She was Aunt Maddy to all of us in Jupiter. She was old when I was a young'en, and positively ancient when she passed over the Great Muddy for the final time last Spring. Not that it would be easy to sort out to whom she was actually an aunt, and technically speaking, since her sister Jenny never married either, she was not an aunt at all. But in Jupiter, when you live to her age you are bound to be related to enough of the residents that the title becomes both honorary and honored.

Anyways, stories tell that when Aunt Maddy was young, she was a particularly pretty woman who liked to tease and taunt the hearts of Jupiter's young men. Each of Jupiter's half dozen potential beaux's certainly tried to court her, but it was one Anthony Hyrum Lee who finally won her heart. He was a tall, handsome man with the typical Lee chiseled profile, but with that softness in the eyes so often seen in Barclay men.

Most stories agree that he was both a fine mouth harpist and accomplished guitar player, and that it was on steamy, moonlit nights, along the banks of the Muddy, that he wooed Miss Maddy's heart. Some stories hint that he wooed more, but it was her heart he broke.

One story has it he was killed felling a tree that was to be part of the house he was building for the two of them. Those who espouse this version point to the foundation on the backside of Bachmire Hill as proof. But I spent a lot of time playing in the cemetery as a child and have no recollections of seeing a marker with his name on it.

I've always believed the story of his going up to Alderton. It's said that he told Maddy he couldn't give her the life she deserved in Jupiter, that he would go to Alderton to find his fortune, and that he would then send for his love. He was never heard from again. But then Alderton has swallowed more than one of Jupiter's youth. Even in the Twenties, when it was but half its present day size, it was still a booming city of nearly 3000 inhabitants.

There were bars to drink at and woman who would profess their undying affection until they had turned your pockets inside out and not even left you your pocket knife. Young Anthony probably never stood a chance. Perhaps he was just seduced by the big city lights--Jupiter was still a few years shy of its introduction to electricity. But the important thing here is that neither Anthony, nor a letter that he may have authored (and there are a few who believe he authored such a letter), ever found its way back to Jupiter.

"Never trust a town where people don't do their drinking at home," Aunt Maddy would often say.

It should be noted that Alderton is in Wexler County, although there is uncertainty as to which county we belong. The county line is just this side of the highway. Those darn simpleton folk over in Luthertown for a while tried to convince us that they were the county seat and that this was indeed Luther County. Then they tried to tax us and some blood was spilt. Thankfully not so much blood that they stopped buying our moonshine. I swear they still believe the world is flat, and what kind of God do they pray to who would make Luthertown the center of the universe?

Luckily for Jupiter they never learned to distill whiskey, or were never told about Prohibition for that matter, which kept our economy stable when others suffered, although we might have truly prospered if those gangsters up north had ever heard about Jupiter's finest product. But here I digress.

It's said Maddy prevented her younger sister's marriage. Jenny and Robert Matthew Barclay were close to engagement when Maddy began whisperings about how Robert was actually pining for Miss Thelma McMurty, their second cousin twice removed. Words were spoken that slandered Miss Thelma's virtue. Many claim that Maddy had the ability to foresee the future as only those whose heart has been crushed can, while others claim she was merely a shameless gossip. And while it's true that Robert and Miss Thelma were eventually wed, it was only after his heart had recovered from Jenny's jilting.

This is when the bad blood between Aunt Maddy and Miss Thelma began.

There was also the rivalry. Like Miss Thelma, Aunt Maddy was a fine cook. I distinctly, and with great relish, recall Maddy's wild blackberry pies. These were carefully prepared and baked in her wood burning oven. The juices that always seeped onto the crust would sometimes burn and have to be scraped off before the pie was eaten. But most often they caramelized to a delicacy that would rival the best big city candy. And there were those hints of cinnamon and ginger. Also, Aunt Maddy could do things to catfish that were beyond Miss Thelma's dreams.

On the other hand, Miss Thelma's venison was always tender and tasty. And she had a way with root vegetables. "I just sauté them in butter until their sugars set."

If it was Summer, you wanted to eat at Aunt Maddy's. If it was Winter, you wanted to eat at Miss Thelma's.

But possum was the battlefield on which they waged their culinary wars. There was no great possum cook off, only a long series of skirmishes that over the years treated the residents of Jupiter to some of the finest possum eating known to mankind.

Then, seven years ago, Miss Thelma printed her infamous book. Maddy recovered from her initial shock and was the first to point out that a few of The Twelve Greatest Ways to Fix Possum produced inedible dishes. Her misstep, though, was to attack the opossum en croûte, which had quickly become a town favorite. Now no one was going to say that Miss Thelma's crust was in a league with Aunt Maddy's, but Maddy soon claimed that Thelma had merely taken Maddy's own recipe for posum stew and dumplings and put the stew in a pie crust, and a mediocre crust at that.

For months, whenever whiskey was poured, the debate between creativity and plagiarism was rejoined. Sometimes closed fist were thrown. I had the extreme pleasure of sampling both the stew and the pie on many occasions and, though I found both dishes contained carrots and onions in a thick gravy, I must admit to lacking a palette discriminating enough to render a definitive judgment. And besides, I refused to become embroiled in a debate that was likely to turn cousin against cousin.

Maddy would have been wiser to attack the possum aspic, or the broiled possum with orange marmalade glaze, the latter sounding much better than it tasted--something to do with not enough of the fat cooking away. Those were the recipes vulnerable to attack, if she'd wanted to gain a town consensus. But righteous indignation can make any of us look petty.

The two never spoke again.

But I think Miss Thelma retained more good feelings towards Aunt Maddy then was generally presumed. It was she who cried the most tears at Maddy's funeral, although there are those who say it was because Maddy had died without ever having written down a single one of her recipes.