Saved

My Aunt died yesterday. Her name was Jo, not Aunt Jo, just Jo. She married into a southern family, and was a Yankee. My uncle was a drummer in a band and eked out a living doing small gigs and any other odd jobs that would come up. They lived for a time just outside of Woodstock, NY and for those of you who like trivia, that is not where Woodstock, the festival was held. It was held on a farmer’s land in Bethel.

She was ten years my uncle’s senior and full of piss and vinegar. She could be defensive, and called things the way she saw them. She questioned people and did not take being put down lightly. In other words, she was not a good southern wife.

I don’t think people really understood my uncle’s marriage. They were very poor and many in the family didn’t find her to be “agreeable”. I, on the other hand, loved her. She was honest and didn’t speak down to children. I was a bit frightened by her brusque nature when I was younger, but as I aged so did my views. Being quietly unliked by a southern family is insidious in its kindness. Tight smiles let you know that you’re out of line. Having been the receiver of those tight smiles, I assure you, they are not children’s play.

As my mother would say, they didn’t have a pot to pee in or a window to throw it out. She crafted these small velvet bags that she sewed small things on. After thirty years I still have a black velvet bag with a gold moon on the outside. I thought of that today, how it sits in my jewelry box when many things haven’t made it through more moves than I can count. The bag remains still holding my treasures the way it once held some beautiful stones she had given me. I think she knew that I got it. That I got her.

The last time I had seen them was ten years ago at my cousin’s wedding. It was a disaster for many reasons that I can’t get into here, but suffice to say that my uncle, Jo and I spent much of the night in an outdoor tent in North Carolina while the rest of the 200 plus guest list were inside doing the chicken dance and other acceptable wedding practices. I fit in as much as the chicken would have.

We sat and talked for hours making our way through beer after beer, discussing many family secrets that I had only been at arm’s reach from. At one point in the conversation, my uncle said, “She saved me, my life.” I looked at him and said, “I know.”

I knew and I had always known the way you know a like person through the facade of daily living, and kids, and jobs, and all of the crap that surrounds us. You see through it and you see yourself. You see it because you know what it’s like to have someone save you. I didn’t know then how that felt. I hadn’t met my husband yet. I did however know the desperation that some of us feel whether due to our lives, or our inability to cope. Some of us were born poorly equipped and spend so much time trying to sabotage ourselves before someone comes along sees us for us, and says, “Stop.”

They tell us we are good enough, and beautiful enough, and stronger than we know. They tell us we don’t have to bare the burden of our family history, and that they will not carry us but hold our hand so that as we struggle to face what we have not thus far, we will not sink. They will keep our head above water and the secrets we tell, they will keep.

She saved him. And they loved each other. And they got by barely, but they did. He spent the last three years caring for her because he refused to put her in a home. No one understood. They all said it was too much.

But it wasn’t too much. Because there is no too much. She died in her bed with him as the provider of the morphine. And I want to celebrate that life, that love.

It isn’t about the sad end, but about cherishing another human being to the point that there is no too much. They lived there lives filled with music and crafts and beads and surrounded by creativity because they couldn’t fit in any other way. She saved him and he saved her back and kissed her head and wished her well on her way.

Because I think she would be amused, these are the clay people

Power Rangers

And here is the cake…

Blue Power Ranger Mask Cake

I can hear her laughter about both.

Here’s to a woman who spent her life marching to her own drum, the masses be damned. A woman with a raspy laugh who wore embroidered smock coats and always looked a kid in the eye. A woman who lived a creative life because she had no choice. She just didn’t fit anywhere else. Rest in peace, Jo. Your memory and chutzpah live on in nieces like me who got it, who loved you, and who get that it is that important to make something pretty and give it all you have. Then give it away.  Love.

Has anyone saved you?