Heir to the Legacy

My father's last surviving sibling died nearly two weeks ago, on what would have been my cousin Phil's birthday. My Aunt Betsy was 82. Phil was in his mid-40s when he died 5 years ago from complications of lymphoma and a bone marrow transplant. He had married later in life. His sons were too young to have any memories of him other than him being sick. That is the shameful part of it all. He was my favorite cousin. Betsy was my favorite aunt.

Aunt Betsy was the eccentric aunt. Every kid should have an eccentric aunt. OK, when we were young, we all thought she was weird. It isn't until you are a bit older that you are able to appreciate and respect those who dance through this life to their own rhythm.

My aunt knew no strangers. She was a genuine and honest person who was always willing to lend a hand to anyone in need. Like many of her generation who grew up during the Great Depression, she had developed a life-long mentality of frugality. She wasted nothing.

She was rescuing furniture and household goods from the trash routes long before it became fashionable to the home decorating scene as "shabby chic." There was no reason to throw away anything usable. Someone, somewhere, at some point in time would have need of it. My daughter says I am a pack-rat. HA! My squirreling and saving and salvaging and dumpster-diving obsessions don't even approach the level of that of my aunt.

Her two sons, who live out of state, have the unenviable task of going through her house. It will take at least two years, I am estimating.

The church, of which she was a founding member I came to learn, held her funeral service and then provided a luncheon after her burial. It was an interesting experience to meet my aunt's friends. For that's where her true friends were, in her church.

My aunt was buried in the plot next to my father. When I had spoken with my mother on the phone during that hectic week of arrangements, family coming from out of state, and other miscellany associated with family dysfunction and grief, my mother had commented that she and purchased the plot next to my father for my aunt.

I had been a bit perplexed by this but did not have time to question further during the flurry of activity that week. Betsy's husband, whom she had known since elementary school, had died several years ago. He had been cremated. The reason why there was a need for a funeral plot in which to bury my aunt remained a quandary.

It wasn't until we were at the grave site that the mystery was revealed to me. My cousin Gary, her younger son, commented to me, "Mom decided she didn't want to be buried with the Hoover's. She wanted to be buried with the Johnson's." My reply was spontaneous. "You know, that's just how the Johnson's are."

My baby sister (She will always be my baby sister.) and I were picked up from Mom's house by her husband. She and I were going to head back to Columbus for the luncheon at the church. While Jason was driving us back to their place, my sister was telling Jason about the Lutheran funeral service for my aunt. She laughed and concurred when I referred to Lutheranism as "Catholic Lite." The most difficult part of the funeral for me was when Psalm 23 was read aloud. I had not heard those words spoken aloud since I had read them myself at my father's bedside as he was quickly dying once the life support measures had been removed.

We dropped Jason at their house and headed out on the road. We were talking about my aunt on the drive back to Columbus. I told Deanna what Gary had commented to me at the cemetery and what my impromptu response had been. She laughed the knowing laugh. I guess you'd have to be one of us to understand all that was implied. "Yeah," my sister said, "you marry one of us and it's 'You're coming along for my ride.'" It was then that my sister told me Mom had not simply purchased the plot next to Dad for my aunt. She had purchased three plots in the row behind Dad and Aunt Betsy, as well. The new Johnson section has been staked.

Everyone had pretty well left the luncheon by the time my sister and I rolled in. Three of the ladies who were serving commented about the knitted shawl that I wore. It is my blue wool shawl, which upon beginning to make it, I had informed Hindolo, "This is going to be my winter coat. Therefore, you are not allowed to take me anywhere in the world to live where I cannot wear this as my coat. You have been given a mandate." I related that to the ladies, and they had laughed.

They told me that they had a prayer shawl ministry at the church. They made shawls to donate to a nursing home, and they had been very surprised at how many of the gentlemen in the nursing home had requested shawls made for them in dark colors. Thus far, they had donated fourteen shawls.

