RIP Aunt J

She raced her plane in
The Powder Puff Derby, and
Her voice soared also.

She was smart and adventurous and creative. She had a sweet and strong soprano voice. She was my godmother, and she cherished a thank you letter I once sent her that ended "I can make fudge." Her favorite childhood story was Muggins Mouse. She took care of her baby sister L and adored her nephew E. She was a secretary at the VA. But, by the time I met her, she had been forced into an early retirement, and she lived a depressing life in her messy overstuffed house half a block down the road from her parents.

This was in 1981, when I graduated from college and moved to Portland. I had a ready-made family and friends. My brother went to Reed College for four years, and, after getting his Master's in Eugene, he returned to Portland. His friends took me in immediately, and I began to meet my mother's family. My mother's parents and one sister lived across the Columbia in Vancouver, but the rest of her family lived in Portland: one aunt, one first cousin, one first cousin once removed, and their attendant relations. It was odd to have an extended family, because our family had been so insular while I was growing up. Our traditions and behaviors were centered around the immediate family. Our extended family lived in the Pacific Northwest and western Minnesota. Grandma S would fly across country for special occasions, graduations and weddings, mainly, but I never met my aunts or cousin. So, this family did not feel like family. I knew we were related, but I didn't grow up with them, and even familiar things like lefse and krub were subtly different.

Technically I knew the Minnesota family better: Dad was an only child, and we visited his family in Minnesota during the summers. However, I was never clear how we were related to most of the people we met. We would go out to the Carlson Farm and my twin and I would play with C, who was our age. We would roam around the barn and the fields before returning to the house for the cakes and cookies and other midwest foods like glorified rice and 3 bean salad. The grown ups would have been talking about people I did not know and reliving the various illnesses and events of the previous year. I was not interested.

By the end of our two-week vacation, we would have visited all the relatives. Every day we swam in the outdoor town pool. Other activities included trips to Granite Falls, swinging on the tire swing, visiting Minneapolis for a day of shopping and some Bridgman's ice cream, and walking along the alleys between Grandma H's and Great-Aunt Inga's homes. I remember visiting F, an enormous woman with tree-trunk legs in support hose. Her sitting room had horse hair furniture, covered in antimacassars, and the house had that special old-person smell of baking, onions, coffee, and mothballs. I'd sit on the floor, looking with awe at her legs and listening to the sing-song immigrant Norwegian tones, the occasional exclamation of "uff da!" And then I'd go outside and explore the yard, with its water pump, white clapboard shed, and short-cropped grass.

A lot of the time was spent sitting around the house, reading, listening to the victrola, looking at the stereoscope. Grandma H had some books: I read Anne of Green Gables in an old green hardcover, with black and white plate illustrations. I still remember the picture of Anne trying to walk across the ridgepole, wearing her unattractive aproned dress, her hair in two braids.

I remember those activities more than I remember the people. As a general rule, my attention was inward, and I did not really connect with anyone. Now I thought that the family gatherings in Vancouver would be different. I was an adult, and I wanted to know who these people were. I had heard stories of all of them, and there were cute pictures of my twin and I as flower girls at L's first wedding; but I remembered the punch fountain at the reception and the black waiter on the train better than I remembered my family. My cousin was literally half my age, and L was only 4 years older than my brother. My brother was 10 years older than me, and I didn't know him well, either. 

My brother and I usually drove over together in those early days. The gatherings centered around my Aunt L, and it was clear that had always been the case. She was always well put together, with ethnic jewelry, hats, and tailored outfits of rich materials. She talked of art, history, literature, music, with a well modulated voice and careful enthusiasm. Aunt J was usually there when we arrived, bulking in the corner. She wore tent dresses, and her cheeks were flushed with rosacea. Her iron grey hair was short, wiry, and unkempt. When she spoke, there was a subtle undertone of resentment. She would talk about her "patients" and other grievances, and we would wait for a pause and then change the subject. 

I became close to the rest of the family. I saw my Portland aunt regularly, and when he entered college, my cousin lived in my house. Once I had a car, I visited Grandma S on a monthly basis, taking her to lunch at the Holland restaurant, going shopping, going to the doctor, driving out to the cemetery to visit Grandpa. Aunt J often hitched a ride on these excursions, and it was always uncomfortable.

As the years passed, the discomfort of Aunt J's presence grew. She would ramble about the past, and it was never a pleasant reminiscence. She would talk about her ailments: teeth, digestion, and legs were always giving her trouble. She would accuse neighbors and shopkeepers and family of various ill-doings. Eventually she was diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic and put into a care facility. She would call us with threats and anger. There were problems with her housing and her guardian, but the family had no legal right to help, and she refused to relinquish control. Her guardian sold her house, and she spent her last days in assisted living, barely able to walk. Once she became less mobile, we did not even see her at family gatherings. Most of her possessions were sold or stored in her sister's garage, although she frequently sent pictures and photocopies of legal papers to us.

And now she is gone, and I don't know what I feel. I used to think I would be the Aunt J of my generation: single, childless, smart, quirky, crazy. But even that thought did not make me compassionate towards her. I avoided her presence. I did not answer her illegible and rambling letters, I did not answer her phone calls. Oh, occasionally I would write or call, but not much, not enough. And I would sit next to her at gatherings and talk with her, and remember her at Christmas and birthdays, but I made no special efforts to see her outside of the group. I do remember the mortification of attending the St. Olaf Choir performance with her; she spent 10 minutes rustling through her purse before I finally spoke up about it. Was the offense really bad enough to keep me from doing anything with her again?

