Birthdays With Aunt Myrtie

Miss Myrtle Marquis, circa 1918.

Time, it has been famously said, keeps on slippin' into the future, and as it moves inexorably on to points unknown it leaves us bobbing in its wake to sink or swim with the outgoing tide. Change is a biological imperative and a key component of God's design. New generations rise to take our place and help us step down to take our last walk into the fading light. It is the most natural of phenomena, and yet I can't help begrudge a few minor points.

I appreciate the fact that my family, once so compact and easily contained, has become a large, gangly creature that romps about like an overactive but well loved chocolate Labrador. Full of exuberance and easy affection, it runs in circles that grow ever wider and far flung. I don't know half my cousins' children by face or name, and I am even a little hard pressed to identify their parents, too. It seems sometimes that I am losing touch not only with the generation that came before but the one that has come after as well. That bothers me a little.

I want to know these younger people, and I think it's a shame that most of them have not had the great privilege to grow up personally knowing the names I hold as famous: Ira, Kate, Della, Myrtle, Lyman, Lee, Perry and more. The wistful attention that I paid to the stories they told of Poly, Eileen, Hannah and Alexander years ago is what motivates me to tell stories like this one today.

Her name was Myrtle Elizabeth Marquis Jordan, although we always called her Myrtie. She was the third sister among Hannah's surviving daughters, and I still marvel at how close she, Kate and Della were. For a long time, they did not let a day go by without visiting one another in their homes, and they even worked together in the laundry at the Old People's Home.

Myrtie lived on Oak Street, too. In fact, she lived at three different addresses on Oak. She and her husband Frank, daughters Gerry and Elaine and sons Paul and Joe lived with the Huffstutlers at 153 during World War II. After the war, they lived across Raymond Street in what we came to know as "Mrs. Purdy's house." Finally, after Frank had died and her children had grown up and left home, she lived across and a few doors up the street with her friend "Aunt" Martha Huber.

Martha was no relation to us, but we called her "Aunt" just the same. She was very sweet but given to sudden lapses in comprehension that somehow always managed to devolve into spirited diatribes on the exemplary character of her parakeet, Buddy. (Truth be told, while she had the dedication necessary to own several parakeets over the years she had imagination enough for only one name: Buddy.)

Myrtie was such a frequent visitor at 153 Oak that she had her own bed there in Kate's room. When it was available, it's where I slept when visiting. If it was not, I ended up on the roll-away. One night, when the house was full to overflowing, Kate made me a bed in the bathtub. More comfortable than Myrtie's bed, which had a pillow that doubled as a sandbag (or vice versa), it became my instant favorite, and I gave Kate ample reason to regret her ingenuity for years to come. (Looking back, Kate may have been trying to safeguard my 7 year old pride during an extended bout with bladder problems and bedwetting--ingenious indeed.)

Myrtie was very sweet, always singing or whistling, eager to talk and laugh. She always shared gum--something no other adult did in my recollection--but she had a habit of sticking it under the table when she was finished with it and no one was looking. None of us ever dared to say a word about it (till now). She also wore clip-on sunglasses over her prescription glasses. It always struck me as so modern and stylish--as if she were a character out of The Great Gatsby--that it still fascinates me to this day.

At some point in her life, Myrtie had developed severe hip problems. I remember how she struggled to walk and how she lurched from room to room. It's only recently (thanks to my own hip problems) that I have realized just how much pain she must have been in--and yet she never complained. Instead, she always smiled, laughed and sang hymns ("The Old Rugged Cross" was always her favorite). She was at peace with her pain. In fact, she always seemed to have that "perfect peace" for which Kate, Della and Ira were so well known.

That's not to say that things didn't affect her. After she moved to the modern high-rise public housing apartment building on State Street, I spent the night there with my cousin (her grandson) Jordie. Space was tight in the tiny apartment, and Myrtie slept on a foldaway couch (how that must have added to her pain!). Jordie and I had the floor and we were fidgety and wound up (probably full of sugar) as 12 year old boys often are. Ten minutes of that and Aunt Myrtle laid down the law: be quiet, go to sleep OR ELSE. The next day, Myrtie was back to her old, happy self.

Myrtie and I had a special bond because we shared the same birthday. Growing up, we shared many birthday parties and cakes at Oak Street as well. She always made a point of singling me out for affection but, like Kate and Della, she also made a point of reaching out to all of my cousins. Between the three of them, they created a strong, wide web of love and affection that helped keep our growing, gangly family close and warm. Theirs was a high standard of family parenting--one to which I hope we can all continue to aspire.

Don't Tell Me About Your Lifestyle

Kathleen and Jim with Cheryll, 1970.

Most of my memories of my cousin Kathleen revolve around the small, private war she fought against her parents and the other older adults in our family. As a baby boomer, I think she was the first of our generation to experience what it was like to have different life expectations than our parents.

