Aunt Jan

Hello and welcome to a tribute Saturday here at the Wannaskan Almanac. Today is October 11th.

This week, an aunt I was very close to passed away. When I was a kid, I was always a bit leery of my aunt and a little indignant, because she and my uncle were always telling me what to do.

"Kimberly, close the door behind you."

"Kimberly, lower your voice."

"Kimberly, knock before you enter."

A part of my childhood was spent living two houses away from her and my cousins. When I was alone - which happened quite a lot after my parents divorced - I'd make my rounds like a feral cat, stopping in at my grandmother's first to see if she had any breakfast, and then over to my cousins' house to see what's up and who would want to hang out. My aunt worked nights, so the golden rule was to be quiet. "My mom's sleeping," my cousins would whisper when I made my noisy entrance - a cheerful bang of the patio door. My cousins had mastered the art of watching television with almost no sound.

My aunt and uncle told me "no" a lot, something I like to think most children dislike.

When she switched to working days, she was a night owl. While my uncle would rise at 4am and fall asleep in front of the TV by 7pm, she would sleep in, then stay up til midnight. 

She read a lot. Like, a ton, a lot. She didn't wear makeup. (Something I have in common with her.) She wasn't frilly, flashy, or one to wear silly hats. A quiet, patient woman, if she yelled at you, it was because you deserved it. I learned not to confuse this with demureness. She was forthright, a quality I came to respect when I grew up. She could wollop you with a good dose of sensibility when you were out of line. (Again, me.)

And sharp. Holy moly, she was sharp. Her wit would pop out, seemingly out of nowhere, like her cat, and rip through the house.

And her laugh. Her guffaw was the best. It reverberated, and you felt its appreciation in your chest. A joke well-earned, she taught me what was funny and what was not.

And her earnestness. My aunt was straightforward. Perhaps the most honest, clear-eyed person I have ever known. No secrets or half-truths. She was careful to not give unsolicited opinions. But if I asked what she thought, she always told me true and straight. And if she didn't want to tell me, she said so.

As an adult, when life was feeling too complex, too complicated, and unpleasantly messy, my aunt became my refuge. Despite the frailty that came with her progressive Parkinson's, my aunt lent me her shoulders to cry on. She welcomed my weary head to rest in her lap. She patted my hair.

I discovered in this woman a deep well of love below her surface calm.

My children called her Auntie-Grandma Jan. Because life turned our paths in unexpected ways, our family spent a lot of time at her house. (Like the time we got snowed in for three days. But also, because she welcomed some noise in her otherwise quiet house.) She showered my children with love. She played games, watched movies, listened to their chatter, and laughed at their antics.

She also told them no.

But what I had perceived as bossiness through my own childhood lens, I could now see was a lesson in boundaries and respect. My kids saw it too. 

Respecting oneself while still being a caring person is a great lesson.

She and I also shared a love for tator tot hotdish - something I would make for us when my cousin was out and about doing her own thing. It felt luxurious, and a little naughty, to be in kahoots with my auntie.

She shared a birthday with one of her kids and one of mine. She called my daughter her "birthday girl."

When I got the text from my cousin that my aunt was going into hospice, my kids wanted to see her as much as I did. They understood that she was going to die.

"Will she look weird? You know, like...dying?" the Youngest asked.

"Well, you've seen her a lot, so you're used to what she looks like," I said. "She'll probably look like that but lying in a bed instead of sitting instead of sitting in her chair."

We spent a weekend sitting with her, having caught her in the tailwind of the last sprint of vibrance and cheekiness before settling into a state of restful (yet alert) readiness waiting for death.

This memory of her reminds me of the Waiting Place in Dr. Seuss's book, Oh, the Places You'll Go! I'm sure she's hearing my thoughts right now and guffawing from heaven. 

"Good one, Kim," she'd say.