Her sad and angry later years have swallowed up her adventurous and joyous early years. I am sorry I did not spend more time learning about her. I am grieved that I was not part of her life. And I am frustrated that I cannot write a suitable farewell to her. All I can say is, she was a remarkable and creative woman who accomplished much in the face of great obstacles. And I wish I'd known her.

2014: healing, endings, and beginnings

Last year I did my year-in-review by pulling the first lines from each month's blog.  This year I cannot do that:  I didn't blog in November because I was taking the NaNoWriMo challenge (hey, I won!) and I was prepping to leave Cerrillos and Wit's End for the new job in Taos.  I was finding my replacement and looking for a home. I didn't blog in December because I was finishing up concerts and packing and planning for holidays.  And, basically, the muse was gone for the time being.  I was too busy living, and not able to put my energy to contemplation.

Today, however, I am doing some retrospecting.  I used the Facebook apps to create a status/photo update and realized afresh how rich my life is with travel, friends, family and the beauty that surrounds us all.  After years of focusing on stress, in 2014 I could focus on the small wonders of each day.  And each day inspired photographs and haiku.  I didn't post all of them, but I could see the change in emotion; as the year got older, I became more serene.

The typical day started slowly:  doing the crossword and drinking good coffee while watching clouds float above the mountains and birds perch in tree tops.  E would read the NYT and share the headlines or ask questions about them.  I have an image from the early months:  we are outside, facing west, the sun shining over our shoulders.  She reaches for her toast and smiles at me:  "This is the life," she says.

I have other images too, mostly from our various journeys and errands.  We are in Albuquerque,  driving past the yellow cottonwoods in the Rio Grande as she gasps in wonder, "I'm in heaven!"   We're going down Goldmine road, watching the cloud shadows on the Cerrillos hills and singing "White Coral Bells" and other old fashioned rounds.  "Do you have music in your head?" she asks.  We pass the park in Santa Fe where she remembers sitting with both her daughter and her favorite caregiver.  We sit at a table outside Echo gelato, the small bright orange and yellow cups filled with our chosen frozen concoction.  We take the tiny plastic shovels, carefully spooning small tastes.  I share my stracciatella, and she says she'll get that next time. We're walking along the Cerrillos Hills State Park trail towards the overlook:  she is mesmerized by the plaque depicting the animals, illustrated by local schoolchildren.  She finds the lion outlined in the cliffs across the valley, its mouth open in a yawn.  (While I could recognize her cloud images, I never saw that lion.)  We're at San Marcos Cafe, watching the peacocks pecking in their enclosure or walking past the windows.  She says, "they don't have ducks?" and "soon it'll be time for a fire."  She loves the cinnamon rolls, so we share an order of that and an order of Eggs Benedict.

There are so many moments. She hated the electronic keyboard that we had on loan, but I coaxed her into accompanying me for some singing.  On our regular walks, we would stop to look at the arroyo:  "Do you suppose it will ever fill with water?"  The bird seed drew out foxes at dusk, and she pondered about them:  "Where do they live?"  The flowers made her catch her breath:  "Oh I hope E will be able to see them!"  E is never far from her mind or her conversation.  "When will she be back?"

Then there are the lost moments.  I never wrote down the way she would mis-hear me, but we laughed at each piece of delightful confusion.  I never found out why she was crying that night in bed, but I held her until it stopped.  I never learned Spanish from her, never took her to the Atomic Museum or Los Alamos or Bandelier.  She only came to a few of my concerts, and I only went to church with her a few times:  those were usually when the respite caregivers were on duty and I was visiting friends in ABQ or rehearsing or playing concerts.  And much of each day was spent in separate worlds, she reading Liz Gilbert or the biography of Oppenheimer or a history of New Mexico, me tutoring, writing to friends, editing photos.  Those moments are gone now, and I miss them.

But, she is there:  laughing, perseverating, forgetting, and loving.  I sit by her chair and put my head on her knee, and she strokes my hair.  "I'm going to miss you so much," she says, and I reply, "I'm going to miss you too."  We make plans for visits, and I know that this is something I need to do, and I hope she will become resigned to the change.  However, deep inside, where I am ashamed to acknowledge it, I hope she doesn't like the new caregiver TOO much:  I am jealous, even though I'm the deserter, I'm the one moving on.  She has taught me so much about aging gracefully, about living fully.  We both have experienced loss, but we both know how to recognize and share joy in the midst of that.

I was so lucky to have this time of healing.  I don't know how to thank her, and the other Co-op members, and the people in my musical organizations, and my hiking buddies, and friends and lovers, and family.  They have made up a huge net that has held me, bobbing up and down after the fall, inches above the water.  I lie face down, looking into the depths, and I see they are filled with light and color amidst the sharp coral rocks and tunnels that threatened to trap and drown me.  I turn over on my back and look at the clouds that sail by.  I don't do anything for a very long time, but gradually, as I bob gently, I close my eyes and surrender to the peace.

And now, I have found my healing, and it's time to climb out of the net and swim to shore.

Thank you, E.