Is That So? Vince Roman   © Copyright 2023 by Vince Roman  Runner-up in the 2023 General Nonfiction Contest

Photo of Aunt Lee courtesy of the author.

The first words I ever heard from my Aunt Lee’s mouth were, “Is that so?” She was bantering with my grandmother as they entered the front door of my parent's house. But first, let me take you back to that memorable summer day in 1989. It was an unusually warm day for the Oregon coast; I'm sure that it exceeded eighty degrees. The sun shone brilliantly; the adults sipped their wine contentedly as they watched us kids (me and my siblings) playing in the yard from high above on the deck. The smell of barbecued salmon filled our nostrils as my father prepared an extravagant meal. 

Aunt Lee was a feisty woman with an adventurous spirit, and she was visiting Astoria as the place where she might spend her final years. Aunt Lee was technically my great-grand aunt, as she was a sister to my great grandfather. I sat next to my parents, grandmother, and Aunt Lee at dinner because I was enthralled with this mysterious family member, whose tall and thin stature, combined with her tanned skin and frosty white hair made for an indelible first impression.

Aunt Lee regaled us with tales of her worldly travels and adventures. I was captivated by her voice, the way it sounded like a vintage 1940s radio broadcast, and I imagined that she was speaking into a ribbon microphone. She responded to even the most ambiguous questions with the phrase “Is that so?” As we said our goodbyes, we hoped that she would soon become an integral part of our family. 

The following summer, Aunt Lee sold her house in Huntington Beach, California and moved north to Astoria. At first, she considered assisted living—but soon realized it wasn't for her: "Everyone is way too old," she said with a chuckle. She was ninety. Soon, however, she found the perfect apartment. It was a mid-century modern building nestled at the base of the hills adjacent to downtown surrounded by illustrious Victorian homes.

Her apartment was a tribute to her travels, with exotic Chinese art and rugs displayed throughout. Sweet incense perfumed the air. She was the queen of Andes mints! She had them stashed in every corner of her apartment, just waiting for us to come over and devour them. Energetic and graceful, she had a look that seemed pulled from the vintage silver screen. Going to the hair salon every month was one of the ways she maintained her glamorous image. She loved to shop at the boutiques and enjoyed meals at The Golden Star—her favorite Chinese restaurant. It wasn't long before Aunt Lee was a familiar face to everyone in the downtown core.

She knew how to choose just the right gifts for birthdays and Christmas. The latest Nintendo game, electronics, and candy (Sees Candy to be exact). The rumor was that she had inside connections with the owners of Sees Candy, because on holidays she always gave us novelty chocolates before they were available in stores. She had been married several times, but never had any kids of her own. Maybe that's why she was always so generous with us.

One year, for my birthday around 1993, Aunt Lee gave me an unusual gift—a card stating that a brick with my name engraved on it would be laid at the base of the Astor Column. At the time, the Astor Column was an aging monument that overlooked the city and the Columbia River, and it was dire need of restoration. The city was looking for clever ways to raise funds and sold the personalized bricks as an incentive. Your name forever marked in stone. As a boy, I didn't understand what this meant; to me it seemed like a meaningless gesture compared to her usual gifts. 

Aunt Lee remained a dominant figure in my life throughout high school. In fact, one of the first things I did after receiving my driver's license was to drive to her apartment to tell her I'd passed my test. I remember that day well. I approached the main entrance to her apartment building and pressed the intercom buzzer. "Hello, this is Lee" she said through the speaker in her old-fashioned voice. 

She greeted me at the door and was wearing a silk kimono with matching satin floral embroidered slippers. Her face, though aged in its wrinkles, still showed her bright emerald eyes and radiant smile—but she seemed noticeably frail compared to normal. Her usually tidy hair was unkempt. 

“Please, Steve,” she gestured me into the room with her flowing robed arm. “Sit down on the davenport.” She had just mistaken me for my father. I ate an Andes mint from the crystal bowl that was sitting on top of the ornate oriental-themed coffee table.

She went to the fridge, returned with a bottle of beer, and handed it to me with her gnarled rheumatic fingers. Her walk was different than the spirited one she usually had. "Aunt Lee," I told her, "I'm only sixteen." She replied as she poured herself a glass of wine: "Is that so?"

  Over the next few years, we noticed a slow decline in both Aunt Lee's memory and physical health. A fall at age ninety-eight made it necessary for her to give up independent living and move into assisted living facilities. 

I visited her in the summer of 2001, when I was home from college for a break. Her new studio apartment at the assisted living home was like her old one: although smaller and less extravagant, it retained her charm and style. The crystal bowl of Andes mints sat on the oriental table near the kitchenette. 

We sat facing each other in leatherback dinette chairs. She looked at me with her weary, emerald eyes but remained silent, although I could sense that she wanted to say something. I gazed at her with a neutral expression and waited for her to speak. She then grinned mischievously and said in a weak yet determined voice. "When I turn one hundred in February, I'm going to hire a gang of handsome young strippers to come dance for me." I laughed and said I could hardly wait! "Get yourself a bottle of beer from the fridge, Vince, and I'll take a glass of chardonnay." That was the last time I saw Aunt Lee. She died that November three months before her one-hundredth birthday. 

In my thirties, I visited Astoria one summer day and went to the spot where the Astor Column rises above the city so that I could enjoy a sandwich while taking in an impressive view. While there, I couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia wash over me. My eyes were drawn to the esplanade of bricks that enveloped the base of the column. Each one was engraved with the names of those who had contributed to its restoration.

My curiosity piqued, I began scanning the bricks, searching for my own name. I felt a sense of excitement build within me as I combed through the engraved bricks. I saw the names of several family members, but not mine. But then, there it was, etched in stone: Vincent Lee Roman. I smiled and thought of Aunt Lee and said to myself, “Is that so?”

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