It cannot have been easy growing up in a family of steadfast, unchanging Christian values against the backdrop of one of the most tumultuous periods in American history. There must have been times when she felt caught between a rock and a hard place. Her friends had so many things--color televisions, life-size dolls, closets full of store-bought clothes--while she (and the rest of us) had only black-and-white screens, rag dolls and home-sewn jumpers. It didn't help that our family had no money or that illness and circumstance demanded frugality from all of us. She could have become bitter about our lack but instead she became inventive and inspired--a crusading Auntie Mame of our very own who led us on a seemingly never-ending series of adventures.

Perhaps it is a little ironic that, perceiving a lack of "fun" in our lives that Kathleen introduced us to freedoms and activities that are unavailable to kids today. I saw my first drive-in movie (Live and Let Die) with my sisters Susan and Donna, cousins Becky and Colleen along with Kathleen, her husband Jim and daughter Cheryll. Eight people in one car must have been bad enough but Kathleen (surely silently screaming "Live! Live!") made sure each of us was liberally supplied with popcorn, candy and soda. I shudder today to recall that Jim calmly allowed a few of us to watch the adventures of James Bond while perched on the roof of his beloved, fire-engine red Charger.

Jim was always Kathleen's silent partner in crime (which, incidentally, is a shame because he happens to be wickedly funny). With his help, Kathleen simultaneously horrified our parents and delighted us by giving us our first lessons in driving (I was 12), taking us bowling (rented shoes!) and making that most pernicious of childhood dangers--candy--freely available (tooth decay!).

Strangely enough, Kathleen and my father were cohorts of a sort. Both regarded "bored" as a four-letter word, and both constantly pointed to the myriad of activities available to us that could be undertaken without parents. Fireworks, for example, were best watched from the roof (although they did require a certain hushed secrecy and ready access to a ladder). If a parent absolutely had to be present, then he or she was expected to chauffeur us from one suburban display to the next, chasing the bright explosions across the county until we were too tired to "ooh," ah" and "oh."

However, whereas Dad had a tendency to counsel caution for fear of inevitable lifechanging ínjury, Kathleen urged abandon for the sake of joy. Challenged by authority, her response was a call to arms, "Don't tell me about your lifestyle!" and she preached a message of curiosity, exploration and wonder. Thanks in large part to her, my cousins and I share a love of laughter, board games and good chocolate. Hers is a legacy I fondly remember.

So much of what we experienced as kids has been lost over the years. There were times when we could roam literally for miles on foot without causing our parents any concern. We could chat with people we hardly knew or didn't know at all without fear of being compromised in any way. We could build houses in alien trees, cavort with strange dogs and ignite ill-gained cherry bombs without any adult supervision whatsoever. The world is a darker place today with a dearth of open spaces and a surplus of fear. It's not safe for children any more, and we have to accept that. At least that's the way it seems until I hear those immortal words in my head: "Don't tell me about your lifestyle!"

A Phone Call from India

A Facebook friend recently shared a story about her cousin, a young college girl named Devya who died tragically last month in the coastal city of Goa, India after being struck by a hit-and-run driver.

Like many twentysomethings, Devya's life revolved around her phone. She even worked as a customer service rep for ATT Wireless in one of India's many call centers. She and her boyfriend Rajan were considered by their friends to be soul mates, in part because they spent so much of their free time talking on the phone (Rajan lived several hundred miles away in Mumbai). Friends said they never saw her without her phone and constantly asked her advice on which phone to buy and which service provider to use.

Given that Devya spent so many hours on the phone, she urged Rajan and her friends to use ATT (her carrier) so they could all be on the same network and save money. In fact, she was so passionate about her phone that she made her friends and family promise that, if the unthinkable were to ever happen, they would cremate her with her phone.

After Devya's untimely death, her body was prepared for ritual cremation. However, the attendants were surprised to find that they could not lift the body when it came time to transport the body to the ghats. Even when several members of the family volunteered to help, they could not lift the bier. Being highly superstitious, the family decided to consult a local Brahmin in hopes of communicating with the dead girl's spirit and sorting out the situation.

The Brahmin arrived with a great deal of pomp and circumstance not the least because the whole neighborhood was eagerly watching the unfolding spectacle. After burning incense, chanting mantras and invoking Hanuman (and Ganesh just to be safe) he picked up a stick and called to the dead girl's soul.

After a few minutes, the Brahmin lifted his face to the hushed crowd and said, "This girl is missing something." As the neighbors and other onlookers set up a murmuring buzz, her friends pushed their way to the front of the crowd where they told the Brahmin about Devya's fervent wish that she be cremated with her phone--a desire that, until now, had been entirely overlooked and forgotten. A cousin or a niece was sent running to the house to retrieve it--SIM card and all--and it was placed into the dead girl's hand after which the attendants easily lifted the bier and carried her to the ghats.