I had asked if they used primarily acrylic yarn for the shawls for washability and durability for use in the nursing home. The ladies replied that they used whatever they had or was donated. I told them that I had lots of acrylic yarn that I would be willing to donate. One of the ladies commented, "Betsy's niece having way too much of something on hand. Imagine that." We all laughed. I assured them that it was genetic.

Betsy's older son joined my sister, me, and a couple of the folks from the church at our table. We hadn't seen one another in close to thirty years. We talked and laughed about all sorts of things relating to my aunt.

My sister pondered aloud that my aunt was probably a millionaire, and wished good luck to my cousin in finding all the bank accounts, bonds, investment paperwork.

When our grandmother had died in the early 1990s, my Aunt Betsy was the executor of the estate. Before the estate was settled, my Aunt Lois, the eldest of the siblings died. In order to settle Lois's estate, the money from our grandmother's estate had to be distributed. Betsy produced bonds, CDs, and other investment accounts all in the name of Lois and Lois's children. Aunt Betsy had invested everyone's money for them. She had seen no reason for it to be idle in some account for the state to pillage while waiting for the farm to be sold. She had divided the money up and invested it for everyone.

My sister said that she, Mom, and my sister Luanne had been talking in the days before Aunt Betsy's funeral. One of them had posed the question that they had wondered when was the last time Aunt Betsy had bought a new item of clothing. The consenus had been that it was probably for her husband's funeral. One of my sisters then thought that perhaps Betsy had bought a new dress for Dad's funeral. Mom's response, "No she didn't." Too funny! but not surprising at all.

Aunt Betsy was the aunt who always sent a card for EVERYONE's birthday. Nieces, nephews, their spouses, great nieces, great nephews. It was a running gag for many years about the dollar that she always enclosed in the card for the kids. Deanna commented that she remembered being sixteen years old and getting that dollar from Aunt Betsy. Deanna had been teasing Ryan, my sister Luanne's son, on his birthday last year, "Did you get your dollar from Aunt Betsy?" He had received five dollars, Luanne had said. We all laughed and chimed in unison, "Inflation!"

It was good to share the memories and the laughs. It was good to see the old photos that had been displayed at the funeral home during calling hours. My cousin Gary commented to me, after looking at the old photos of his mom, how much I looked like her. On seeing them, I had to admit that he was right.

With the passing of the last of my father's siblings, that era of the family history has come to an end. It is a very sad thing. My mother is the last of the spouses. Phil was the first of the cousins to have died. My siblings and I are the youngest of the cousins. My dad had nieces and nephews older than him. Most of my cousins are in their mid-to-late 60s, and a few are in their 70s.

As my sister and I sat at the luncheon talking with Betsy's oldest son, Todd, and reminiscing about Aunt Betsy's wonderful brand of eccentricity, Todd commented about my own particular brand of eccentricity in what I had done with my life and career and time in the 30 years since he had seen me last.

I was wearing my Doc Marten Mary Jane shoes and black patterned tights with my black dress, its hemline hitting well above my knee, and blue knit shawl. I related that, as my daughter Amanda and I had been driving to the funeral that morning she had commented about my (typical for me but what would be most unexpected for the people whom we were soon to meet) funeral attire. "Sometimes I wonder if you just try to be different," Amanda had said. "No. I'm just me," I replied.

I think Aunt Betsy was one of the very few family members who truly understood that I was "me." That, however, did not stop her from chastising me to the nurses and the residents at the ICU nurses' station on the day my dad died for being too brilliant to not have gotten my PhD in computer science or in engineering. (Either would have made her happy.) I assured them all, the nonconformity and the wanderlust had not been in vain as it had made for a grand adventure thus far.

I am the heir to the legacy of my aunt. My older niece and nephew are getting to the age where they are coming to realize that I'm the eccentric aunt. The younger ones still view me as weird. Lots of fun, but weird. My grandchildren are still too young to know that I'm not typical of most grandmothers. The older two are beginning to observe some notable differences between the grandmother models, though. LOL

The torch has been passed to the next generation. I have a wonderful legacy and irreplacable role model in whose footsteps I will follow. Onward I go (marching to a samba)...