissy decided I had encroached on her personal space and quickly swatted at me. One of her claws caught the edge of my nostril and scratched the inside of my nose. It bled profusely. I hid in the bathroom until I could get the bleeding to stop because I did not want to get in trouble for upsetting that demon in feline form.

A framed picture of a WWI cavalry soldier was displayed on top of a barrister bookcase in Nina's bedroom. I remember he wore wearing rimless glasses and had a smooth, handsome face. Although he was he was posed in a very "soldierly" way atop his horse and was not smiling, his eyes betrayed him. Peering through those glasses from beneath the brim of his metal "doughboy" helmet were sensitive, kind eyes. I figured he was a relative. One day when curiosity got the best of me, I finally asked her about the picture of the soldier on the horse. She wistfully smiled, looked a little sad and replied, "That's my sweetheart". She paused for several more seconds obviously lost in her memories and then continued while slightly shaking her head. "Lord knows I was such a fool for not marrying him." I shared her sadness in silence for a few seconds. Even back then I was nosey and was dying to know the details. Did he die during the war? Did he marry someone else? His stoic face was so handsome and his eyes were so kind, how could you not marry him? However, I was old enough to know it was rude to pry. I now regret being so polite and not taking the chance and asking.

That barrister bookcase has been in my parents dining area since Aunt Nina died in the early 1970s. My dad took it home and refinished it. My daughter now lives in my parents' home. Earlier this year a enormous oak tree fell on my parents home, crashing through the roof into the dining area. My daughter called me in a tearful panic as soon as it happened. Once I determined the extent of the damage and that she and her pets were unharmed, my next question was "What about Aunt's Nina's barrister bookcase?" Somehow those enormous branches that tore through the roof missed it by a couple of inches - no broken glass, not one scratch.

Next to the barrister bookcase against the wall, there was a Victorian-era fainting couch with a tiger oak frame with carved feet and covered in brittle, cracking leather. I remember it well but had forgotten about it and did not know what became of it. We had assumed my grandfather sold it after my grandmother died since she inherited most of Aunt Nina's worldly possessions. (My grandfather would sell anything to make a dime. He was known to sell things that were not his to sell). However, when I was in my 40s, I was contacted by my father's cousin from his father's side of the family, Sunny Gail. It turns out she ended up with the fainting couch despite not being a blood-relative of my grandmother or Aunt Nina. She had visited my grandfather shortly after my grandmother died, asked about it, and he offered it to her. She decided she no longer wanted it and called me to see if I wanted it since it had belonged to my Aunt Nina. Of course, I did. So, I made the journey to Sunny Gail's home in Hilton Head, SC with my pickup truck to collect it. She had recovered in a 1980's-era striped fabric. I put it to use in my office/bonus room for many years until I re-furnished that room and had to put it in storage until I can create another home for it. I recently found a place for it and have purchased fabric to recover it.

On the wall in Aunt Nina's "front room" hung three shallow wooden bowls about 6 inches in diameter. Inside of each bowl was a hand-painted snow scene in various shades of icy blue. I commented how pretty they were since blue was my favorite color. Nina explained she she had painted them. She said she took lessons years ago and learned to used to paint. I don't know what happened to those bowls. However, after she passed away, my dad found two of her paintings stuffed in an old "junk room"and took them home. They are both landscapes done in oil. One of a creek flowing through a pasture with trees with turning leaves. The other was a nightscape of a cabin in a hollow with light glowing from the cabin's windows. I have them both hanging in my house now.

In the effort to entertain me, Nina unearthed her crochet hooks, some leftover balls of fine, cotton crochet thread, and a her pattern books printed in the 1940s and 1950s. I was familiar with crocheting but had only seen it done with larger hooks and worsted-weight yarn for the purpose of making afghans. These were tiny hooks for the purpose of crocheted lace - doilies, table runners, collars. She taught me a few stitches and gave me the entire stash of hooks, threads, and books. I felt guilty taking her things, and told her I would give them back at the end of my visit. She firmly said, "No. They are for you. I have no use for them because I cannot see well enough anymore to crochet."

Somehow over the decades I have managed to keep track of those hooks and the pattern books. These small crochet hooks are made of steel and plated with chrome. However, there was this oddball hook in the stash that was black. I had never seen another hook like it for every one I had ever seen was chrome-plated. For some reason, I did not like using it but I kept it anyway because it was Aunt Nina's, and it was odd. I was able to keep up with it for over 50 years surviving six moves and countless clutter purgings and reorganizations. I recently ran across a website that had extensive history of the various crochet hook manufacturers. I learned that during WWII only one manufacturer of crochet hooks, Boye, had continued to produce crochet hooks despite the shortage of raw materials - steel and chrome. It turns out Boye produced the black ones from 1942 to 1945. They had to use a black oxide finish because chrome was not available those years. I tend to hang onto things like that. Like the leftover WWII ration books I have that my grandparents had saved, it is a tangible memento of the stories of the sacrifices endured by my parents and grandparents "back during THE war."

One Christmas when I was eight years old, Aunt Nina gave me a very special gift. It was an antique treadle sewing machine manufactured in the late 1800's. Aunt Nina still had the instruction book that bore it date of manufacture. It was unlike the typical treadle sewing machines that I have ever seen whereby the sewing machine itself was usually rather large and heavy. This sewing machine, on the contrary, was small and delicate-looking. My dad only had to replace the deteriorating leather belt to get it operational again. I taught myself to sew on that machine. I used it to sew Barbie doll clothes and all kinds of other crafty projects that I conjured up.

When I was a teenager, I refurbished that sewing machine a bit under my dad’s tutelage. I cleaned and repainted the black, wrought iron treadle and side supports. I refinished the wooden, drop-leaf sewing table and cover applying a hand-rub tung oil finish. It did 100% of the work on my own, and it turned out very nice. It was the first of many such refurbishments that I have undertaken over the years. Although it has not been used since I was a child, it is still operational. It now sits in the corner of living room as a decor item. For some reason, it never occurred to me set it up for my daughters to play with when they were young. I regret not doing so. Hopefully, I can make up for my dereliction with my grandchildren should my daughters decide to have children.

Aunt Nina was so well-regarded in our family that her possessions were holy relics.

I have more items that belonged to Aunt Nina than that of any other ancestor. I was often cautioned, “Be careful with that!" or "Make sure you keep up with that!" for "It belonged Aunt Nina.” Over the years, I heard many stories from my parents and other relatives about Aunt Nina’s life and her character and began to understand why Aunt Nina was so well-revered. She was truly a remarkable woman. (I will tell that story soon.)