My Aunt Cissy rocks on

My darling Aunt Cissy died last night on her half-birthday - she made it to 92 ½! That would be more impressive if she'd been in good health the last 18 months, but several strokes took away that infamous "quality of life."

But, heck, there was Quality of Life to spare the previous 90+ years. Julia has been emailing from Chile as we process the news about Cissy’s death. She wrote:

"Oh, my goodness. I'm so sorry to hear this. I hope she is at peace now. I will dearly miss her, and do already. I am in a small town on the Chilean coast and I want to say a prayer for her. … Let’s raise a toast (a piece of bread from our purse) for Cissy."

I enjoyed telling Cissy stories to my hairdresser today, including the one about the toast in her purse. I second Julia's emotion about missing her already--especially that twinkling eye and her off-color, out-of-bounds sense of humor (is that what it was?!). Cissy would toast Julia's latest adventure in South America.

Our famous connection to Cissy's toast came the night before Alan and I were married. She could barely restrain her glee waiting to speak at the Lobster House restaurant in Marina del Rey. When she rose to address family and friends, she opened her purse to reveal a much toasted piece of bread. She raised it in a toast to Alan and me, and announced she was thrilled Alan “knew how to use a hammer,” and didn't care if he could use “any of his other tools." At our wedding the next day, Alan's Grandpa Evan enjoyed getting to know Cissy, who also went by her childhood nickname of "Cippy." Grandpa Evan loved that name, and had fun calling her "Mrs. Cippy."

I remember the love she had for her son Marc-David and the interest she had in her grandchildren’s adventures. She talked with love of her first husband Art, and we got such a kick out of her delightful and often bawdy anecdotes about second husband Dick, the love of her life. It was from Cissy I realized love that was discovered in middle-age love could flourish in every way. She and Dick fixed up a Dodge van and drove all over the Southwest and into Mexico where they spent time making ceramics at an art colony of ex-pats. When they lived in Santa Monica, they would slip into my mother’s house and do repairs—we called them "vandals in reverse." On Dick's birthday one year they went to New Orleans to hear his favorite Dixieland musician, Pete Fountain. They went to France once for Cissy's birthday and a chance to ride in a hot air balloon.

The final Cissy story probably should be preceded by a warning—Not For the Faint of Heart. Cissy loved painting and took many classes over the years. Shortly after Dick’s death, she made a painting incorporating his photo. She proudly showed us this painting “with Dick in it,” at a Passover seder. As I reached over to touch the painting, her granddaughter Shannon called to me, “Don’t touch it, Lyra. It really does have Dick IN it!” It turns out Cissy had read an article about a technique to add ashes of loved ones to a painting so it could truly be infused with the essence of the departed. Always the experimental artist, she had added a “little bit of Dick” to her painting. A startling family moment…

My dear sweet Cissy, I hope you're reunited with darling Dick and having a ball.