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Never A Burden

By

Kamouraskan

My thanks to Mel, and all the members of the Bardic Circle

Do you have a member of your family that was or is more precious than any heirloom? One person to whom you introduce and present as you would a jewel or a pearl of great price?

For me, this person was my Great-Aunt Elga.

Before I had been born, she had been a teacher and when forced to take retirement at age sixty-five, she began classes to teach immigrants how to speak English.

I once asked her what else she had taught in her career and she said, "I never taught any of the important subjects. I only taught little things."

Modest as always, because although she has been dead for over twenty years now, she still is teaching me.

I first knew her as my grandmother's youngest sister, one of two that owned our family home in Kamouraska, Quebec. The house, perched on a hill that runs down to the salt water of the St Lawrence, was bought by their father in 1884, though we have no idea when it was originally constructed. The two maiden aunts welcomed our family of six each summer. Aunt Elga was the shy, sensitive one; Pearl, the elder, was the cook and a dour presence most of the time.

In appearance, Elga seemed to be the stereotypical old woman. White haired, with a face as furrowed as a dried apple. Even soaking wet she couldn't have weighed more than one hundred pounds. By the time I was ten years old, she was already in her seventies.

I have only two pictures of her in my photo album. The first shows her at about 13. It reveals a pretty girl holding a huge cat overflowing in her arms, and she is looking at the camera with a shy smile. The second I took myself when she was 80, looking up from her frequent letter writing, her aged eyes solemnly dark and serious.

I was 18 when I changed schools after being accepted to a community college in the home of my ancestors, Quebec City. It was where Aunt Elga spent her winters, living alone since the death of Pearl. She had a three bedroom apartment in an exclusive downtown apartment building. She made it clear that it could be my temporary home for as long as I wished. Some of the family thought I was crazy to accept.

"You're going to stay with Aunt Elga?" my cousin had asked me.

I was a little embarrassed, I admit, but I nodded.

"She'll drive you crazy, you know. I know she's a sweetheart, but she's a silly old woman."

I didn't believe that, and there were many advantages for me. After a year in college residence I was not about to turn around and live with my parents again. I would be away from them, near the college, and still be at home in a way. My Aunt had no peers as a hostess and I loved her dearly. She had already inspired my mother and then myself with a love of visitors and guests.

"She's in her eighties! You should get your own place. Why live in an old people's tomb? What will you be able to do?"

My cousin had been wrong in many ways, none more in the implication that Aunt Elga would cramp my college social life. I ate well, our conversations were honest and never forced, and we became real friends, not just family. She had always taught us to make our guests feel at home, and as always, she taught by example.

I remember coming back late one night to the apartment with a group of drunken friends after carousing throughout the Quebec Carnival, and it had been only after her insistence that I allowed them to stay the night. The next morning found us all sprawled about, terribly hung over. She waited to hear voices before cautiously knocking on the bedroom door.

"What would you like for breakfast?" she had asked.

Ignoring the instant interest in the faces around me, I said, "NO. We are not going to be a bother. We can go out and have breakfast."

"But..." she wheedled. "You could still have some cereal beforehand. A bowl of cereal would take just a moment. Maybe a little fruit?"

My friend's pleading faces turned to me, and I folded. "Fine. But just cereal and we'll tidy up afterwards."

"Fine. Just cereal." Then she scurried away, saying in a rush, "And bacontoasteggsjuiceandcoffee."

We stayed in for much of that morning, each of my friends being charmed and later remarking, "That is an amazing lady, you do know that?"

Oh yeah, I did.

We grew closer during the six months that I lived there, and she seemed glad of my interest in the family, though I think she thought I'd be bored with her stories and would only tell them if I asked.

She was the youngest of a large family, where the women had lived into their eighties, many into their nineties. Her father had insisted that each of the girls have an education, and she chose to go to the same college I would attend 60 years later.

Her grandfather, my Great-Great Grandfather, had been a man of property and had known the famous men of his time and place. He had defeated the former Premier of the Province in the electoral race for Mayor of the capital city of Quebec. He had become the Chief Justice of the province and she had lived in his house directly across from Quebec's National Assembly. That house had been demolished in the 1960s in order to make way for the offices of the Premier, a spectacularly ugly building nicknamed The Bunker, and even more grotesquely, though appropriately, named Edifice 'H'.

What few vague memories I had of that elegant home with its side garden are dim, but I often wondered how it had affected her to lose it. It was only once I came across a calling card while dry-cleaning a formal suit belonging to one of her long dead brothers that I realised how it was just one of so many changes in the life of that pre-first war debutante. I remember weighing that card in my hand and thinking about how it would have been placed on a silver tray by the member of the household staff, to be carried to the lady upstairs while the gentlemen would wait in the parlour. A world as far away from mine as any in science fiction.

As the youngest, she should not have been surprised to find herself alone after the death of her sister Pearl. It gave her the incentive for her final project - staying healthy until her time to pass. It was one she met with determination and perseverance.

Of course, one night her time finally came.

She diagnosed her own stroke, called the ambulance herself, and opened the door for the attendants. I was in Montreal about to take a crucial college exam when I was told the news that she was in hospital, and dying. My mother assured me that Aunt Elga would prefer that I stay and complete it, and cursing myself, I knew she was right. The moment it was finished, I rushed to the bus station. There in the ancient Hotel du Dieu, I held her one last time. I drew back to stare into those tired eyes and knew that this life force was truly flickering, about to go out. We talked for a moment before a nurse asked us to leave. Her last words were, "Thank God, I'm not in a nursing home!' and I squeezed her hand to acknowledge that accomplishment. I told her I'd be back, but that showed how little I understood. She'd already waited for me.

She died, alone, minutes later.

I'm sorry, Aunt Elga. I never would have left had I known.

