Auntie Boodie was different. Both her father and brother (an Australian bush poet) killed themselves. The father shot himself when cornered by the police after he had killed a bank teller and injured another in a failed bank robbery in Cape Town South Africa having abandoned the family in Melbourne. Boodie was as a young lady very involved with the theosophists. That is a tale much too long for here and deserves a post of its own. Is it any wonder then that Auntie Boodie was just a trifle peculiar.
We stood mourning at the graveside. I wondered if anyone really knew Auntie Boudie. Perhaps the man they talked of in hushed tones. Another Aunt who lived in sin.
At twelve, Auntie still sent me rag books for Christmas. She knew I existed, unlike the other aunts. Auntie, dressed in hat and gloves, met us at the door when we visited. She sent us to the park whilst giving the adults a five-minute audience. She had the first colour TV I saw– blue cellophane at the top, green at the bottom.
“Thanks Auntie for remembering me.” I dropped my sod.
Some of the above tale is fiction, some memoir. To my mind this is a fictional tale.
In response to Charli’s prompt over at the Carrot Ranch The prompt
February 4, 2015 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a nutty aunt. What makes her nutty? Is it the situation she’s in or a quirky habit? She can be anybody’s aunt. Maybe she’s really somebody’s uncle but wants to be an aunt. Maybe it’s the name of a cowpoke’s horse, a hockey team or a village pub. Follow where the prompt leads.
Respond by February 10, 2015 to be included in the weekly compilation. Rules are here. All writers are welcome!