Juggling

Well, I’m in the thick of it now. I understand that some people have been worried about me. And I appreciate that, you have no idea. Don't be, though. I'm just busy, & my time on the 'net is limited. Working two jobs means there are times that I don’t see my friends here for two or three days. I’ll be out of here in the morning about 7:30 & not get back ‘til after nine, only to do it all over again the next day. I’m re-learning how to plan my errands around my jobs. And I think I’m actually doing better at it than when I did so at 21. No surprise there, though.

And the 2nd job keeps me active, I’m on my feet most of the time. My full-time job involves sitting. All day. Which’s something I’ve never had to do before. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a sore ass at times in my life. So on the afternoons when I don’t go to job #2, I’m usually home long enough to change clothes & then it’s out again; either on my bike or walking. And I make sure I make each of my workouts well worth it, since I’m not able to exercise as much. Seems like the older I get the more critical it is that I exercise, otherwise I wind up lethargic & feeling awful. Come to think of it, I think it says something like that in my astrology chart. (didn’t know astrology was one of my hobbies, did you?..aquarius, with a strong virgo influence, in case you’re wondering)

Things are starting to happen $$$-wise. I'm able to pay off a debt or two. I’m on my way in things. At times I feel like relaxing; after all, I’ve got both jobs. But I’m not done yet. What’s that old saying?..you’ve got to give a little to get a little? This is where self-discipline really comes in handy. I need to stick to it, keep myself on the track I’ve set for myself. My sister looked over the surgical technician program that I’ve got my eye fixed on and she really likes the look of it. Admittedly, there are times that I’m concerned about letting myself fall into my same old habits.

But I’m not going to do that. This is me-time, time to take care of myself and make sure that I’ve made some stability for myself.

Shayla

Family

Something that truly struck me during that trip to Boise was just how important family is to a person. It affects who you are, what type of person you are. Your own personal history is there with your blood relatives, and has had far more influence on you that what might normally be imagined.

Many of the relatives I’ve been with this past week I’ve only met once or twice, and there’s a whole branch of the family I’d met that I’d not even known existed. And in all of them I saw myself or someone I’m related to. My father’s eyes in my cousin; the same mouth was on 7 different people, including myself. Even personality traits. Jean, the cousin we’d been staying with, I’ve only met once. Yet she’s very similar to me. Always doing something, rarely idle and then only when the majority of the work’s been done.

Another thing is a family’s history. It’s every bit as much a part of a person as the blood ties. Oral tradition’s been practiced since we first started speaking; old family or clan stories told by grandparents and elders to uninterested young. The majority of my aunt’s stories, my sister and I could finish for her. Though we were interested, we loved hearing those stories.

We’ve heard all our lives about our great-grandmother’s siblings, who were sympathetic twins. About how my great-grandfather was a jeweler, yet my great-grandmother had to modify her wedding dress to wear in church as she played the piano. About twice-great grandfather Garland and the miniature tools he’d made, which have only recently been pulled from display in the Capitol Building. My great-uncle and his boat races, and my grandfather’s motorcycles and airplanes. The things my aunt did with her brothers when she was younger.

All those old stories have contributed to the people that Rena and I are. It’s as much our history as it is the history of the people who’d died before we were even born. My aunt never married, never had any children; but in a way she was the matriarch of the family. Something my cousin Ernest mentioned this past week – an era has passed with my aunt.

It’s important, it’s a trait forgotten by many people. But I believe anymore that it’s just as important as always, perhaps more so as the basic family unit’s disintegrated into fragments barely in contact with each other. It helps strengthen family bonds, provides a sense of personal identity that otherwise would be lost. It’s something crucial.

Bore your children regularly with stories about your parents & siblings & grandparents. Do it little by little over time, until the tales are etched into their subconscious. Make it something close, something done when you can really relax with them, share closeness with them even when you’re teaching them their history. They’ll be glad of it in later years, I’m sure. It’s part of them, what makes them what they are and will be.

shayla

Boise

This past week I’ve been in Boise for my Aunt’s funeral. It’s been hard for various reasons. My sister, Rena, picked me up from the airport and took me to our cousin’s where we’d be staying. One by one we trickled in from various parts of the US. Rena had various errands to run, as she’s the executor of the estate & dying makes for a lot of work for those left behind.

I went with her for most of those errands while we caught up on each other’s lives, laughed & cried about things that have happened in our lives. Doing all this with her wasn’t easy. My Aunt’s been part of Boise for so long that it’s hard to imagine the city without her. One of our errands brought us to the funeral home, and I stepped in to see her. She looked exactly as if she’d been asleep. Walking into that room took some courage on my part. It’s one thing to intellectually know that someone’s gone, but to step in and see them is a different matter. One interesting thing, though, is that I felt her presence. Not in front of me but behind me, as though she was just behind my sister and I. In a way it was comforting. And as perverse as it sounds, I felt much better walking out of that room than I had walking into it.

The night before the funeral the family got together, had dinner, and talked. We caught up with each other’s lives, reminisced about my Aunt and her life. We talked about my great-uncle’s boats and his races, things that happened to them when they were younger. Things that happened to wives and husbands and children, the separations and joinings that took place in their lives. For me it was as though we were re-establishing ourselves as a family. We all walked out of that room a great deal closer to each other than when we walked in.

