Mildred Alice Brooks, 94, passed on Tuesday, January 20, 2009, in Rockville, Maryland. Miss Brooks, an Ossining resident for over 40 years, was born in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and raised in Houston, Texas. She shared her love of nature with her biology students in Texas and New York State and with the children who attended Camp Treetops in Lake Placid, NY.

On Tuesday, January 20th, she watched Barack Obama take the oath of office, and very shortly after that, she closed her eyes.  We think she held on for Barack, held on so she could see him become our 44th president.  Selfishly, we wish she could have held on a little longer, but we know this is better, that now she has returned to the vibrant, independent woman who has had such an influence on all our lives, that she is with her brothers and her mother, Ethie, to whom she was devoted.

In an interview she gave in 1990, she closed saying, “I don’t feel any age at all. […] I must stay young because every day I get high on life.”  So, while we are missing her, we know she’s not sitting still.  She has surely already organized a live-off-the-land trip, set up a butterfly house, taught someone how to paint with flowers, served a salad of wild greens, or cooked up a batch of chokecherry jam.

We welcome you to share your memories, stories and picture of Mildred here. If you’d like, please e-mail any photographs to MildredBrooks@gmail.com and we will add them to the site.

In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the United Negro College Fund (http://give.uncf.org).

Mildred Alice Brooks, 1914-2009

My brother and I are standing in Grand Central.  We are meeting my aunt for I can’t remember what.  This is a little unusual because the three of us don’t often get together and hang out.

My brother is over six feet tall.  I am almost six feet tall.  My aunt says she is five-foot-one, but I think it’s more like four-ten and personality.  The station is extra especially crowded, so my brother and I are worried that we won’t spot our tiny aunt amidst all the people.

But then we do.  She is swinging through the crowd in a floor-length caramel-colored cape that billows around her as if she is traveling in a cloud.  In that cape, she could be five-one after all.

She greets us and we head for the escalators up to what was then the Pan Am building.  Just before we get on, either my brother or I comment that she seems to be in a good mood.  Before she can answer, she steps onto the escalator and we are separated from her by two or three people.

She answers, unaware that we aren’t right behind her.  She confirms that her mood is good.  She’s happy, says, and doesn’t need drugs or alcohol to have that be true.  My brother and I smile because she seems to be talking to herself alone.  “I’m high on life!” she exclaims flinging her arms out and sending the wings of her cape flying.  She startles the people around her, but most of them smile, too.  My brother and I laugh out loud.  This is so Auntie — the flash and exhuberance, the energetic embrace of life.  We meet at the top of the escalator and continue on our way.

_____

Her college graduation photo.

Saturday she’ll be buried in the double plot she bought to share with her mother, who left us nearly thirty years ago.  I like thinking of them together again.  They have always been so joined in my mind, it’s odd to realize so much time has passed since my grandmother died.

Mildred Alice Brooks is my maternal aunt, my only aunt. She has been another mother to me, to my brother, to my sister. Given the pronounced difference in their ages, she has often been another mother to my mother, too. On Tuesday she watched Barack Obama take the oath of office, and very shortly after that, she closed her eyes. I think she held on for Barack, held on so she could see him become our 44th president. Selfishly, I wish she had been able to hang on a little longer, but I know this is better, that now she has returned to the vibrant, independent woman who has had such an influence on my life, that she is with her mother and her brothers.  I know this is better, but that doesn’t lessen my grief.