Each year around this time in our house, we end up watching holiday movies we remember from our past — Miracle on 34th Street, It’s a Wonderful Life and, my yearly ritual, Auntie Mame with Rosalind Russell.
That movie holds a special place in my pantheon of holiday films not only because it still holds up as a comedy, but because it reminds me of my real-life Auntie Mame.
Before I ever saw the movie, I was whisked away by the personality of my Aunt Melissa. She was the oldest of my mother’s sisters, and she lived in Los Angeles when I first met her, when we took a car trip to California in 1956. (Back then, before the interstate highways were finished, the drive to L.A. was an adventure.) I was only 6 years old.
A good deal of that drive, at least from Lubbock onward, was on Route 66. That historic highway was lined with tourist attractions and parks, including the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest, both of which made for memorable stops along the way.
When we finally arrived in Los Angeles, we were welcomed into Melissa’s apartment which was decorated in Chinese Moderne style. And since Christmas had just ended, she still had up her decorations, including a black flocked tree decorated in pink bows and balls that matched the color of Melissa’s hair and that of her toy French poodle, which she had dyed to match.
Melissa was fabulous with a capital “F,” and she breezed around her domain in a colorful kaftan with a cigarette holder and lit pastel colored-cigarette at all times.
The night of our arrival she was holding a post-holiday party, and her friends were as diverse and colorful as any Hollywood gala could aspire to. There were several genuine celebrities among her guests, as well as friends from her neighborhood, Brentwood. She seemed to know everybody in the city.
It was at that party that I met my first openly gay men, though, at 6 years old, the fact was lost on me. I do remember that one of the men was very handsome and well dressed and seemed to have a swarm of women chatting with him. Apparently he was a hairdresser, and every woman there wanted fashion advice from him.
Aunt Melissa had a fabulous past as well. After she left Dallas, she married a Frenchman named Caron. He had a nightclub in Tacoma, Wash., near the naval base. The nightclub made its money from the casino that was hidden behind it.
My uncle Frenchie (the nickname he went by) was partners with the local sheriff, and he later moved his operation to Seattle where it became a French restaurant. My father’s mom became the chef. She was a diminutive Jewish woman who had run a restaurant in Dallas until her husband’s death, at which point she moved to Seattle.
After Frenchy died of a heart attack, and the sheriff told her she was no longer partners in the business, Melissa ended up in LA. She was pretty much broke and had her young son in tow, so she moved to LA to seek her fortune.
She became a photographer for the local scandal sheets, getting photos of celebrities and notable folks around town. Eventually, she settled into Brentwood, where she worked at the Brent-Air Pharmacy selling cosmetics and — no surprise — hair dye.
The pharmacy expanded and even built a second-floor gift shop that became Melissa’s domain. She cultivated the folks she had photographed and come to know from the movie business, and, since Brent-Air was between Brentwood and Bel Air, she had a booming clientele.
Two years later I saw the movie Auntie Mame at a local theater and immediately identified with the character Patrick. I told my mom that Melissa was my Auntie Mame, and the monicker stuck.
Now, every time I watch that film I am transported back to 1950s Los Angeles and the whirlwind that was my Aunt Melissa.
She remained a fabulous influence in my life well into my adult years, and her status only elevated when she moved to Las Vegas after inheriting a small fortune from one of her neighbors in Brentwood. She set up camp in a lovely ranch style home, complete with a pool just off the strip, and became a fixture in Las Vegas society.
She lived with her aging son, who had followed in his father’s footsteps and became a craps pit boss at the Golden Nugget until a stroke disabled him. She never slowed down, working with the arts and various civic endeavors in Vegas until her death.
Aunt Melissa left me one of her most prized possessions, a 1932 Mills slot machine that still graces my game room, and she left me something even more valuable: Like Mame Dennis, Melissa’s motto was, “Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death…live, live, live!”
It is advice I carry with me to this day and, I hope, for every day going forth. ■
Hardy Haberman is a longtime local LGBTQ+ activist and a board member of the Woodhull Freedom Alliance. His blog is at DungeonDiary.blogspot.com.