Dearest aunt begins her toughest fight

My daughters and I enjoyed a special "girls' night out" in Portland recently. My aunt Margie strongly requested our presence, along with her own two daughters. It was an evening of such hilarity that we salted the salsa with tears of laughter. We were supposed to play cut-throat Scrabble but we never got around to it. Talking and sharing memories and experiences was too much fun.

Margie married my favorite uncle, my mom's baby brother, the one we kept track of during the war with red pins moving around the South Pacific map that hung over the kitchen table. It didn't take long for her to become my favorite aunt, although since she's only 8 years older, she seemed more like a big sister than an aunt. Her daughters and mine aren't separated by too many years, either, and share sharp senses of humor.

I first met Margie when Dad brought them home from the train station as newlyweds, and I ran down the hill from school to have lunch with them. She noticed I kept checking the clock, afraid I'd be late returning.

Slipping her fancy watch off her wrist and onto mine, she said casually, "Why don't you use this for the afternoon, so you'll know how fast you have to run on the way back." Boy, did she know how to win the heart of an 11-year-old. I was the only kid in class that afternoon wearing a watch, and I raised my hand often enough to be sure everybody saw it.

Soon Margie got a job and although she was still only 19, she decided that a lot of her clothes were too immature for her. I inherited dirndl skirts, peasant blouses, charm bracelets ... all thrilling to a kid yearning to be a teenager.

For my eighth-grade graduation, she got off work early and rode the Greyhound to the highway stop closest to our house in the country, lugging her Cinderella supplies. She did my hair, gave me a manicure, and applied makeup so discreetly that hopefully my straight-laced father wouldn't notice. He did, but because by now he loved Margie as much as the rest of us did, he only grumbled quietly, in private.

By the time I was 16, our 8-year age difference had shrunk. We both had dark hair and eyes and light complexions, and looked enough alike that people thought we were sisters. Margie helped me find my first summer job. No more baby-sitting and picking berries for me. I was in the big world now, clerking in a Portland dime store!

I spent the summer at their house, going home as seldom as possible. Oh, what joy I must have spread at home. Watching (or, if there was no way I could get out of it, helping) Mom scour the milk pails, I would comment, "At Margie's house, the milkman puts the milk in a box by the front door, and if we want butter or cream, she just puts checkmarks on the list the day before."

Sulky because Dad made me wipe off my Tangee Flame lipstick, I climbed into the car for the drive to church after he'd had honked the horn twice, muttering "At Margie's house we sleep in on Sunday, and Uncle Morris goes to the bakery for fresh doughnuts, and we spend all morning reading The Oregonian."

Looking back, I'm amazed they didn't pack my bags and buy me a one-way Greyhound ticket to Margie's house.

She was matron of honor at our wedding. We moved to Yakima and our families saw each other less frequently, but Margie (and her image in my mind) was still a big part of my life. Growing up,
I was accustomed to Spartan gift-wrapping that often consisted of flattened brown paper bags tied with yarn.

But Margie's skill with bright paper and ribbon entranced me, and in my own home I soon had an area set aside just for gift-wrapping. Margie introduced me to hitting the Hallmark shops Dec. 26 when the doors open, and I still do.

And she taught me to laugh, even when things are tough.

That rascally favorite uncle died, and Margie was on her own. Our younger daughter shared the house with her for several years until she bought her own home. Margie had health problems, and moved into assisted living for a while, where she gallantly pretended to be happy. She loves to play poker, and shocked a few ladies when she made the men's Thursday night poker club unisex. Then the opportunity came for Margie and her older daughter to buy a home together, and they did.

It was the meeting place for our girls' night out. After the evening of laughter and fun, as we wiped up the crumbled chips and dripped salsa, Margie said, "While we're all here together, there's something I need to tell you. I have breast cancer."

In our shocked silence, she chuckled and said, "Don't look like that. There's a lot of fight left in this old gal."

That fight is what I'm counting on, Margie. I think you've still got a lot to teach me about courage and laughter.

* Donna Scofield is a freelance writer whose articles, columns and short fiction stories have appeared in numerous national and regional magazines. The longtime Yakima resident is retired after working as a secretary and office manager in Yakima School District elementary schools. She has raised two sons and two daughters.

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