A few weeks ago, one of my favourite aunties took the path to the pearly gates. Though Auntie Barbara lived a hidden life as far as our world is concerned, she had an immeasurable impact in our family and her wider community. She knew the hard work of the farm for many years, and when she and Uncle Steve retired, heavy physical labour was replaced by valuable volunteering. She was hospitable and generous -- with her, there was always room for one more. Though she spoke her mind, she did it gently and kindly, but in a way that left no doubt where she stood on an issue. She was, to put it simply, a good, good woman.
My earliest memories of Auntie Barbara are from when my parents left my sisters and me with her family so Dad and Mom could get away for a few days. I remember her being a warm presence, though at the time I was more interested in her kids than in her.
For Auntie Barbara, it was no big deal to have three extra kids around, even if the littlest one was pretty homesick. Whenever we visited, it seemed there were always extra people at her family's farm -- in fact, I remember being a bit confused about which kids were my cousins and which were my cousins' cousins because they were all so nice to us.
As I grew, so did my connection with Auntie Barbara. As one of a great multitude of nieces and nephews (77 grandchildren for her parents!), I was always amazed at how she made the rounds, having little personal conversations with anybody and everybody at our big family gatherings. Next to Grandma, I think Auntie Barbara probably knew the most about the whole family, though I could be wrong. Nevertheless, she seemed to possess a natural curiosity that led her to go deeper than just hi-how-are-you conversations. When she asked a question about someone's life, she really wanted to know the answer. I can still picture her frowning and pursing her lips when news wasn't so good, or see her smile and hear her laugh when something was funny.
Auntie Barbara was the eldest of what I like to call a record-breaking family that never made it into Guiness' book because they weren't interested in being World Record holders. She was the firstborn of twelve siblings from the same two parents, all of whom made it past the age of 71. If I've done the math correctly, their collective years add up to 969, a rather impressive number that we all would have liked to see extended a few more years. But it wasn't meant to be.
As the eldest of her family, Barbara was a hard worker, like all my aunties, though she started earliest. Her gardens on the farm and in town were exceptionally pretty (Uncle Steve helped her a fair bit in the gardening department if I'm not mistaken), and her homes were well kept. There was often a quilt in progress somewhere to be found, and hand-me-downs to be shared. She and Uncle Steve raised six wonderful kids, who knew their routines and did their chores, and when we visited, I loved to tag along with them to find barn kittens, feed chickens, and learn about things that town kids like me generally didn't know.
Besides admiring her as a good, good woman, a loving sister, mom, aunt, grandma and great-grandma, I was impressed by how Auntie followed her own dreams while caring for others. In Grade 8 she had to leave school to help Grandma out at home, but years later, after having her own family, Barbara returned to studies for her High School Diploma and "graduated" with one of her kids. She was a regular contributor to her small town's newspaper, and took some pretty wonderful photos. She'd probably laugh if I told her she was one of the artsiest farm wives I'll ever know, but she was.
When I wrote a story about the faith of my grandparents, it was Auntie Barbara who suggested I send it to be published in a local magazine, and who phoned to congratulate me when it was. Shortly after that, she shared my story with another writer in her town, who offered to include a revised version of it in an anthology of stories called Saskatchewan 2000 Remembers.... Auntie Barbara had several short pieces in the same book, so it made me smile to think we were published "authors" together. Five years later, when a second anthology containing more of her writing was published, she sent me a copy of it as well. Yesterday, I went looking for it and was delighted to rediscover the fact that she had signed it for her niece "with the same interests."
From that time forward, whenever we saw each other, the question was always, "What have you been writing lately?" Though following Simple Moodlings was a challenge for someone who wasn't fond of computers, she did try for a little while. She was always working on writing of some sort, and my mom often passed along clippings of Auntie Barbara's articles from The Prairie Messenger or The Macklin Mirror. Mom tells me that one of the last times she spoke to her eldest sister, Barbara was lamenting the fact that she didn't have enough time to write. She intended to produce a little booklet with some of her life's stories, like Rudy, her younger brother did, but company and events were keeping her from it.
