With Love From Aunt Marie
The Bold and the Beautiful
If you’ve seen Lucille Ball in Mame, then you will understand who Aunt Marie was.
Vibrant.
Excessive.
Flamboyant.
With a dash of spice
and a hefty dose of love.
I was seven years old when I met my grandmother’s baby sister, my great Aunt Marie. She flew in from the West Coast to visit my family.
It was 1973, and she wore a floor-length muumuu that looked like Cher might have commissioned it herself. The biggest hoop earrings. The most colorful glasses.
Not quite sure what to make of her, I reached up with my tiny finger and rolled it around the inside of one of those giant hoop earrings.
“One day,” I said, “I hope to be a big girl and have earrings like these.”
She took them off and placed them in my hand.
In that moment, I fell in love with Aunt Marie.
I know that may sound odd, but from that day forward there was a special love between us…one that time, distance, and even people could not break.
In my teens, I had my own phone.
Once a week I called Aunt Marie. This was a time when long-distance calls cost real money.
I thought our conversations were secret.
I waited until midnight, knowing there were three hours between us and that everyone in the house would be asleep.
I took my blue push-button phone and hid under my blanket while we talked, unaware there was a phone bill that would faithfully report every minute I spent on the line with my great aunt.
“You must move to Los Angeles,” she would say.
“It is Utopia-land here, and we will be together.”
We schemed and conspired until one day I landed there, with my daughter. Newly divorced and fully ready to embrace Aunt Marie’s world.
Grandma was sad to see me leave. We saw each other three or more times a week. She even had a key to my house and could come anytime she wanted. It was hard for me to move away from her.
These two women were pillars of strength in my life.
I leaned into my relationship with Aunt Marie. I saw her several times a week. Each visit she arrived in a new pair of glasses, with a new story, and always with joy and laughter.
Aunt Marie had a deep, raspy voice, the kind that made you think of years of cigarettes and late-night stories.
And when she laughed, it wasn’t polite or quiet.
Her laughter rolled out of her like thunder, full and unapologetic, filling every corner of the room.
She wanted to be seen and heard.
She made herself the center of attention.
She chose to be loud and lovely.
And in Aunt Marie’s world, if she chose you, you were fortunate.
I was hers.
Which meant, somehow, I stood in the center too.
In our quieter moments, we would sit together on her couch.
Sometimes I would lay my head in her lap while she gently stroked my hair.
In those moments, it felt as though she was stroking years of pain away from me.
I never had to work hard with Aunt Marie.
With her, I was always allowed to simply be myself.
And if in that moment I needed arms to hold me or a lap to catch my tears, she was there for all of it.
And with me, she didn’t have to try to be at the center.
She already knew she lived there.
With Aunt Marie, bold and beautiful were not just words — they were a way of living.
Each day felt like a new episode in her life.
A new opportunity to live fully.
Aunt Marie was a travel agent who explored five of the seven continents. She was always dreaming of the next great adventure and the chance to understand another culture. What better way to connect with a culture than through its food? Being confined was simply not in her nature.
“I was an actor on many movie sets,” she would say.
She was a day player.
An extra.
And to Aunt Marie, that was enough.
One night Aunt Marie told me she was going to divorce my uncle. She was seventy-five.
“Why?” I asked.
“He stopped taking me to fine restaurants,” she said. “There is so much more of the world to see and taste.”
So I became her date.
I made a reservation and picked her up that evening.
When I arrived, she insisted I wear something special.
“You must wear this rabbit fur,” she said.
“You will look so beautiful.”
She draped a rabbit cape over me. Long pelts stitched together.
It smelled faintly of animal.
Instantly I felt queasy.
Still, I wore it and smiled as the hostess greeted us.
“Chellie! How wonderful to see you again. Three tonight?”
I nodded.
She led us to the back of the restaurant.
And when I say the back, I mean the kind of back where no one usually sits.
Because I was wearing fur.
In Beverly Hills.
A bold choice… and perhaps not the kind of bold Aunt Marie had intended.
But the evening turned into one of those perfect memories.
We laughed through dinner.
And Aunt Marie felt special.
That was the magic of Aunt Marie, she knew how to turn an ordinary evening into a story.
Aunt Marie taught me that life is meant to be lived out loud.
That ordinary days can become stories if you let them.
That beauty is not about perfection, but about the courage to be fully yourself.
By the time I flew back to the East Coast, Aunt Marie had thoroughly imprinted herself on me.
I wore colorful dresses, extra-wide-brimmed hats, oversized Hollywood glasses and hoop earrings.
“We will call you little Aunt Marie!” my family announced.
I knew they meant it as teasing.
But to me, there was no greater compliment.
Aunt Marie died quite a while ago.
But even death can’t stop love.
Recently I bought a new pair of glasses. As I walked out of the store, I suddenly realized something…
Aunt Marie had helped pick them out.
They are bold and beautiful—different from anything I’ve ever worn.
When I picked them up to look more closely, I noticed the small words on the inside of the frame:
Handmade in California.
The only thing missing was the rest of the inscription:
With love from Aunt Marie.
Aunt Marie,
If you see this,
know you are with me every day.
I love you. 🩷
This will always be the song I think of when I remember Aunt Marie. I hope you enjoy this.
Author’s Note
If this story touched something inside you, I’d be honored to hear your reflections.
Whether you’ve lived through chaos, rebuilt your voice, or carried wounds no one else could see, your story matters. Sharing reminds us that we are not alone in the slow, powerful work of becoming.
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With gratitude,
Chellie 🩷
Chellie Grossman is a Certified Life Coach, Keynote Speaker, and Writer who empowers leaders to reclaim their voice, embrace their strength, and lead with authenticity and purpose.
This transported me to close, lovely times with my grandmother and mom, when we didn’t want anything but to be together. How lucky to have such amazing women fill our lives! I miss them so much, and “see” those small inscriptions from them often 💗
What a heartwarming tribute to your Aunt Marie! She is a larger than life character who left her imprint on you in a lasting way. I enjoyed the simplicity of this recollection. You look really good in those glasses too!