The day of the funeral we arranged logistics, went to the church and sat through the service before going to the cemetery. The priest that performed the service actually knew my aunt, which made the whole thing much more meaningful. She (yes, the priest was a woman) came close to tears many times while she spoke, and everyone that was there could relate as she mentioned how my aunt had taken her around the house and showed her all her treasures. It’s a tour that everyone who knew my aunt had been one more than once. I’ve never known anyone to tire of it.

I suppose I’m still coming to grips about this. At least I know that she’s not tired anymore, no longer in pain as she’d been (though she never made issue of it). She’s with all those loved ones that she’d outlived all these years. One of my cousins mentioned that had she died 10 years previously, there would have been at least another 100 people at the funeral. She’s with her family and at peace.

shayla

More Rapids

I got a call from my sister Friday while I was at work. Our aunt passed away, I’m going Tuesday to Boise to the funeral. That’s a vile word, funeral. Though if there’s any way to go, it’s the way she went. Quietly, in her sleep. Aunt Margaret never really had any serious health problems. She was simply tired and ready to go. She’d long since out-lived all her friends and family.

Aunt Margaret was born in 1912, she’s actually my great-aunt, sister to my grandfather. She was 94. She always used to tell us that she was too mean to die, which wasn’t entirely true, as she was one of the nicest women I’ve ever known. In all my life I’ve never known her to raise her voice or have a cross word to say to anyone. Not even when I accidentally locked us all out of the house (it took the locksmith quite a while to get into the place, it was built so soundly).

Our father would send us to Boise from Portland, Oregon every summer and Christmas after my mother died in ‘76. We’d take the bus, a straight shot down I-84, no transfers or anything. We’d usually get in somewhere between 8:30 and 10:30 pm each time. And every time Aunt Margaret would have hot chocolate ready for us when we got there. She was already in her 70’s when we started coming over, but it always seemed to me that she was ageless, a permanent part of my life that would never not be there.

We’d take trips during those summers. To Lucky Peak to swim, to McCall to her friend’s cabin on the lake. An area outside of Boise (the name I can’t even recall), where we’d go to the cherry orchards in June and pick cherries. We’d take tours of the Old Idaho State Penitentiary, go for walks in Ann Morrison park, browse the 8th street market. I still remember in detail the layout of the Capitol building, and the photos on the walls, with the Winged Victory on the 3rd floor. Down Warm Springs Avenue to my distant cousin’s house where we’d play in the yard and swim in the stream in the back yard. And on the other side of the stream was the garden, where we’d pick bowls of raspberries from the bushes to bring in for dessert. That house had a long, steep back yard, terraced with steps and patios. I loved running up and down those steps.

Her house was a reflection of her, and where many of my best memories are. The furniture was old, and there were hutches full of her antique cranberry glass, wedgwood, and figurines. The walls were full of paintings, most of which she did herself, varying from the bowl of roses over her bed so real you could almost smell them, to the cold, misty picture of the ship in the storm, or the lovely giraffe and leopard in the hallway, painted on the back of glass, so expertly done it was hard to imagine that she’d done them herself.

We’d sit on the back patio facing the alley, eating cheese and crackers before bed and listening to the sounds of the night and State street just a block away. Or walk the short way to the West Side drive-in for the swirly ice cream cones.

The basement wasn’t the stereotypical cold, dark musty-smelling hollow under the house like so many basements. It was full of cabinets of books and recipes, photos and countless wood pieces that she’d do her tole painting on. Her painting desk was at the foot of the stairs. Deep in the back of the basement, by the laundry area, was her pantry. Full of flats of Shasta for us, cans and jars of varying ages of custard and vegetables and artichoke hearts. Dozens of quart jars of cherries she’d canned that we’d have with ice cream in the evenings. On one shelf there were the remains of her retirement party from Idaho Power, bottles and bottles of liquor, brandy, and I don’t remember what else. They stayed there year after year, the only time I ever knew Aunt Margaret to use alcohol was for cooking.

Everything I know about being a friend, or how to treat people, basic manners, making a house a home, I learned from Aunt Margaret. We’d set the table for dinner every night, take turns in who would wash the dishes or put them away after every meal. Often I’d sleep on the hide-a-bed in the living room, waking up every morning to Aunt Margaret opening the door to let the morning light and air in while she read the paper.

She was born in Boise, in a house across the street from the cemetery where she’ll rest next to her mother and father. Her brothers and her would play in that cemetery when she was a child, hide and seek among the tall headstones and trees.

Since my sister contacted me I’ve been in an altered state of consciousness. Most of Friday I was in a state of shock, going from weeping to laughing in a blink. I left work early, and got lost on the way to a friend’s where Kathy was, a route I normally take automatically. Even now, it’s as if what’s happening to me isn’t real.

In many ways, Aunt Margaret picked up where my mother left off. She never married, had no children herself. She had dozens of friends all her life, and to this day I’ve never heard anyone speak poorly of her.

I love her. I’m going to miss her.