My great Aunt Flossie was known to me as simply “Flossie.” She was born in 1893 as Florence Nightingale Belknap. There was no guesswork who she was named after. Her baby pictures show her as a slightly chubby cherub-looking baby with bright wide eyes and a cute small smile. She grew into a beauty, a Gibson Girl beauty. She had golden hair, blue eyes, wide shoulders, well rounded hips. She was not prized by the family as much as my grandmother Burla. Burla would tell me that it was because the uncles and aunts resented her beauty and sense of aloofness to general day-to-day concerns. Social concerns were still very much Victorian.

Flossie was an avid reader and followed history as though it were an immediate concern to her life. When she was 16 she broke all convention and for three weeks, unknown to her mother, worked in a dime store for a Chinese merchant. It was the scandal of the family. I have a picture she hid away of her in that store, with the owner to one side.

Flossie’s father had died when she was 13 years old. It was a tragic death no one spoke about, ever. The family owned property, had investments, and was well off enough not to be plunged into poverty after her father’s death. There is a picture of my great grandmother holding my grandmother as a baby. Below her on a fleece is Flossie and my Uncle Boyd. My great grandmother looks distant and stern. Flossie looks radiant, almost angel like. She has total ease and poise in the picture. Her ease and poise in life is something that would never leave her. She would be at ease anywhere, with anyone, at anytime.

Flossie grew into an active and intensely interesting woman. She was interested in people and history and different cultures, and always, men. Flossie was said to be sensual to the bone and had a number of husbands to prove it. But the true love of her life, Jess, died from tuberculosis. Jess and her spent a number of years in Riverside, California on a ranch. Flossie loved Western folk lore and took to writing about the old West. It was truly where her heart was. She would say to me many times “I was born a hundred years too late.”

Burla would tell me after Flossie died that it was too bad I didn’t know her when she was younger. She was very much the party giver. Her parties would go on for two and three days. She was more than a hostess, she would invent entertainment. It was never dull. My first memory of Flossie was when I was a very young child of five or six at the oldest. At the time she had a large Victorian flat in Los Angeles and a home in San Francisco. “It’s never good living in one place too long,” she would say. I remember her asking me what I wanted for breakfast and watching her slice the slab bacon in the kitchen. Most of my memories of Flossie are tied to memories of food – memories of sitting watching her cook her wonderful split pea and ham soup, a memory comforting to this day. Our last meal together was one I cooked. There were the three of us, my grandmother Burla, Flossie and I. I cooked tacos on a wood stove!

Flossie planted a garden wherever she was. When with her she would direct me to go “pull up what vegetables you want for dinner and leave them in the back porch sink.” There was fresh food and laughter. I belonged. Flossie made me feel wanted and needed. She pulled ideas from me and made me think. She piled books and magazines on me to read.

Flossie came to visit us one weekend when I was eight years old. At the time she was living in San Francisco near her daughter Marie, whom we all called ReRe for some reason unknown to me. One morning Flossie came in my room. “Come on,” she said motioning me to follow.

We climbed into Flossie’s gray DeSoto and were off down the highway. Flossie drove for many miles down twisting roads. From time to time she would pull the car to the side of the road, roll down the window and just stare into the oak trees. “Not here,” she would say.

“Not here what?” I’d ask.
“They’re not here.”
“They who?” I asked puzzled.
“You’ll see, just wait.” Then up came the window and we we’re

off again. Our journey was filled with a lot of laughs, and I got at least one cowboy story while the search was on.

We finally stopped somewhere in the hills of the San Fernando Valley. Flossie peered out the window again. “Yep, this is it,” she said. “Let’s get going,” she half shouted. We climbed out of the car. We walked between large California oak trees. Flossie had a wicker basket in hand.

“What we doing?” I asked.

“Were stalking mushrooms,” came her answer. Her pace picked up, and I was barely able to keep up. We came to a grove of oaks.

Between the dead branches and among leaves and fallen acorns were mushrooms.

“How’d ya know they were here?” I asked with amazement.

“I will tell you a secret about finding mushrooms. They always grow in the footprints of the Wood Fairies. The Wood Fairies drop the seeds behind them hoping the mushrooms will grow real big. Once the mushrooms are big enough the Wood Fairies can use them as their house.”

OK, I was young, weird, and game for anything.

I spent the next hour searching out the Wood Fairies. “They like to whistle to confuse you where they are,” Flossie said. Then I heard their whistle. And again.

“Did you hear that!” I asked Flossie.

“Oh yes, I know them well. But they are shy today.” Every moment I thought I would turn and there they would be. It wasn’t to be. Flossie had picked our basket full of mushrooms and it was time to leave.

“Will the Fairies have enough mushrooms left for their homes?” I asked.

“There’s plenty.” Flossie answered.

All the way home I could think of nothing but those Wood Fairies and their whistles and even dreamed about them visiting my room. One night I left them a bologna sandwich. They must have eaten it since it wasn’t there the next morning. But then again Skipper did barf in the hallway that night.

Flossie was comforting. She wove dreams. She excited the mind. She cared and was a truly loving person. Whenever I see or buy mushrooms I still think of Flossie’s Wood Fairy friends. They are out there. All you have to do is listen for their whistle.