It’s the 1950s. “Next stop—Watts Station” calls out the Conductor. The Red Car jostles passengers as it comes to a stop. The double door fans open and Aunt Cute steps down onto the wooden platform, as her almond eyes adjust to the bright summer sun. She moves with confidence and grace in her tailored green skirt, floral green and yellow satin blouse, cinch belt, and seamed stockings. I carry this lasting image of her—sassy, young, and pretty. I wanted to grow up to be like her.

            “Cute” is Tranny’s nickname because she was a cute child who grew up to be a strikingly attractive woman. Aunt Cute owns her good looks. Not conceited, but unapologetically pretty!

            Born in 1899, Aunt Cute is my mom’s sister. Mom is the youngest of seven siblings, and Aunt Cute is the oldest. Everything Mom is, Aunt Cute isn’t. Mom is a devout Christian with an unshakable faith in God, a stranger to cigarettes and whiskey, out of place in a nightclub or dancehall, shuns makeup, and unquestionably believes in marriage and fidelity. Aunt Cute? She’s the opposite of all of the above. Both lived to be happy and healthy centenarians. Go figure.

            Aunt Cute crosses the tracks and struts into Tick Tock Liquor Store to buy a Rocky Road Marshmallow candy bar for me, a bag of Pork Rinds for Grandmother, and a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes for herself. She works across town as a cook at the County General Hospital in East Los Angeles. She’s off on Thursdays, the day she visits my grandmother, who lives with us. Aunt Cute is friendly, and effortlessly flashes her dazzling smile as she greets every passerby while she walks the two blocks to our house, “Good afternoon Clark. How’re you doing this fine day?” He stands in front of his store, Clark’s Hardware. He’s handsome and dressed in black slacks, a sky-blue shirt, black cardigan sweater, and freshly shined black and grey wing-tipped shoes.

            “Much better now that I see you, Miss Tranny.”

            Today, Clark walks her to our house, and they sit on the front porch. Aunt Cute seductively crosses one shapely leg over the other and takes out a cigarette that Clark lights. They chat and laugh a few minutes, and I see Aunt Cute write something on a piece of paper that Clark carefully places in his shirt pocket as he departs. All smiles and pleased with himself. Clark is funny, charming, and handsome. He’d later show up with Aunt Cute at family picnics and barbeques. He was a special friend that she liked a lot.

            Aunt Cute usually brings treats when she visits on Thursdays. My favorites—M&Ms, Bazooka Bubble Gum, or chocolate anything. Wrapped and tucked away in her handbag, she often has a piece of her fluffy spiced gingerbread for Grandmother.

            “Dori, come and get some of these chocolate cookies I baked for you,” Aunt Cute calls out in her Mississippi southern drawl. When she doesn’t bring treats, she waits for the Helm’s Bakery truck to come by. “Here’s a dollar. Dori go and buy us some cookies.”

            With her magic and charm, she makes me feel special. She wants to know about my life. “What are you reading today, Dori?”

            “Charlotte’s Webb. It’s about a pig and a spider. It’s my favorite book.”

“I like that book too. What do you like about it?” I love that she listens and pays attention to me.

            I remember Aunt Cute’s house parties that spilled into her large backyard. She never learned to drive, and she acquired numerous friends while getting around town by foot, rail, or bus. While shopping at the market on the day of one of her parties, she’d meet a new friend. “I’m having a party tonight. You ought to come by.”

            Aunt Cute learned to cook as a young child, and she honed her skills as a hospital cook. There was always plenty of food at her parties—smothered-fried chicken, collard greens, mashed potatoes, gravy, cornbread, and banana pudding! And drinks—Gin and Sin, Tom Collins, and Singapore Sling. Seagram’s 7 Whisky reserved for close friends and family. With a cigarette in hand, she seductively dances and sways her curvaceous hips to the beat of the music with her dance partners. Bill Doggett’s “Honky Tonk” spins on the record player.

            During my many visits after she’d retired, together, we’d watch her favorite soap opera, General Hospital. General Hospital, where she worked for thirty years, was shown at the beginning of each episode of the show. Opened in 1934, the 800-bed teaching hospital played a vital role in the community and earned the affectionate nickname “Great Stone Mother,” an allusion to the building’s cascading concrete hospital wings. In 1968, it was renamed Los Angeles County USC Medical Center.

            Dr. Mathew Armstrong was her favorite character. “Ahh, don’t do that, Dr. Armstrong.” She’d have a steady commentary directed at the television throughout the entire show. She’d seen a thing or two while working at the actual hospital and never hesitated to offer advice and wisdom to the cast of characters on the show. Always the gracious host, she’d serve chicken-salad sandwiches, potato chips, iced tea, and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.

            Today, I admiringly gaze at her photo on my fireplace mantel. Taken on her 100^th birthday, she’s dressed in a gorgeous red suit. That signature dazzling smile. My dear Aunt Cute.