Thinking About Aunt Mary

Monte’s Aunt Mary slipped peacefully away last week at the age of nearly 90. Uncle Max, to whom she had been married for more than sixty years, had died just a few months earlier. It brings to mind this poem by Linda Pastan called “Departures”:

They seemed to all take off

at once: Aunt Grace

whose kidneys closed shop;

Cousin Rose who fed sugar

to diabetes;

my grandmother’s friend

who postponed going so long

we thought she’d stay.

It was like the summer years ago

when they all set out on trains

and ships, wearing hats with veils

and the proper gloves,

because everybody was going

someplace that year,

and they didn’t want

to be left behind.

___That's pretty much the way it was. Aunt Mary took off a few trains behind Max. There was no fanfare for either of them, just a phone call announcement, and life goes on.

But I liked Aunt Mary, and although I’m told there’s no cause for sadness, I want to say a few words about her. When I was newly arrived from the East Coast, she was one of the first of Monte’s relatives that I met, and she was kind and welcoming from the start.

She was tiny and feisty, an unabashed liberal Democrat surrounded by Republicans, a good-hearted, irrepressible bleeding heart activist who also dressed well and lived comfortably. I remember her proudly showing me a photograph of herself with Hillary Clinton taken at a fund-raiser when Bill Clinton was running for President, and nobody’s eye-rolling or sarcasm could diminish her enthusiasm.

When Monte and I were married, she gave me an embroidered antique handkerchief to carry, a lovely and sentimental gesture. She encouraged me in my writing and always hoped I would do an oral history of the family. She had a lot to tell me, now forever lost.

In fact, her interest in oral history transcended family. As recently as a year ago, she had become so fascinated by the “goldmine of stories” she’d been hearing from fellow residents of the Orange County retirement community where she and Max had moved, that she invited me to come with tape recorder, notebook, and camera to interview these folks. She envisioned me as––in her words–– “a Studs Terkel for the Greatest Generation!” She was certain I would not be disappointed if I followed through.

“These are interesting and important people,” she said. “I've heard enough of these stories to be very eager to have you document them.”

Alas, I was dealing with another elderly person that summer: my mother. She’d had a series of medical issues and other problems, and I was running myself ragged trying to help. When I went down to Orange County, I usually ended up frazzled and exhausted by the end of the day and couldn’t picture myself adding on this new dimension. I explained all this to Aunt Mary in an email, and here is her response, all in caps because that’s the way she typed:

DEAREST CYNTHIA, I DIDN’T MEAN TO PRESS MY IDEA SO STRONGLY. THERE IS NO HURRY FOR ANY OF IT, AND YOU MAY NOT EVER WANT TO DO IT. IF YOUR INTEREST EVER REVIVES WE CAN TALK AGAIN. IN THE MEANTIME I KNOW HOW STRESSED YOU MUST BE IN TRYING TO MAKE DECISIONS FOR YOUR MOTHER. IT IS HARD ENOUGH TO PLAN FOR OURSELVES! BUT AS I ALWAYS SAY TO THOSE IN YOUR POSITION: YOUR MOTHER HAS ALREADY LIVED LONGER THAN YOU MIGHT, SO DON’T SACRIFICE TOO MUCH – I KNOW YOU WILL NATURALLY DO YOUR BEST FOR HER, BUT PERHAPS YOU CAN’T MAKE HER HAPPY AND YOU DON’T WANT TO TAKE AWAY FROM YOUR PLEASURE IN YOUR OWN FAMILY AND THEIR PULL ON YOUR TIME. I AM A GREAT FAN OF YOURS AND WILL BE SENDING ENERGY VIBES AND MUCH LOVE.

I treasured that message, in part because it so gracefully released me from any sense of obligation or fear of having disappointed her, which was so refreshingly different from the sort of guilt manipulation I grew up with.

But even more important, because a woman of nearly 90 was reminding me that my own life had value, as did the newer family I had formed, and that I should focus on them -- and it was not selfish to do so.Aunt Mary herself seemed as spry and spirited as ever.

Maybe one of these days I’ll get down there, I thought.

And I sure wish I had directed more of my effort in that direction, but Aunt Mary would not condone that sort of remorse.