Happy birthday, Aunt Weewee!

She dared succeed in a man’s world, with grace, dignity, and joy, thrived despite the roadblocks women of her era faced. And thought nothing of it.

Autn Weewee. Image © 2024 Denise Heap.

She was born July 1, 1905 in Houston, Texas. One of the many stairstep daughters birthed one right after another to hardworking parents – one a fresh immigrant, the other with deep roots in Texas – nothing special about the beginnings of her life.

The very first picture of her: Her mother Georgie is standing on the porch, the front yard spread out before them, nothing more than Houston’s infamous gumbo soil. That gumbo soil did not make for good lawns, but it was perfect for the brickmaking business of the immigrant, Martin Cuno Sachs.

Lelia Henriette Sachs. Such a tiny baby.

Her family had already known much sorrow. Mary Sachs, eighteen months old, had died May 1895 of yellow fever. Ruby Sachs died June 1902, when a well-meaning neighbor fed her undercooked red beans.

And cherished, sunny LaRue Sachs – the first daughter so named – was run over by a streetcar on March 17, 1904. Georgie never forgave herself for that LaRue’s death. She had sent her almost-nine-year-old daughter to the bakery to buy white bread for lunch, since Martin didn’t like black bread. An intoxicated streetcar driver shattered Georgie’s world.

Lelia Henriette grew up on the other side of the bayou, away from gumbo soil. City of Houston settled with the Sachs family for wrongful death, and Martin used the funds to buy a ten-acre farm and build a brownstone on the side of the bayou without mosquitoes. It was still a quick commute, and his children had a grassy field, and chickens, and wide open space to play in. Best yet, they were outside Houston city limits by a full mile. If you know Houston: American General Building sits on the site of his old farm, as does Nino’s.

Martin, a progressive thinker and inventor, also ensured that his surviving children – four girls and two boys – had the most modern conveniences available. They were among the first 400 in Texas to own a car. The only family within miles to own a telephone (they got to know all the neighbors!). The first to install electricity. And indoor plumbing.

Although the youngest child, my grandmother, was the only girl allowed to graduate high school, Martin ensured that his older daughters received an excellent education. When they finished tenth grade, he paid for business school educations for those three feisty older girls.

All four daughters proved to be shrewd businesswomen, promoted rapidly up the ranks in whatever jobs they took. Strong women. It’s interesting that the three who married, wed weak men who were intimidated by Sachs women.

Lelia Henriette? She chose not to marry. Oh, she had her suitors. And she was known to pick up soldiers who were hitchhiking, in the car she bought with her own money. Lelia was active in Houston’s social scene, active in athletics at the YWCA, an active traveler and sightseer, an avid reader, and not a half-bad dominoes player.

And she was a viciously good accountant. In the job she held the last couple decades of her life, the one I remember well, she kept the books for Anheuser-Busch’s yeast division in Houston. Saying she “kept the books” is rather like saying an astronaut flies a plane. Aunt Lelia was Anheuser-Busch’s yeast division. When her crooked boss embezzled from the company – as he did on a frequent basis – she would make him put the money back. She wasn’t afraid of reprisals. You simply didn’t mess with Lelia Henriette Sachs.

I remember as a small girl, all the way through elementary school and into junior high school, going to her office and watching her work. She didn’t have to tell us to be quiet. We were in awe of her command over her business. Watching her work fascinated us. She was so efficient, so good.

And she was fun. We secretly loved it when she babysat. Yes, her sister, my grandmother, was also fun. But Aunt Lelia? Cousins often spent the night with us in those days. We were clueless children and had no idea that the family life for those cousins was, well, awful. It was just exciting when Mom would pull out the quilts for pallets they’d sleep on. Those days that Aunt Lelia would babysit, she’d wake us up with singing and laughter. Before we had our cereal for breakfast, she’d have us singing along with her, happy for a new day.

To us, she was Aunt Weewee. Some small child had had problems saying Lelia, and it had come out Weewee. The nickname stuck. Lelia Henriette Sachs wore that nickname as a badge of honor. I think if we had stopped calling her Weewee, her feelings would have been hurt.

When I graduated high school, Aunt Lelia was there, as she had been there for every concert, every musical, every recital. When I earned my bachelor’s, Aunt Lelia made the trip to Fort Worth to watch me walk across the stage. She was so proud of me!

And when I bought my first car with my own money, she asked if I needed help with the down payment. Of course I did. My first real job was as an entry level accounting clerk, and of course, she was tickled pink at that! She lent me the $700 I needed.

Over the course of the next year, I scrupulously saved $60 per month so I could pay her back. I was proud of myself when I handed her a check for repayment in full.