But when I think of the walk my mother and I took that night after leaving the hospital, I have no real sense of guilt. My mother was almost 70 herself, and this would be our last time in Quebec City together before her own health began to wane; the last time my mother would be well enough to take those hills and hillside staircases. She led me through her tour of Quebec City with references to all her childhood haunts, the places named for and venerated by my family. I memorised that walk, and I have that for my children and friends to share. I know Aunt Elga would have wanted me to have that time, even though it meant she did not have a hand to hold when that candle finally flickered out.

My mother and I had just arrived at the apartment when the phone rang with the news from the nurse on duty. We took off our coats, and said little for a while.

Her apartment was spotless as always. The week before, Aunt Elga had been in Kamouraska, having transferred the final deed for that building to my mother, passing it like a torch for the next generation. It had been damaged in a fire the year before and she had been reluctant to stay there again, but did so at my request. She had been worried that the house she had loved was gone. I spent months designing the new house, hoping that every wall moved would be seen by her as an improvement, not a change. I saved as much of the original wood as was possible; for shims, floor supports, exposing many of the original walls and ceilings. We spent time alone that summer with her as my hostess, and I revelled at being able to show her my months of work and the changes I had made to make it a home for our family for more generations. Her approval meant so much to me and I believe she did it deliberately because it was another way she could be useful, something that was always of crucial importance to her. It was gift from her that I can still remember her in that newer building, and her presence and support consecrated my renovations in my mind.

She had returned the next year, stayed for two months, ending her time with the celebration of her birthday. She had gone back to Quebec City seven days before her stroke. That Sunday Aunt Elga had taken Communion at the same church we would now be calling to arrange her funeral.

The church, Quebec's Anglican Cathedral, is an impressive building. The most prominent seats are those reserved by tradition in the Royal Box, maintained for the Royal Family for when they toured the Colonies. The walls and windows are covered with names of the dead, many of whom she had known. Some of whom shared her last name. Another reminder of all of the changes this seemingly frail woman had survived.

Though we had given only two days notice, the Cathedral was packed with people from all over Quebec and Canada.

After the service, before we left for the cemetery, I was stopped by a gentleman of Chinese origin who said, "Your Elga taught English to my father. And his brothers. They, and their children all would have liked to attend. Had you given us another day, we would have filled this church."

I apologised, but assured him that the church had been filled with their spirits and countless more.

Appropriately it was a cold and dismal day, the many flowers the only contrasts to the greyness of the cemetery. Aunt Elga's body was added to the hundreds of other family members on the lot that had been purchased 150 years before. Her name would soon be one more on the stones around us. It was hard to return to that bright apartment that had been my home one time, but we had a surprise for our guests.

Though she had only been home for one week, Aunt Elga had somehow managed to bake and make her jams. Every tin was piled high with her specialties, every jar labelled and filled.

To the end, she had been helpful. She had even catered her own wake.

I thought of her final words to me before I left her in that ancient, dreary hospital. "Thank God! I'm not in a nursing home!" No, I thought. It took years of hard work, but you did it.

The cousin who had warned me not to move in was at the wake. Even after all this time, on that occasion, I didn't correct what she had said. I wanted to, but Elga neither needed nor wanted my defence.

My cousin had said to me back then: "She'll drive you crazy! You'll have to do everything there. She only eats the blandest foods. She says she cares about someone, but as soon as one friend dies, she simply replaces them. She walks all about the building all winter, poking her head into everyone's apartments. And then the hockey!"

If I had felt it necessary, I would have said that she always had a reason. It was part of the plan. She ate, even though her tastebuds were long gone, to keep her body strong. She wandered about the building because she was determined to get her walks even in the winter when it was too likely that she could slip and disable herself. She had to be strong enough to be independent to the end.

She made new friends so she would not be isolated and that her mind would be stimulated. Many relied on her wisdom and support to get through their own lives. She would do whatever it took to remain healthy. 'Never a burden' was her clear, if unstated, goal.

Hockey? Another deliberate choice. She couldn't follow the trends in music, or theatre. And in order to have a reason to open the newspaper each morning and to keep some form of contemporary conversation with others, she followed sport that she had always loved. She kept beers in the refrigerator for her guests on those special nights, and sat, eyes glowing, glancing to her guests as she followed the puck from player to player.

But I would not confront my cousin. Elga's life was lived in the belief that her views, her faith, were never to be forced on others. She lived by example. Advice was a seed thrown onto the ground, and she never watched to see if it took root or landed on fallow ground.

You see, as I write this now, I am middle-aged, and when I passed forty I was alone with my teenaged daughter. I had begun to wonder if I had missed my chance at love. If I was too old for a life with someone and I would die alone too. That without youth, I was offering damaged goods with diminishing returns. Thank God, my aunt had passed to me many tips about growing old, and I can't tell you how much they have comforted me as I looked to my years ahead. No. No nursing home, or having others do for me. Never a burden. Thank you, Elga, thank you for that.

And thank you for so many other things. My best memories, my faith in God, and the depths in my friendships.

On that final day, the day of her wake, I took two things. A photo of Quebec that had been her father's and she had wanted me to have. The woman that I now live and love with had it repaired and properly framed as a present on my birthday. It hangs in a place of honour in our living room; but it is beautiful, and earns its place.

I also took the last jar of jelly; my favourite, made from the berries on our Kamouraskan property.

I held onto that jar for almost a year before realising, maybe remembering, that it had not been made as a keepsake. It was a jar of jelly, and as such would only keep for a time before spoiling; that its time of usefulness would pass. So I opened it, and did not use it for special occasions. I savoured each dollop each morning, even though it was a taste I would never have again on my tongue. Not as a goodbye, just part of life.

And then it was gone.

'I only taught little things,' she said.