It was a spectacular pyre--everyone insisted it was the best of the season--with high, spiraling flames of red and green. Surely, they said, Devya's soul had been successfully released from this world and speedily sent on its journey to its next incarnation. The circumstances surrounding Devya's death and cremation were so unusual that the entire neighborhood talked about it for weeks, and yet no one remembered to contact Rajan and inform him of his beloved's death.

Two weeks later, however, Rajan called Devya's mother.

"Aunty," said Rajan. "I'm coming home later today. Please cook something nice for me, but don't tell Devya that I'm coming home. I want it to be a surprise."

Devya's mother, startled at the realization that Rajan was still unaware of Devya's death (and kicking herself for it), stammered, "You just come straight here when you get home. We want to talk to you about something very important."

When Rajan arrived, Devya's parents sat him down and immediately told him about the accident in which Devya had been killed. Rajan, however, was convinced that it was all a joke. He laughed and laughed, "I know you're trying to fool me! She's not dead. Stop it now. Tell Devya to come out from wherever she's hiding. I brought a gift for her all the way from Mumbai."

Shocked and a little uncomfortable, Devya's parents pressed their case by presenting Rajan with Devya's death certificate and showing him the pictures of the funeral pyre they'd taken with their ATT phones. Rajan, subdued and sweating now, murmured, "No, no, It's not true. It can't be true. We just spoke yesterday. She's been calling me everyday."

Rajan was shaking his head back and forth when his phone suddenly rang. Everyone jumped and Rajan gasped. "See! This call--it's from Devya! Look! Look for yourselves!"

He held the phone out to the family so they could each see the familiar number on the display.

"Answer!" said Devya's mother eagerly. "Answer!"

"Hello? Hello?"

"Rajan!" Devya's voice responded loud and strong. "It's Devya! When are you coming home? I want to see you!"

Horrified, Rajan dropped the phone and lost the connection.

"It was her!" said Devya's mother. "It was her! How is that possible?! We burned her phone!"

"The SIM card!" shouted Rajan. "Someone has her SIM card!"

"No! No!" said the mother. "The Brahmin insisted that we leave the SIM card in her phone. We burned that with her, too!"

"Call the Brahmin!" insisted Devya's father. "He fixed this the first time. Maybe he can fix this, too."

Once again a call was made for the Brahmin and once again word of what happened spread like wildfire through the neighborhood until hundreds of people crowded around the house watching and waiting to see what would happen. The Brahmin, nervous about the crowd, brought along his master to advise him on what was becoming an increasingly complex situation.

Together the two Brahmins burned incense, invoked the entire Hindu pantheon (including Kali, just to be safe), picked up sticks and called to the dead girl's soul. The pair hunched over their sticks, rocked back and forth and chanted for hours as they struggled to pierce the veil between the worlds and connect with Devya's spirit.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Rajan loudly blurted "Well? Have you contacted her? Was it really her that called? Is she calling from beyond the grave?"

"We're not sure," sighed the older Brahmin. "We keep getting sent straight to voice mail."

Note: This story is based on a joke making the rounds on Facebook.

It's a Dog's Life

My (late) best friend Blake.

I am convinced that Christians are dogs. Before you get upset, please understand that's a good thing because I am equally convinced that God is a passionate dog lover. Not only that, but God is a dog walker. He doesn't just open the back door and expect us all to hang out in the back yard (even if it is fenced).

Instead, he patiently snaps on a lead and takes us out into the world on a nice, long walk--just the thing we need to stay active and healthy.

Being dogs, we tend to get distracted easily. We find something to sniff and we can get all caught up in that moment of success and bliss. If it's really something extraordinary, we'll want to roll around in it a bit. We may even plop right down and say, "This is good. In fact, it's great. Thank you God!" and we'll fully expect to stay right there. But God isn't done. He pulls on the lead.

"C'mon, that's enough now, time to go."

"Go? But I want to stay here. This is perfect. This is what I've been looking for, I'm very happy right here, thank you."

We dig our heels in and pull back on the lead, determined to stay right there. No way, no how are we going to budge.

Like dogs, we can be happy in that extended moment--satisfied, even. But God has bigger plans. He wants to take us all the way around the block, past the park and back again. He knows that there are an infinite number of interesting, happy, successful smells all along the way. There are other dogs to meet and sniff and play with, too. What's more, he knows that rest and refreshment are waiting at home. Those who do as he asks along the way will get a nice, long belly scratch at the end. There's even the strong likelihood of a long nap by his side.

So the next time I get satisfied with myself and my situation, I'm going to try very hard to listen a little more closely to God's commands. After all, who doesn't like a nice, long belly scratch?