My Aunt Dolly was such a special person.

She was my Dad’s sister (her twin was my Uncle Jack).

Aunt Dolly’s real name was Fanny.

I am totally serious.

Can you imagine doing that to your baby girl?

I don’t know why she was called Dolly, but I sure as shit would have wanted to be called something other than Fanny too.

Aunt Dolly, in my eyes, was always old.

I don’t know why that is – but on the bright side, she never seemed to get any older.

Aunt Dolly had polio as a child and so she had one arm that was fused and withered, but she was amaze-balls with her one good arm.

Having just one arm that worked never slowed her down one bit.

Even though my Dad and Mom were divorced when I was about 6, Aunt Dolly remained part of my Mom’s family.  (That’s how cool Aunt Dolly was – my mom divorced all the Cotters except Aunt Dolly.)

Every holiday, somebody would go pick up Aunt Dolly and bring her to the party.

And she was the life of the party – a real hoot and a holler.

Aunt Dolly lived in Essexville, not too far from where my Grandma lived.

As I got older, I would go visit her – just to spend some time sitting on the porch swing on her enclosed front porch talking and watching the world go by.

But my all-time favorite memories of Aunt Dolly were when she babysat me and my sister, before the divorce.

I don’t know if Aunt Dolly babysat for anyone else, but she made us believe that was her “career”.

And she would tell us about the other kids she babysat for – THE WORST CHILDREN IN THE WORLD!

Every time she babysat, I would beg her to tell me more stories about what those horrible children had been up to.

Once those kids painted their house with butter!

And I believed every word of it.

Because, Aunt Dolly wouldn’t lie!

At least not to me.

And those kids had to be real, because nobody could make up those outrageous shenanigans!

And I never asked her about it.

Because I believe you should never ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer.

I miss you Aunt Dolly, and the worst children in the world.


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