A few years ago, when I admitted to her that I had written a novel for which I couldn't find a publisher, she insisted on reading the manuscript. We had quite a discussion about it afterward, and the story, which was about a girl caught in the sex trade, moved Auntie Barbara to send a donation to the Centre to End All Sexual Exploitation, an Edmonton organization that helps women leave street life. I might not have known about the donation, but because I had also shared my story with CEASE's director, she sent a note to tell me about Auntie Barbara's gift. I was deeply touched.
Being a lover of handwritten letters, I found a kindred spirit in Auntie Barbara (and a few of her sisters, too). One year when I mailed a very late Christmas letter to her in March, I received an Easter card thanking me for it and saying how nice it was to get mail after the Christmas rush. From then on, I made sure to send my Christmas letter late. Her own epistles arrived at the most unexpected times, like when she got wind of an award I'd received because one of those confusing cousins of my cousins mentioned it to her. Receiving an envelope with her compact handwriting on it was always a treat, as it held her thought as she sat down to write, maybe with one of her special photographs made into a card, often with a clipping of a cartoon or some jokes tucked inside. It was almost like having coffee at her kitchen table.
The last time I actually saw Auntie Barbara was last summer, when Lee and I stopped by her place the weekend of her brother and sister-in-law's 60th wedding anniversary celebrations. It was almost lunch time, so we picked up a few buns and some cold cuts, and when we arrived at her home, as per usual, a few extra folks had appeared. "I guess I didn't make enough chicken noodle soup," she said, "but we can always stretch it a little." Typical Auntie Barbara. Add a little water, salt, and a few more homemade noodles, and there was just enough of her infamous homemade soup to go around, with buns, cold cuts and the ever-present instant coffee that tastes so good anywhere but my own home. Cousin Leon told some hilarious stories, and we all enjoyed a simple meal with a feast of family connection on the side.
Not too long ago Auntie Barbara called me to find out how my vertigo was, as her daughter, Wendy, was struggling with it too. I had no helpful suggestions for her to pass to my cousin, but was grateful for a little chat. It was the one time we forgot to talk about writing. Auntie told me that she was doing pretty well for being her age, and mentioned her amazement at her total of years creeping toward 90.
When I stop for backyard social distance visits with my parents, I often ask for updates about my uncles and aunts. Over the summer, Mom mentioned that her eldest sister had been in and out of hospital a few times, nothing to do with covid, as there haven't been many cases in rural Saskatchewan. But in the beginning of October, my parents called to let me know that Auntie Barbara had gone to hospital and been moved into palliative care, and that her family was gathering to be with her.
I kept a candle burning through that Sunday evening and all of Monday, as is my habit when I want to be reminded to pray for someone. On Tuesday morning when I lit my candle, which had gotten quite short, it went out within minutes, more quickly than I expected. I was looking for another candle when the phone rang and my mom told me that Auntie Barbara had "gone home" early that morning. Her faith in God was deep and strong, and I have no doubt she's found a huge welcome with all those angels and saints.
In this time of pandemic, attending a funeral three hours away isn't do-able when you come from a city with too many covid infections, so Lee and I were really grateful for the technology that allowed us to attend the service online. There were well over 1600 views by the end of the day, a sign of the many people who valued Auntie Barbara's friendship, more than a full cathedral's worth. None of us shed our tears alone.
Auntie Barbara, I remain so grateful for your friendship, warmth, and kindness. I have no doubt that you have found your way to the Source of All Being and are reunited with Uncle Steve and so many other loved ones. Thank you for being you, and sharing your interests with me. I'll miss you and your after Christmas letters, but will look forward to catching up somewhere in the Great Beyond. In the meantime, I continue to count you among my blessings.
With love,
Maria
