My Aunt Jo was an interesting old fuddy-duddy. But she was never one of my favorite relatives. She was my Great Uncle Garnett’s second wife – a piano and organ teacher in Tustin California. She was very persnickety.

My mother was Garnett Keith’s favorite niece, and every time she visited her beloved California, his door was always open. But after Garnett married Jo, the door was literally a problem.

Garnett always welcomed my mother to pick from the backyard apricot and lemon trees when she visited. She loved a fresh-picked apricot with her breakfast and headed out the sunroom door each morning. After Jo became the new lady of the house, the invitation was not rescinded, but modified. Jo warned, “Do NOT allow that door to slam. Catch it and walk it back rather than just rudely walking away from it.” It was not a request. It was a command.

Jo had rules about furniture, dishes, and bathrooms. And refrigerator food placement, when lamps could be lit, and who was allowed to pet her dog Troy, a black Belgian Schipperke. Troy was an affectionate dog, and anytime he approached guests for a nuzzle, she called him back to her. “He doesn’t require extra stimulation,” she stated.

When I visited Uncle Garnett and Aunt Jo for the first time in my early twenties, I was told to take off my shoes at the door and where to place them. “You don’t carry something to put on your feet when you take off your shoes?” she asked. No, I didn’t. Before I left that first afternoon, I was made to feel impolite and troublesome. After I moved from Connecticut to San Diego, I only saw them when I had to — usually when my mother was visiting. I don’t know how Mom took it. Garnett seemed to tolerate Jo’s rules but preferred not to get involved when they were directed at someone else.

And yet, I sat at her small breakfast table and watched her roll her own cigarettes. “I am not giving the government the kind of taxes they charge on my ciggies,” she said. She called them her “Burning Shames,” actually giggling as she said it. I also thought that she secretly liked the idea that she was a little bit wicked – not so totally proper after all. Who is this person? I wondered.

After Garnett died, she wanted to travel to Boston to meet his family. When she called me for flying advice for her trip, I was surprised. I was a Los Angeles-based stewardess at the time and I said, yes, of course I would help her plan and get ticketed. I offered to drive the 100 miles from San Diego to take her to LAX airport. I thought it would be fun for her to visit American Airlines Operations, meet the captain of her flight, and see how the whole crew came together.

When I picked her up at home, she was wearing a calf-length beige lace dress. With pearls. And new mother-of-pearl glasses perched on the end of her nose. She wore her grey hair in a bouffant bun pierced with a long bamboo and pearl hair stick. I can still see her standing there, seemingly dressed as the grandmother of the bride, but very pleased with herself. If you looked up dowager queen in the dictionary, her picture would be there. She actually admitted she was a little nervous.

When we arrived in Operations, I discovered I actually knew the captain. I introduced him to my great aunt, Josephine Keith, and told him she was traveling on his flight to Boston. “Well Mrs. Keith, it’s lovely to have you with us today. Is this your first flight?”

Deciding he was polite enough, Jo was nice to him. “Yes, it is, unless you count the days in the late 20s when I was a wing walker.” Captain Robertson’s eyes grew large as his jaw fell open. I was gob smacked.

Stunned, he asked, “What? Seriously? You were a wing walker?”

She replied, “Oh yes, I flew a half dozen times on the top wing of a Jenny.” The captain knew the Jenny well – an open-cockpit bi-plane.

I just stood there, not believing what I was hearing. Ornery old Aunt Jo had been a young daredevil? She charmed the captain sufficiently that she told me later that she was moved to first class. Naturally, she loved that but confided, “It’s where I belonged anyway. The return flight was NOT as nice.”

When I told my mother about this wild conversation, she was incredulous. She and I never quite looked at imperious old Jo quite the same again. Her history as a topsy-turvy madcap made us realize she was not such a fuddy-duddy after all.

Marcy O’Brien can be reached at moby.32@hotmail.com