Frances was a delightful enigma to me. I never knew what to expect when I saw her. More than likely when I showed up at the door, she would greet me with, “Hey, old bag,” to which I would respond, “What’s up you old biddy?” Doesn’t sound like a friendly greeting, but it was our way of acknowledging that no matter how stubborn or opinionated we both were, we felt comfortable enough with each other to say anything we wanted. We were the wayward girls, feisty non-conformists. In fact, we idled away many an hour speculating on what other members of the family thought about us--the black sheep as we laughingly referred to ourselves. She loved such discussions, loved being thought of as extravagant and eccentric. And Frances was both.

She was also overly generous. A collector of beautiful things, you had to be careful how you reacted when she showed you something because if she thought you liked it, she would insist on giving it to you. And her generosity recognized no price tag either. She would give you a cracker jack prize or a mink coat with equal joy. But she was a reluctant receiver, hated to take anything you gave her although she very much appreciated small gifts and thoughtful gestures.

I remember how excited she was the day she got a notice from the Post Office saying they were holding a package for her. We left right away because she could hardly wait to see what it was. Frances tore into that box before I even had the key in the ignition. I can’t remember who sent it now, but the box contained homemade muffins and a pair of bedroom slippers. She was happy as a kid at Christmas. In fact, she ate every muffin before we got back home and wore those slippers for three days straight without taking them off.

Some of the best times I spent with Frances involved listening to stories about her past as we poured over photo albums. She was my link to family members I had never known, and would probably never meet, connecting our lives through her remembrances. And she knew everything about everybody. Frances was a unique combination of personalities. She loved to be devilish, deriving great satisfaction out of shocking others. In many ways, she was a little girl who retained her childhood innocence and joy, and I cherish that part of her that was always fresh and eager for adventure.

She enjoyed life, especially the hustle and bustle of D.C. and her work with the C.I.A. She took great pride in her independence. Was straight forward and blunt in her speech. You never had to wonder where you stood with Frances. And she wasn’t shy about telling you either. She was devoted to those she loved, faithful to minister to them, and loyal without reservation. She tirelessly cared for Ernest and Sylvia when they became ill, never once complaining about giving up her own life in order to do so.

Unfortunately she changed a great deal when her own health began to deteriorate. She became moody and depressed and that independent streak of hers took an ugly turn pushing people away from her. But I prefer to remember Frances as she really was. That crooked, silly smile when you picked her up for dinner at her favorite restaurant. Or her blatant candidness if you happened to give her a Christmas present she didn’t want: “What on earth would I do with this?” she’d say. The love in her eyes when she spoke of Sylvia and Ernest. The enthusiasm she expressed when planning a trip or expecting a visit from a distant relative or old friend. The joy she derived from a shopping spree. The pride she took in her independence. The pleasure she took from being in a position to give to others. The impish sparkle in her eyes when she bucked convention. And her favorite personality --Miss Gotrocks. How she loved to play the rich, elegant lady with fine clothes and jewelry.

I can see her now sitting in a chair at the table waiting for dinner, barefooted, hair uncombed, dress wrinkled from a nap, but every finger covered in rings of every description, a strand of pearls tangled around a diamond necklace half hidden beneath her collar. “Well,” I’d tease, “I see you dressed for dinner.”

Unconventional? Yes. But that’s Frances, and I’m grateful for the unique spice she added to my life. The recipe will never be the same without her.

Till We Meet Again, Cousin

Nancy H. Adams