I’ve written before ^[1] about my Aunt Margie. Margie died from an aggressive case of myeloma, two years ago last month. She lived just a year and a half past her diagnosis.

I miss Margie, and I think about her all of the time. I’ll have moments where I’ll think, “I need to tell Margie about this,” or “I need to ask her about that”, and then I have to stop and catch my breath because, of course, I can’t ask her now.

Margie had an oddball sense of humor. More than once, she was re­spon­si­ble for flocks of pink flamingos appearing in my yard. She sent me an adult-sized cat costume in the mail, just because.

She was also an antiques expert and loved to collect all kinds of crazy, quirky odds and ends. Her house, while always extremely neat and clean, was filled with all kinds of odd knick-knacks and off-the-wall antique store finds.

She was also a huge fan of The Wizard of Oz, just like I am. A few weeks ago, Margie’s husband, Robin, let me know that he’s getting ready to sell the house, and he’d come across some Wizard of Oz plates and dolls that he thought Margie would want me to have. We happened to be making a trip to Omaha that weekend, so I told Robin we’d stop by.

Because we live two hours away, we hadn’t been to the house since Margie’s memorial gathering two years ago. The last time we were there, my daughter spent a lot of time exploring and examining Margie’s collection of treasures. Her favorite item was a stuffed squirrel.

I don’t mean a plush, stuffed-animal squirrel that a little girl could snuggle. I mean a squirrel that was once alive, frisking about, and eating acorns, until it died – of natural causes, I tell myself – and was stuffed and mounted on a piece of wood.

My daughter could not get over this squirrel. She’s brought it up numerous times since the memorial, and when she found out we were going to visit Uncle Robin, she couldn’t contain her excitement.

“Do we get to see the squirrel?”

We arrived at Robin’s house, and the adults chatted while my child ran off to find the squirrel.

“All she can talk about is your squirrel,” I told Robin.

His eyes lit up.

“Take it!” he said. “Take. It.”

For some reason, he no longer wanted a dead squirrel in his house. And that is how we ended up with a dead squirrel in our own living room.

At first, I was a little horrified by the squirrel, at its sharp, needle-like teeth and claws. Then it started to grow on me. Its little head is slightly tilted, and it’s looking up at us like, “Why, yes. I would like another acorn. Thank you.”

The squirrel was in our home for just a few minutes before my daughter found a tiny pink rain hat in her collection of doll clothes and put it on the squirrel’s head. I took a photo and shared it with friends.

The next day, the squirrel was wearing a dress and a big pink bow. I shared a photo of that, too. My squirrel photos were generating a lot of comments, but the best one was this: “Aunt Margie would be so proud.”

Yes, she would! She would delight in the squirrel’s ever-changing wardrobe. I know she would.

Every day, without fail, I come into the living room to find out my daughter has dressed the squirrel as something else. The squirrel has been a doctor and a scientist. She’s worn camping gear, pajamas, and a swimsuit. She’s gone to the prom in a pink gown. (For some of the squirrel's outfits, see the collection of photos below.)

Every time I see the squirrel dressed in a kilt or a muumuu, I know the spirit of Aunt Margie lives on in my daughter. Every time I share a photo and include a funny caption, I know she lives on in me. This is just one tiny way – and odd way – that we can keep Margie with us, just a little bit.

Margie, we miss you. And we can’t wait to see what the squirrel wears tomorrow.

^[2]
(Aunt Margie's stuffed squirrel in its various outfits. Click on photo to view a larger version of it.)