It has been a long time since I wrote about my Auntie E. If you need or want to know who she is, please read WEEKEND WITH AUNTIE E, or the earlier THE GRACIOUSNESS OF NO.
We left off with Auntie suffering from ‘the vapours’, clearly confused about the cultural and marketing importance of social media. She was living on her own in her family farmhouse then, at the tender age of 94. Shortly after my last weekend with Auntie E, her extended family convinced her she’d be better off in the local retirement home. Part of her family’s concern likely came from my concern about her mental stability, witnessed during our last visit.
About a week ago, I got a telephone call from (now) 100-year-old Auntie E. She told me that she was going home and I was to take her there. Feeling some guilt for being the initial source of family concern five years ago, I agreed.
When I arrived at Final Pasture Manor, she was ready in the front lobby area with two pieces of heavy luggage. She had taken care of the release paperwork and the account settling. Apparently, she had said all her goodbye’s too, because as I walking through the front door, the lobby began to fill up and she said loudly,
“Right, then, my nephew is here so I’ll be off. With each of you, we’ve had the chance to say what needed to be said. As promised, I’ll write and I’ll visit when I can. Goodbye to you all.”
Everyone was crying to some controlled extent and finally I asked one of the staffers why. She said, “We’ve never seen anyone leave this way. These are tears of joy for Eileen and tears of sorrow for us.”
As we drove to Auntie E’s farmhouse, the conversation went something like this:
“So Auntie, it seems like you’ve planned this return home pretty well. Who is going to look after you at the farm?”
“All through my extended time at the home, the people there kept telling me I was helping them more than they were helping me. I don’t really need looking after, but I have people who will help when I need it. Our village is a real community, you know. So what’s new with you, Dear?”
“Let’s see … well, I went to see that amazing Infinity Mirrors exhibition at the AGO last week—it was the final week.”
“I think Yayoi Kusama is who Yoko Ono aspired to be. As an artist, anyway.”
“Who? What?”
“We get the big city papers in the village, Dear. I followed Kusama’s career from the 1960s on, as it happened. Like most great artists, she had a patron—it was her family. They helped her financially but hurt her psychologically. Her family money is why the world got to see the pain they caused her, in the form of art. After her avant-garde phase in New York in the 1960s, she moved back to Japan and has lived in a mental institution ever since. She has a studio close to it and travels for her shows, but she never did what I’m doing today, poor thing.”
“What medication are you on, Auntie?”
“Something for arrhythmia. Nothing for dementia, if that’s why you’re asking.”
“It’s just that none of what you’ve just said is in the Infinity Mirrors show or the program material.”
“Well, Dear, that would be the marketing version of her story, wouldn’t it? The real story is usually the most interesting one. I don’t suppose the exhibition explained why Kusama is obsessed with, and repulsed by, sex?”
“No, actually.”
“Well, look it up on that Internet thingy of yours.”
At this point, some silence ensued between us. Then Auntie said,
“She performed with that Fleetwood Mac-somebody musical group, you know.”
“So she sings better than Yoko?”
Her head shook a bit at this point, but only briefly, so I knew it wasn’t a seizure or anything serious. Then her gaze drifted off to who-knows-where, but by then, we were almost pulling in to her farm’s lane way. I’d forgotten how bucolic and beautiful her proper place in the world is.
“Dear, I think you should stay here for a while. To rejuvenate. Be a bit more … mindful.”
“No Auntie, thank you, after I get you in and settled, and we stock up the fridge, I need to get back to the city. The cell coverage here is a bit spotty and the Internet is so slow.”
- Main image credit: ©Lindan Courtemanche, Elysian Fields, Glen Huron, Ontario.
