I was richer than most kids in aunts and uncles, and I loved them all for various reasons and in various ways.

Maybe it was because we were both eldest daughters or maybe it was because I was just like her (as I was told by certain people), but Auntie Eleanor and I got on good.

I liked going to her house. We went as a family, but sometimes I dropped in on my own. It seemed elegant and rich to me. She was a very neat housekeeper, a great cook and a successful gardener. She played the piano and liked to listen to light operetta.

My first (unimpressive and last) visit with Santa was because she took us that first winter we lived in the cities. She even bought the picture. Dad would not have bought the picture, nor did he teach us to believe in Santa.

In what may have been our first trip downtown on the bus, she took my sister and me on a grand adventure. We each got a string of popular pop beads — mine were green and Elaine’s were blue. And that day I saw my second movie, No Time For Sergeants starring Andy Griffith. We even took a little hike over to see Uncle Cliff at the Minneapolis main post office where he worked.

That may have been the same week we stayed with her while our parents and younger siblings were gone somewhere. Auntie Eleanor fixed my hair in ringlets for Easter service. I was completely embarrassed to be seen by my friends, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

Sitting at her kitchen table I sipped my first cup of coffee — with cream and sugar. I’ve never been a milk drinker, so cream in watery coffee was not my cup of tea. She poured again with just sugar this time, and I drank coffee that way for several years. Now I like it black and strong and fresh and keep it coming.

One Christmas she stopped by with a gift just for me—my first pair of nylon stockings. In those days quality hose were sold at the hosiery counter. You told the saleslady what you wanted and she pulled out a pair from boxes on the shelves behind her, placed them on the counter, and then carefully put her soft, manicured hand inside to show you how the color looked against skin. Girdles with garters held them up—panty hose weren’t invented until 1959 and didn’t outsell stockings until 1970. Your hosiery purchase was placed between tissue and gently packed in a shallow covered box.

During my troubled teens, she came to my rescue on a couple of occasions that mattered. I took it for granted at the time, but I appreciate her compassion now.

She was a romantic at heart. Once when I was there, a boyfriend came to pick me up. She cut one of her beautiful roses and gave it to him to give to me (and I kept it in a scrapbook for years until it disintegrated).

The defining moment in my love for her happened when we were riding back from a trip somewhere. My uncle was driving and Dad was in the front seat as well. It was late; I was tired. She was sitting in the backseat with me and saw me nodding off. Reaching over, she pulled me to her bosom, hugged me in snuggly and encouraged me to sleep against her. I do not remember my mom, who I know loved me but had five younger kids to care for, ever doing that. I thought, “So this is what this feels like.” I liked it, and I cherish the memory.

Surely I have composed and quieted my soul; like a weaned child rests against his mother. My soul is like a weaned child within me. Psalm 131:2