I’ll never forget the look in her eyes as she said, “No, I don’t want it. Keep it. But don’t tell anyone. You’re special.” Every child should have a great-aunt who can inspire the sort of love and respect as Lelia Henriette Sachs. That moment is seared into my memory.

Her death in June 1989 constituted the second punch in a one-two combo that left me drained. My father died in July 1988 after an awful year fighting a cancer for which there was no cure. As he was dying, he begged me to watch over his mother, my mother, and Aunt Lelia, to protect them from his cousins who would not have their best interests at heart. It took his death for me to understand how hard he’d worked to protect them through the years.

Aunt Lelia would die less than a year later. She missed her 84th birthday by less than a week.

We learned so much about this incredible woman at her funeral, things we should have known earlier, and somehow missed. She had invested in Magnavox’s IPO and had turned that into a comfortable nest egg. Good thing too, because despite years of loyal service, Anheuser-Busch refused to give her the pension she’d earned, something she never forgave them for. She retired from that company with only an inkwell, a letter opener, and a staple-less stapler. Knowing her, she’d probably bought all three with her own money.

But as we talked about Aunt Weewee, the brilliant woman who never married, who excelled at whatever she touched, whose singing and laughter brought us so much joy, we learned something else. She had lent every single cousin – her nephews, nieces, great-nephews, great-nieces – money for down-payments for houses and cars.

And without fail, she forgave those loans, telling each person, “Shh. Don’t tell anyone. You’re special.” Year after year, she quietly gave. Year after year, she quietly forgave. Year after year, she made her family feel special, loved, wrapped up in tenderness. Shh. Don’t tell anyone. You’re special.

When her sister, my grandmother, died thirteen years later, I was her executor. My grandmother had saved Aunt Lelia’s financial records. I saw with my own eyes the extent of her generosity. The cancelled checks – yes, there was the check for $700 made out to me. And the check to my parents for the down payment for our home in Spring Branch. And the check to other cousins for… Silent testimonials of her fathomless love.

My small gift to this beloved great-aunt came in the form of a letter I translated for her.

After the war, my great-grandfather’s family in Germany contacted him. That is, one side of the family contacted him. Plenty of letters from the Thieme family, none from the Sachs or Sachsses. The Thiemes had had little use for him when he was a teenager still living in Hof. Although they had dutifully sent him wedding presents in 1892/1893, they seemed to have had little time for him after that.

But after the war, most of them lived in the Russian zone – Hirschberg, Magdeburg, Berlin – and received almost no rations from the Soviets. They remembered the relative who had emigrated to the United States and hit him up for food.

One day Aunt Lelia handed me a sheaf of letters from those family members they had never met, family they barely knew existed, family who dropped them like hot potatoes once Germany’s “economic miracle” kicked in. Can you tell us what these say? We’ve been dying to know ever since we found them in Papa’s desk in 1953.

Most of the letters consisted of the “we didn’t kno-ow” liturgy that I hate, excuses for Germany’s falling in with Adolf Hitler. Those letters also would thank Cousin Martin for the C.A.R.E. packages he had sent them, with specific requests for the next one. Send oil. Send soap. Send canned goods. Put boring stuff on top so crooked agents won’t steal the whole box. Chocolate is nice, but it never makes it through to us.

One letter stopped me in my tracks. Evidently my great-grandfather finally told them that all those wonderful boxes were coming from his daughter Lelia, that she was the family member who purchased and shipped food.

Because there was a letter from the Thieme family to Aunt Lelia, thanking her personally for her sacrifice, for her gifts. Sometimes we are sitting at table with nothing to eat, when the postman comes and there is a box from you. We are thankful for you, dear Lelia.

When I handed Aunt Lelia my typed translations, I watched her face as she read that particular letter. Tears flowed down her face. This strong woman who never cried, now could not stop crying.

“I never knew,” she said. “Papa never told me. I never knew.” She had been denied their gratitude for thirty years. All because her brilliant but evidently selfish father couldn’t take the time to translate that letter for his own daughter.

I always think of her on her birthday. So close to my father’s birthday, a tiny little fact she enjoyed, because she loved my father as if he were her own child. She loved us as if we were her own grandchildren.

A strong, educated, happy woman who was well ahead of her time. Who blazed a trail that others could follow. Who dared succeed in a man’s world, with grace, dignity, and joy. Who thrived despite the roadblocks women of her era faced. And thought nothing of it.

And who loved it, absolutely loved it, when her grown grandnieces and grandnephews called her Aunt Weewee.

Her badge of honor.

---

© 2024 Denise Elaine Heap. Please message me for permission to quote. And of course, please feel free to share!