Good Morning Aunt Alma

Good Morning, Aunt Alma
By Lee Lawton


The summer after I graduated from high school, I went to stay on the Colorado River with my aunt and uncle. They had a trailer park just below Parker Dam, on the Arizona side, which they purchased in 1958 or 1959. The B & B it was called, after the original owners. My aunt and uncle had the only stick-built house on the property, the rest were…trailers. One or two may have been double-wide, but most were 28-52 feet long, single-wide, and meant for a cheap vacation on a pristine and quiet stretch of the Colorado River during the winter months.

It is 1966, just before this section of the Colorado River gets discovered by California spring breakers and jet boats. The river flows fast and cold from under Parker Dam, known to be the deepest dam in the U.S., smooth and roiling in the red sunsets that backlight scraggly mountains with profiles of bearded old men and camels. It is quiet here all day and all night. The river is empty of boats except for a couple of fishing boats now and then. Fishing from the dock is good, depending on how much water they’re letting out of the dam. Sometimes the current is so fast, it strips the bait right off your hook.

A paved highway belts the two sections of the B&B. Near the road is the laundry, and sinks and toilets in a brown-sided building. Before Marguerite and D.C. bought the place, the previous owners rented to the overnight crowd. Sometimes we do, too. The washing machines are the wringer type, like my mom has at home, with rinse tubs nestling close. The dryers are plastic coated lines just outside, four lines about 12 inches apart, stretching about 24 feet from t-poles, just like the telephone wires along the road.

The trailers here tend to be pink and white or brown and white, their tires sagging in the sandy soil. The longer the tenant, the more the tires sag into the sand, and the more chunks of fool’s gold litters their driveways.

Near the laundry is Aunt Alma’s trailer. Aunt Alma, as she is known to everyone, is my uncle’s aunt. My uncle is my aunt’s husband, as you might expect, but he is also my father’s uncle, being my grandfather’s half-brother. Our family is one of the leaders in complicated family arrangements.

All I know is that Aunt Alma is exotic, having been to Mexico many, many times. She is also very, very old, but her being exotic makes her seem younger.

By 1966, I had traveled to Iowa from eastern South Dakota, many, many times. I’d even gone on a bicycle, since it was only 3 miles away. I’d lived in Nebraska, and had traveled in Nebraska when my family boat camped on the Missouri River. I’d been to Minnesota on a summer vacation. I’d never been to Mexico, but after meeting Aunt Alma, it was the place I dreamed of.

Aunt Alma fascinates me. She has pots from New Mexico with unusual designs. She makes pizza from scratch—her dough is famous among the trailer park tenants. She has never been married, and she has traveled all over the southwest by herself. She has a parrot named Polly. I’m too shy to say much to her, but I watch her every chance I get.

Did I say that I visited my aunt and uncle during vacation? Well, that isn’t quite right. I graduated from high school, and would go to college in the fall, but meantime I was there to work. My work is watering the bedraggled lawns each trailer has. Mowing them when needed. Moving the irrigation hoses. Waiting on customers at the gas tank and in the store, helping Marguerite in the kitchen.

Western Arizona, in the summer, is hotter than melting plastic. That is nothing new—just check the records for Parker or Blythe, and I’d mention Lake Havasu City, but it didn’t exist yet. Because it was so hot, we went to work early. Like 5:00 a.m. early. At age 18, 5:00 a.m. is a good time to go to bed, not a good time to get up.

Mondays are wash day at the B&B. We wash bedding from rental trailers, and our own clothes, towels and bedding. My aunt comes knocking at about 4:45 a.m., when the sun isn’t up yet, and the light is gray and gentle. I get up and meet her at the laundry, which smells like bleach, soap and too much work.

The soothing grind of the washing machine begins, hypnotic, making me want to go back to sleep. While we wait for the first load to finish churning, we clean the stalls in the restroom next door. Then, we run the wash through the wringer and start a new load. Out to the lines, we shake out the flattened cloth, and hang it, using spring clothespins and those two-legged clothespins they make dolls out of.

This takes a long time, as we load wash after wash. About 7:30 a.m, Polly wakes up. She sleeps in a big, round, wrought-iron cage on the concrete patio of Aunt Alma’s trailer. She sleeps covered with a heavy piece of canvas. When she wakes, she starts talking.

“Aunt Alma.”

The sloshing sound of the washer almost drowns her out.

“Aunt Alma.”

The hose fills the tub, and I just barely hear her.

“Aunt Alma?”

We shake out the clothes and fill the clothes baskets.

“Aunt Alma?”

While the tub drains the soapy water, we hang the clothes.

“Aunt Alma?” Polly’s voice gets a little louder.

Back into the washroom we fill another tub, adding a fistful of Tide. When I go outside, I can hear Polly’s nails on her wooden perch, back and forth, back and forth. She pecks at the heavy cover, which dimples slightly under her beak.

“Aunt Alma?” I hear a bit of strain in Polly’s voice, some tension in her voice.

Through the wringer the next load goes, my Aunt commenting that it will be a hot one today. Even though the clothes are wet and cool, I am beginning to sweat.

“AUNT ALMA?” Polly demands, again.

We drop the flat, wet clothes into the basket, and walk them outdoors, heavy, sodden, the sky bluing, like the bluing we use on the whites.

“AUNT ALMA??” Polly shrieks, toastless, ready for the day.

I stop pulling cold, wet, cloth out of the basket, stretch my back, and look over at Aunt Alma’s patio. Polly’s cage is still covered in heavy canvas. The sun is just beginning to clear the rough, scraggly mountains in back of us, where my uncle has his toolshed, his playpen my aunt calls it. The temperature is rising, now about 85, which passes for cool around here in July.

‘AUNT ALMA!!” Polly proclaims, her claws scratching back and forth along her perch. “AUNT ALMA!!” Her voice rises even more, as she screeches, all patience lost.

Just as I shake out a pair of my uncle’s boxer shorts, Aunt Alma’s trailer door squeaks open. Aunt Alma appears, wearing a printed cotton robe with kittens on it. Her hair is mussed, her eyes are swollen, her left cheek has a pillow wrinkle I can see from here. In her hands is an old pie plate with toasted bread, grapefruit slices, a bit of cheese. She sets it down on a small table on her patio, and slides Polly’s cover off her cage. She lays the cover on the concrete, and says good morning to Polly. Polly begins to bob her head, rub her beak along her perches, mutter, “Aunt Alma, Aunt Alma, good morning, good morning.” Polly’s eyes are glinting so that I can see them across the yard from the laundry room. Her feathers are ruffled. If a beak can smile, she is doing it.

Aunt Alma opens Polly’s cage door and sets the food inside, one piece at a time. She is murmuring words I cannot hear. Aunt Alma caresses Polly’s head, but Polly is too busy to comment.