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.