Betsy Devine: Funny ha-ha and/or funny peculiar

December 11 is my birthday–hello, my fellow-fans of Joi Ito!

Giving you the full benefit of my (tomorrow) 57 years, let me give you more. Instead of telling you about life before television, seatbelts, and credit cards, let me take you back further–into the stories of three women from my childhood.

Aunt Jean, Aunt Harriet, and Aunt Martha weren’t really my aunts. They were single “career women” who formed a household. When the French-Canadian cook in that household suddenly found herself with an orphaned niece–a pretty ringleted baby, and I’m talking about an orphaning that happened back in 1918–these intrepid ladies adopted the little girl. (That was my mom, which is why they were my “aunts” too.)

Aunt Jean, Aunt Martha, and Aunt Harriet didn’t stay home to take care of their brand-new child. Heavens no! They were modern women of 1918! They earned money that supported a household that nurtured all of them, including the child. This worked out incredibly well for all of them.

“Aunt Jean” (Elizabeth Jordan) was my godmother–newspaperwoman, editor, author, general entrepreneur. She covered the Lizzie Borden trial, published Mark Twain, and dragged Henry James into her multi-author novel (pretty dreadful!)

“Aunt Harriet” (Mt. Holyoke, then Columbia) was a student and later a colleague of Melvil Dewey. “Aunt Martha” was the baby of the group–born in 1865. She went to Smith, then to Cooper Union, and did art and “interiors” all over Manhattan. (They were turquoise blue and a peachy sunset orange, to judge by the many art objects she left behind.)

When I was little, Aunt Martha and Aunt Harriet were still a big part of my life. They read me stories, took me for walks, introduced me to all their friends. For many blocks around the house they lived in, I knew I could knock on anybody’s door to find a friendly face and somebody to give me cookies.

Aunt Martha and Aunt Harriet would have loved email. Every morning they “answered letters” for hours. I remember their shocked complaint when the price of a postage stamp rose from 3 cents up to 4 cents.

I could tell you more–someday maybe I will! My point here is not that I knew and loved people born in the nineteenth-century.

My point is that the people in your own life may someday be loving memories from long ago. And–in honor of Betsy’s birthday, December 11–think about that.

I’m wishing a happy my-birthday to you, and to all the people you love.