AUNT DOLLY MAYO

Proverbs 17:22.    A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.

 

  She was a Nazarene preacher’s wife, my great aunt on my mother’s side, my grandmother’s baby sister to be exact: the Hoffpauir branch, the ones from Rayne, Louisiana.   She and her husband were such opposites in so many ways.  She was five feet tall on a good day with the proper shoes on and Uncle Claudius was at least six feet five.  She loved good food, good conversation and lots of laughs while he looked as if bread and water were his only staples. 

They were Jack Sprat and his wife in every sense of the word.

 Uncle Preacher, as we called him, was stern and erect, with a permanent expression that looked like a dried prune.  Don’t know if I ever saw a smile on his face.  He was the kind that probably wore a suit and tie (dark ones of course) to bathe in and certainly wore one to bed.  How he fell in love with Aunt Dolly is a mystery that is still discussed in family circles to this day, or better yet how in the world did she fall in love with someone so stiff and boring.  They appeared to be a total mismatch, but I sensed there was deep love for each other, somewhere.

Aunt Dolly loved a good joke and was constantly creating ways to shock someone, especially her husband.  She adored playing the devil’s advocate.  “Lighten up, Claudius,” she said one weekend when we were visiting, “People are tired of hearing that they are all going to hell every Sunday.  They might listen more to your sermons if you weren’t so stiff.  You must bend, baby.  Bend.  There’s some interesting stuff in that Bible if you would just tell them about that instead of pointing fingers and calling names, condemning them for their sins that they must have done during the week.  They need to hear the Good News, not your wrath.  Preach the New Testament, Claudius,  not the Old.   They need something to discuss over dinner to ease their digestion, for Christ’s sake.”

Uncle Preacher gave a disgusting huff, stood, stretching his six-foot-five frame adding an inch or two, looked directly at Aunt Dolly, with eyes glowing with anger.  He said, “Lucinda Beulah, I’m embarrassed that you have such evil in your heart to say such things in front of the family, and in front of these children.”  Then, looking at us, he continued, “If you will excuse me, I must retreat to my study and spend the rest of the afternoon on my knees praying for your dear aunt’s soul.”

Aunt Dolly just laughed and replied as he exited the room, “Now, family.  What joyful mischief shall we get into now that his lord and master is retreating?  We should do devilish things so he will have a reason to really pray for our souls.  I’m sure he will point fingers at us at church tomorrow.”

Aunt Dolly loved playing the piano and singing.  The louder the better and it had to have a decent rhythm.  None of those droll ole’ hymns for her, no sir.  If she played and sang Bringing in the Sheaves then, honey, they brought those sheaves in a-dancing and a-jiving and rejoicing all over God’s kingdom, and loved bringing them in.  She put a honky-tonk rhythm into everything she played.  I loved her dearly. 

When we got to church Sunday morning, Aunt Dolly received word that the pianist was sick.  Aunt Dolly decided to fill in without informing Uncle Preacher.  As people solemnly filed into the church, expecting to be listening to a quiet hymn , or as Aunt Dolly described it, a funeral dirge,  they were shocked as Aunt Dolly pounded on those keys, singing at the top of her lungs, “I feel like hell.  I feel like hell.  I feel like hell-ping some poor Soul.  Do you feel like hell, yes feel like hell, feel like hell-ping some poor soul?”  The people had something to talk about over dinner that day.

*Note: Aunt Dolly and her sister, my grandmother Ruth George often collaborated on hymns.  Grandma wrote the words and Aunt Dolly the music, peaceful church music.  Not sure if I have a copy of any of them.  Grandma has a book of poems she published titled “Walking on the Glory Road”.      

   

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