It seems I was passed around quite a bit when I was a kid. Not that this was a bad thing, though. My parents headed out to work each morning around 7AM and dropped me off at my grandmother's house on the way. Some mornings, Grandmother would have errands to run - the bank, the beauty shop (every Thursday 10AM), an hour or two at Palais Royal or Foley's. In these cases, her go-to substitute was Marguerite Nell Maraman, or as she was known by me and other close family members: Aunt Reat. |
This was mostly when I was under ten years of age, so Aunt Reat was in her early to mid-seventies at the time. She was on her own then, and her home was about a ten-minute drive from Grandmother's house in Lindale Park. If grandmother needed her, she'd hop in her pale-gray 1975-ish Toyota Corolla and come over to keep an eye on me for a bit.
Marguerite was the sister of Julia Mae Maraman ("Mimi"), the mother of my grandmother Margaret Dunaway. She was born on March 13, 1904 in Union County, Kentucky. Her parents were Albert Abraham Maraman and Edna Pearl Allen. Besides Julia, she had one other sister named Annice Viola, born in 1896. The family moved down to Anderson County, Texas in 1905. Four years later, Albert passed away. He is buried in Neches Cemetery in Neches, Texas just outside of Palestine. Marguerite was just five years old.
The 1910 federal census shows the three girls living with their mother as head of the house, a house that apparently was freely owned by Edna. She married Charles Doss later that year.
The 1910 federal census shows the three girls living with their mother as head of the house, a house that apparently was freely owned by Edna. She married Charles Doss later that year.
Not a lot of information is at my disposal regarding Aunt Reat's life between childhood and her early years as an adult. I've been told that she and Julia were fiercely independent, perhaps even outspokenly feminist during a period in history when the suffrage movement was gaining traction in the States. She was married at least twice. Though probably not the first husband, Francis Aubert took Marguerite as his bride in 1945. This union took place in Lucas County, Ohio. Both were residing in the Detroit area. I have no idea what drew her back up to the northern states. Here is their marriage certificate.
Still, Marguerite was supposedly married before the above-mentioned union. She had a son named Garland, who was already in elementary school in the 1930s. I'll touch on this in a separate post.
And so Aunt Reat eventually moved down to Houston. Mimi was ill and living with my grandmother, and there were times when Mimi's sister would come to check on her. I only remember seeing them fussing at each other one day. I get the feeling that Mimi was sometimes stubborn when it came to receiving help from others.
After Mimi passed away in 1980, Aunt Reat was a dependably present figure in my life. There are a couple distinct memories I have from the times when she would come to Grandmother's house to look after me. It was usually mornings when I would see her. Grandmother headed out to run errands. Breakfast had already been served. But one particular day I guess Aunt Reat figured I was still hungry. She then proceeded to prepare for me a simple piece of buttered toast. There was something about the way she made it. The warm bread was saturated with butter. From that day forward, I craved this simple snack every time she came over. Sometimes she was a little reluctant to give in to my begging. I think all mothers have that one special something that they know their children enjoy, and perhaps they hold it back just a little in order to ensure a child's dedicated affection. But in the end, she would turn on the toaster oven and commence to converting a slice of Ms. Baird's bread into something magical. And to this day, I cannot have a piece of buttered bread or toast without thinking of Aunt Reat.
Another memory has more to do with pain than pleasure. Not that Aunt Reat would ever harm me. She was kind as could be. As was her custom, she would take me out on the back porch to get some fresh air. For her, it was a cigarette break. She must have been a smoker for some time as you could hear it in her gravelly voice and see it in the lines all about her face. There was a set of concrete steps that led down to a paved area between the back of the house and the detached garage. |
In that area, I had ample space to play with my hot wheel cars without causing damage to any of Grandmother's precious antiques inside. One day, Aunt Reat was puffing away while sitting on those concrete steps. She located a little hole in the pavement in which she could tap off her cigarette ashes. Being curious, I got close to the hole for closer examination. She finally extinguished what was left and promptly warned me not to place my finger where the ashes lay.
Now, I don't know about you, but when a little boy hears the words "don't touch that", it is incumbent upon him as a little boy to set aside that admonition and proceed with his curiosity. I think all I really heard was, "Look! It's glowing red stuff. Touch it!" While I don't recall the specific level of pain thirty-some-odd years after the fact , I do remember jerking my hand back in a state of shock. What resulted from this experience was a lifelong abstention from tobacco in any form. Well, done Aunt Reat. Well done!
I also recall going to Marguerite's house on a few occasions. If I could sum it up as a color, I would say it was gray. Just like her old Corolla, just like her ashy curled hair. And it probably was a gray house - a duplex, if I'm not mistaken. The living room was a museum, though a different sort from that of Grandmother's piano room. An old recliner was situated next to a tray that served as a makeshift coffee table for her TV guide, glasses and utility bills. Simple enough. But against the wall just before the kitchen entrance, there were two glass hutch-like cabinets. They were filled with an abundance of figurines, glass dishes and collectible trinkets. I knew I was to keep my distance based on my experience at Grandmother's house.
Put these few and fleeting memories together with a recollection of her flowered blouses, and there you have an imperfect portrait of my Aunt Reat. Towards the end of her years, she too became ill. She wore one of those push-button devices around her neck to alert a medical professional if she needed assistance. On June 11, 1988, she pressed that button. My grandmother quickly drove over to her house and found Aunt Reat still hanging on. She held her in her arms as she breathed her last breath, later recounting the sadness that filled her heart at that moment. Personally, I think the experience brought back memories of her of own mother Julia and grandmother Edna. The bitter and the sweet with which we must all come to terms.
Now, I don't know about you, but when a little boy hears the words "don't touch that", it is incumbent upon him as a little boy to set aside that admonition and proceed with his curiosity. I think all I really heard was, "Look! It's glowing red stuff. Touch it!" While I don't recall the specific level of pain thirty-some-odd years after the fact , I do remember jerking my hand back in a state of shock. What resulted from this experience was a lifelong abstention from tobacco in any form. Well, done Aunt Reat. Well done!
I also recall going to Marguerite's house on a few occasions. If I could sum it up as a color, I would say it was gray. Just like her old Corolla, just like her ashy curled hair. And it probably was a gray house - a duplex, if I'm not mistaken. The living room was a museum, though a different sort from that of Grandmother's piano room. An old recliner was situated next to a tray that served as a makeshift coffee table for her TV guide, glasses and utility bills. Simple enough. But against the wall just before the kitchen entrance, there were two glass hutch-like cabinets. They were filled with an abundance of figurines, glass dishes and collectible trinkets. I knew I was to keep my distance based on my experience at Grandmother's house.
Put these few and fleeting memories together with a recollection of her flowered blouses, and there you have an imperfect portrait of my Aunt Reat. Towards the end of her years, she too became ill. She wore one of those push-button devices around her neck to alert a medical professional if she needed assistance. On June 11, 1988, she pressed that button. My grandmother quickly drove over to her house and found Aunt Reat still hanging on. She held her in her arms as she breathed her last breath, later recounting the sadness that filled her heart at that moment. Personally, I think the experience brought back memories of her of own mother Julia and grandmother Edna. The bitter and the sweet with which we must all come to terms.
My 2nd great aunt Marguerite Nell Maraman is buried at Hill of Rest Cemetery in Baytown, Texas - plot 136. The surname Perkins was apparently from one of her marriages.