When I was a young girl, she smacked my back to help me when I was choking, and I stayed mad at her for a long time, or so I’ve been told. What I do remember is that she was the aunt who would swoop into Nana’s living room with a giant smile on her face and a larger-than-life giggle that never towered over us, but met us on our level, rolling around on the floor playing the tickle game.
In true Irvin fashion, she showed compassion for both stray animals and people, welcoming everyone with warm embraces and inviting them to her much-anticipated semi-annual cookout. I remember sitting in whiskey barrel chairs by the piano. At the same time, Percy, the family parrot, begged for food by shouting, “Helloooooo, hiiiii.” Nights would find us sprawled on the living room floor in sleeping bags, eventually falling asleep to the rhythmic song of the seven-year cicadas and my cousins’ loud snoring.
She was the eldest of seven; my mom was the youngest. Mom called her one summer when I was away at camp. Evidently, all the other kids’ parents had mailed letters and candy packages the week before so they’d arrive during their stay (who does that?!) With Uncle Rob, ever so faithful by her side, and their friendly dog, Ben, they saved the day by personally delivering hugs and lots of licorice. We met unexpectedly because of Ben, whom I hurried to pet before we locked eyes and recognized each other.
She was one of the most intelligent people I’d ever known, and I was convinced her boys were geniuses. She was an editor who enjoyed the finer things in life, such as crossword puzzles, classic movies, Broadway plays, Magic Eye art, chocolate, and neon-green cactus lamps. She accompanied us to see a show I wanted to see when I was a young teen. I had fallen in love with the music. I don’t think any of us knew how risqué it was until we actually watched it. I wonder what she really thought of it now, looking back! Regardless, I still love the music. How else could I remember that there are 525,600 minutes in a year?
She played piano and sang beautiful harmonies with her sisters. It was an honor to sing with them. Songs like “On Eagles Wings”, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” “Make Me a Channel of Your Peace,” and endless rounds of “White Copper Bells” are forever engraved on my heart. Some songs were fun and lively, like the campfire songs, “Eddie Coocha Catcha Coma Docinary Docinoma Sammy Wammy Wacky Brown,” “The Harlem Goat,” and the unforgettable “Campers of Ondesonk” anthem. I’m almost certain she was the originator of the terrifying Mad Myrtle tale. But I won’t hold that against her, even though I’m pretty sure I’m still traumatized from it.
It was always such a joy when she’d drive in from Bloomington to attend one of our parties. Of course, Rob’s famous apple pie made their visit all the sweeter. Before returning home, they’d pick up some half-baked pizza pies from Bobe’s to enjoy a taste of home later.
Rob continued bringing her down when they could swing it, even as her disease progressed. His emotional strength and constant love baffles me. On my last visit, he told me I may be able to write a sermon about all this. But no sermon could touch the love they shared and embodied together. I’m glad she didn’t let the mean old catholic school nuns take that away from her.
She reminded me of Nana in a million small ways. She once shared a story with me about my great-grandmother, who was of Irish descent. She explained that everyone in the neighborhood came to know her as “Grammy.” At the end of Grammy’s life, she’d gotten to the point where she was virtually blind. In her last moment, with her favorite nurse standing by to witness it, she sat straight up in bed, excitedly exclaiming, “I can see! I can see!”, then fell backward and died. Aunt Melanie admitted her “simple story” gave her much hope for her own ending.
Yesterday morning, my beloved Auntie M was finally set free from that awful disease, Alzheimer’s. On a recent visit, I was lying beside her on the bed, holding her hand when she opened her eyes and whispered so softly, “You’re so beautiful,” before kissing my hand and falling back asleep.
Her eyes may not have opened like Grammy’s, but she lived her life with a sense of wonder, bringing joy to everyone who came into her presence. She will be missed, but her hope and love continue to live on in those who knew her best. I aspire to live my life with the same wide-open eyes of wonder that she did.
I’m not sure how to conclude this, because, after all, how do you measure the life of a woman or a man? Oh, friends, let us measure in love.
