Of course, she wasn't really my aunt and, out of fear, I never called her that to her face.
I only referred to her as "My Aunt Fannie" because the name always made my father chuckle
and gave my mother cause to look sternly at both of us-at me for being disrespectful of my
elder and at my father for encouraging my bad behavior. I enjoyed both reaction so I looked
for every opportunity to work the name into as many conversations as possible.
As a young woman, my mother had worked in the kitchen of a large Victorian farmhouse owned
by Fannie Cratty and her twin brother, Farnsworth. They represented the end of the Cratty
line. Neither had married nor had any living heirs and my father once told me (in a whisper)
that it was because they were both too stingy to share their family wealth or pass it on.
During those year my mother helped Aunt Fanny make the best blueberry cobbler jam ever
tasted by anyone in Glenfield. She was noted for her jam and for never sharing the recipe
with another living soul. (This was the real source of contention among the Baptist women.)
Even though my mother knew the recipe by heart, as long as Aunt Fannie was alive (and she
lived to be ninety-six!), she never made the jam without Ms. Cratty in our kitchen to direct
the process and preserve the secret.
Each August, when blueberry season would roll around, my mother would prepare me for Aunt
Fannie's visit. It was imperative that I be on my best behavior. After all, the woman was
old, wealthy, stern, and a pillar of the church (I guess that would make her my "sainted"
Aunt Fannie). Reverend Nash had once preached on the consequences of looking on sinful
things and had told about Lot's wife being turned to a pillar of salt because she looked
back on wicked Sodom and Gomorrah. I didn't know what Aunt Fannie had looked at, but it must
have been pretty bad. Whatever it wa it had left her hair a decided shade of blue and turned
her into a pillar of the church. Whenever she was at the house, I didn't need to be reminded
to guard my thoughts and watch my tongue.
One year, after I had been particularly helpful with the jam proces Aunt Fannie gave me a
quarter and then made me promise that I would never spend it. "Hold onto this quarter," she
said, "and someday you will be rich. I still have my very first quarter, given to me by my
grandfather." It had obviously worked for her. So, I tucked the 1938-quarter in a small box,
put it in my dresser drawer, and waited to become rich.
I now have the blueberry cobbler jam recipe and the quarter from Aunt Fannie. In people's
eye Aunt Fannie's success was attributed to that secret recipe. But to me, it was just a
common recipe. Neither have significantly contributed to my net worth, but I keep them as
reminders to hold onto the valuable things in life. Money can make you feel rich for a
while, but it is the relationships and the memories of time spent with friends and family
that truly leave you wealthy. And that is a fortune that anyone can build.