Aunt Pauline the Pencil Lady
"In a word, he was cheap. In two, he was very cheap."
Tales of Eastern Parkway came up among friends. This is the memory it evoked.
Everyone has an Aunt Pauline, regardless of her name. She’s that spinster aunt who loves you dearly but can’t quite remember which birthday it is you’re celebrating. She takes you places you don’t really want to go and gives you things you don’t really want, but she smells nice and means well. My Aunt Pauline didn’t stay a spinster forever, but we’re not there yet.
The second oldest of my father’s five siblings, Pauline was sort of mannish looking, also prim and proper. Unlike her older sister who was short, stout, and had a bosom that could confound a bra saleswoman, Pauline looked more like a tennis player. As the family was hit harder and harder by the Great Depression, Pauline became more and more “Papa’s girl” as she worried about his long hours and financial struggles. This pattern became her life after her fiancé committed suicide by jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge during that Depression, something my brother and I as teenagers found inexplicably funny. When my grandfather died, she threw herself into the caring for her nieces and nephews, of which I was her favorite.