Another World

Another World

Anticipating my first meeting with my great-aunt Edna, I gripped the steering wheel and rechecked the map as the hum of the blacktop rushing under my feet provided accompaniment, enhancing the tempo of my excitement. She lived in Haven Township, a farming community in central Minnesota, which was located some distance off the highway. The rutted country roads lured me to her gravel driveway that crackled and sputtered a welcome as I edged toward her world. I eased my car to a stop alongside the weathered two-story farmhouse where I paused to take in my new surroundings. I inhaled the distinct aroma of shade provided by the tree-filled backyard that appeared barren in contrast to the overgrown tangle of the front and side yards. My eyes hesitated, taking in the large stump with the axe still stuck atop it, sitting in the center of the desolate backyard, before traveling to the enormous woodpile stacked neatly alongside the garage. The gangly overgrowth of the front yard turned out to be gardens: vegetables, herbs, and flowers consumed three quarters of the front and side lawns.

The weary squeak of the wood-framed screen door drew my attention from the quaint scene toward Edna, who I saw for the first time as she pressed the old wooden door gently open. As her 96-year-old frame appeared in the doorway, wearing a blue flowery housedress with white canvas loafers and gray curly hair framing her tanned face, she beckoned to me with a generous smile and opened arms.

“Cindy? Come on in.” She welcomed me into her kitchen offering me, a virtual stranger, a lavish hug, as she might offer an old friend. “I’m so glad you could come for a visit. Excuse my tomatoes,” she said, as she walked down the tomato-lined path that trailed through her kitchen. “It is getting too cold for them at night.”

A crazy quilt of bright green tomatoes splotched with patches of orange and red overlaid the counters, the tiny Formica table, and most of the newspaper-covered floor of the capacious kitchen. White cotton curtains framed the open window and allowed the faint aroma of wood-smoke, picked up by the obstinate wood-stove that sat stoic alongside the modern electric range, to drift through the kitchen. The ancient refrigerator hummed and the scuffed and sagging hardwood floors moaned as Edna led the way toward the living room.

“Let’s sit over here, by the window.” The rippled yellowed picture window framed the front yard I had just come from and the swirling dusty rays of daylight that penetrated the thick glass provided the dim lighting that graced the room. Edna offered ice-cold lemonade and we sipped from tall glasses while seated at a humble wooden table in her narrow living room, sparsely decorated with a square upholstered armchair, a couple stout and scuffed side tables topped with antique lamps and dainty lace doilies, and a tired spindle backed rocker. She focused her attention entirely on my desire to compile a family history accentuated with photographs, family legend, and tradition. Her crystal blue eyes followed my gestures as she leaned intently forward, savoring every moment of our conversation.

“I have lots of old pictures; you’re welcome to take whatever you want.” She pushed the large wooden box toward me and smiled eagerly. She regarded with pleasure my excitement at touching old family treasures and she comforted my quivering hand, awed by the thrill of finally seeing the faces that belonged to my ancestors. Then, Edna placed a small leather-bound book in my open hands. “I don’t know if you can copy these,” she said of the tintype photos that were contained by the tiny album, as she identified which photos she recognized, “but you can take them too if you’d like”. Edna’s eyes grew wide at the prospect of posting the photos on the internet in the hope of learning the names of the unidentified people. “You’ll let me know if you find out who any of these are, won’t you?”

Reassured by my promise, Edna stunned me again. “We should go over to my sister’s place and look through her pictures. She has some that I don’t.” Smiling into my gaping mouth, she continued, “She doesn’t live far, just a few miles. Let me give her a call and let her know we’re coming.”

As we crossed the heavy yard and headed toward my car, Edna confessed that her neighbors had removed the battery from her car out of concern for her safety. She didn’t think her driving was a problem, but agreed to stop because they cared so deeply for her. “I guess at ninety-six it’s time to let someone else do the driving.” She smiled and pressed my hand deeper into hers. “They take me wherever I need to go, so I guess it all works out. I really miss my sister, though. I don’t get to see her too much any more. But we’re going now, aren’t we?”

Within a few miles, we transitioned from Edna’s disregarded haven, to Cecelia’s modern oasis. Celia’s son had built her a small home on the edge of the family farm. The beige vinyl siding groaned in the autumn sunshine as we stepped from the smoothly paved drive onto the front walk of Celia’s spacious yard. Dressed in neatly creased, navy blue slacks and a white blouse framed by a lacy collar, Cecelia, like her sister, held the aluminum framed screen door open, welcoming us into her home.

We sat around the oval dining table, which stood squarely between the kitchen and living room. From the kitchen, with its immaculate countertops, electric appliances, and sparkling tiled floor, emanated the light aroma of lemon and the purr of the new refrigerator. While opposite the kitchen, a large cat lounged in the floral jungle of the living room possessed by lush, viney plants that accentuated the navy blue upholstered surfaces.

“What?” Celia leaned closer.

“She said she wants to write about the family,” Edna raised her voice and repeated my words to her sister. As she spoke, Edna rested her right hand on Celia’s arm and Celia repaid the kindness with a like gesture.

Celia and Edna recounted the stories of their childhood as we examined the pictures: sleigh rides, swimming, school, and childhood games. “Cousin Karl taught me how to dance.” Celia, whose murky cataract eyes now sparkled, threw back her shoulders and rose up in her seat.

They shared the adventures of the extended family, recalling the family picnic’s at Uncle Foster’s farm. “That’s your great-grandfather.” Edna nodded at me with a grin and a wink.

“Cousin Ernest played his bones and the fiddle. He sure could fiddle.”

“Everyone in the family was musical.” Joy radiated from Edna’s face as she spoke punctuating the significance of her words by pointing in the air. The pride and respect they held for each family member exuded from their faces and through their words.

They shared the story of the flying machine, built by their father and Uncle Foster. The brothers launched their own flying machine, inspired by the Wright brothers, from the loft of Foster’s barn.

“My father, James, piloted the contraption.”

“He ended up on the ground under the loft with a broken arm.” Edna leaned back in her chair and joined Celia’s laughter at the memory.

The sister’s hands parted as Celia spoke of the family members who had been lost through the years. The memory of losing her older sister, Sara, and Sara’s daughter of only six years on the same day became to great a sorrow to bear. Celia rose and excused herself from the room to weep for her lost family.

Edna stifled my attempts to offer comfort by chiding me, “let her be; she’ll be ok.” She shook her head and moved closer to me, “sometimes she forgets, for a minute, how blessed she is. You know, she had five children of her own and she raised Sara’s remaining three daughters as well." Edna's eyes glistened as they looked directly into mine and touched me. “George and I were never blessed with children. We tried many times but I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.” Edna related to me that she had experienced the devastation of miscarriage six times. “I am thankful for the wonderful family and friends that I have. I have so many people in my life to love and look after me. I am truly blessed.”

The sisters parted shortly thereafter, and I returned Edna to her companioned solitude. I watched Edna’s solitary shrinking figure in my rear view mirror as I drove away from her desolate existence with her memories and I reflected on the treasures I had obtained that day, the photos and the priceless stories. I felt grateful that Edna had accepted me so completely into her world, which was not a specter of a time past but a specter of a trust rarely seen.