Everybody has a quirky relative. You know — the one who makes family gatherings unpredictable and just a little more colorful. Some people whisper about them. I celebrate them.

Take my Aunt Grace (name changed to protect my family standing). Was she married five times? Six? Depends on who you ask. What I do know is she was a character straight out of Auntie Mame. Eccentric, lovable, smart as a whip, a storyteller who could keep you laughing until your ribs hurt — and an entrepreneur long before “side hustle” was a thing.

At one point, she bought a farm and a massive truck so she could haul a huge hog, a few goats, dogs, ducks, rabbits, chickens, and whatever else down to the city every week. She’d park at her sister’s house, while the backyard transformed into a makeshift petting zoo. The neighbor’s children actually looked forward to Aunt Grace’s weekend visits — because who else let you play with goats and rabbits in the middle of the city?

And then there was the day her husband brought home two orphaned infant bear cubs and suggested someone in the family adopt them. Believe it or not, it wasn’t Aunt Grace who took them in — it was my mother.

Which brings me to this: my mother was every bit as nutty as Aunt Grace. She was the woman who taught me to listen to classical music by acting out the parts. She’d line me and all my cousins up on the couch like an audience, then launch into a one-woman show. To this day, I cannot hear Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor without seeing her collapse into an imaginary coffin, gasping her last breath as the music ends. Where she came up with this stuff, I’ll never know.

Aunt Grace is no longer with us, and my mother is gone too — but I’m certain they’re together again, keeping the angels in stitches with their earthly exploits.

Quirky? Absolutely. Endearing? Without question. And if you ask me, life without a few quirky relatives — or neighbors — would be downright boring.

I have both, so I am doubly blessed.