Women We Love: Aunt Jean

Every family has one—the black sheep, the rebel, who makes for the best stories but is always on the outs with the relatives. And every family has one—someone who finds in that relative a kindred spirit.

I found mine in Aunt Jean, the middle sister. My mother, Ida, was the youngest; Sally the oldest. Jean was always known for behavior no one else understood, and stories about her traveled the family grapevine.

Jean was a "handsome woman", often used to describe someone whose features were strong rather than delicate. She was an extrovert with style to beat the band. As far as I could tell, she was the only one who truly married for love.

Uncle Herb and Aunt Jean, 1927

Jean was my glamorous aunt. These few photos from the family album are of an Aunt Jean I didn't yet know. By that time she wore bright colors and leopard prints, pedal pushers, bathing suits with matching cover-ups and cocktail dresses. Her perpetual tan, pedicured toes in high-heeled mules with an ankle bracelet were movie star style. She clinked when she walked with arms of dangling bracelets. This was the 1950s. The only women I knew who dressed that way were my paper dolls. She was not as outlandish, of course, but she reminded me of Carmen Miranda, whom I adored.

Jean lived in Florida (thus the perpetual tan). Her husband, my Uncle Herb, had moved the family to Miami from frozen Ohio right after WWII. He started a construction company and prospered in the south Florida building boom. His success brought Jean the riches she desired—minks, fancy jewelry and latest fashions. Family stories would have her never satisfied with what Uncle Herb provided. I don't know how true they were. I'm guessing they might have been tempered with a little sisterly envy.

Not only was I fascinated with Aunt Jean's wardrobe and joie de vivre, I felt we connected. At 8 or 10 I couldn't articulate it, but I think she knew I loved fashion and all its trappings. I might have filled in for the little girl she would have enjoyed having. Happily in years to come her two sons each gave her a granddaughter.

I saw less of Aunt Jean once my grandmother died. There was no longer a tie to bind the sisters.  We did meet once or twice after I was grown. She still had her Aunt Jean style, adjusted to the times. I never thought to tell her she'd always been my style crush.

Yet again time churns up buckets of nostalgia laced with a tiny bit of insight.