If she were still alive, my mother would have turned 87 today. As it is, I got an e-mail from my cousin Erwin, telling me that my Aunt Käthe, her sister, has died tonight. She has been living in a nursing home, with increasing dementia, for the last couple of years. She was the last of my mother's 9 siblings, after my uncle Josef passed away last April. Now, their whole generation is wiped out, and we're the seniors. What a strange thought.
Anna, Regina, Käthe, my grandmother, and Gerda
with my cousins Stefan and Bettina, 1968
When I told Joey about it, she said immediately that they're celebrating my mother's birthday in heaven together. If they are, I am quite sure there is an opulent lunch meal involved - more than twice as much as they could possibly eat together. They will be sitting around a large table, all ten sisters and brothers. The sisters will be gossiping about neighbors or celebrities, or recite old nursery rhymes from their childhood, in the funny dialect of the little village close to the Luxemburg border where they grew up. Käthe will, at one point in time, show her latest knitting creation (she owned a yarn store back in the days, and I loved watching her knitting machine create the most incredible patterns within minutes), and Gerda, the second-youngest sister, who died of colon cancer in the 1990s, will pull her her own needlework out of her bag to collect some appreciation. My uncle Adolf, the youngest of the brothers, victim of an ugly car accident in 1973, will get drunk and throw in some bawdy jokes. Johann, Josef, and Peter, all of them craftsmen, and all of them having passed away in their 70s, will be sitting in a corner, smoking and drinking beer, talking about their jobs or about politics, but not too much, just the necessary things - or Peter might find the newspaper and do the crossword. I don't really know anything about Maria, the oldest of the sisters; she died in a house fire right after the war with her two sons, so I never got to know her. Nor do I know Martina, the youngest, who already died a few days after her birth. For some inexplicable reason I imagine Maria being a gentle, rather shy woman, and Martina being strong-headed and fierce - an amazon, a fighter, indestructible.
At one point in time, one of the men will get up and talk the others into going for a digestive walk, or they will turn on the TV and watch a show together. There will be large amounts of afternoon coffee and cake with whipped cream, and everyone will praise the chef (who, without doubt, was one of the sisters), but also complain repeatedly about having overeaten. And they will start bickering with each other, because an old story told by one of them will not make sense to one of the others, so they will try to reconstruct the true chain of events, which can, of course, never be really achieved, since none of them is willing to give in and deviate from their point of view. This is the time when Regina, the youngest, will get up, plant her fists on her hips, look down at the bunch, and start taking care of the dishes, wearing one of her apron dresses over her good clothes, with a big smile on her face.
Or maybe, just maybe, it will be different this time. Maybe they will, for once, all have a really good time together. Maybe they won't even wear the fancy clothes, but be comfortable. Maybe they will eat out instead of spending hours in the kitchen. Maybe they will sing and dance, talk about meaningful things, go for a late-night swim in the village pond, laugh and be happy - and wear flowers in their hair, as they, apparently, did in the photo above, taken in 1968 during what looks like their mother's birthday. I sure hope they will.
On Facebook, I said RIP - but come to think of it, much more than peace, I wish them fun. All of them.
If she were still alive, my mother would have turned 87 today. As it is, I got an e-mail from my cousin Erwin, telling me that my Aunt Käthe, her sister, has died tonight. She has been living in a nursing home, with increasing dementia, for the last couple of years. She was the last of my mother's 9 siblings, after my uncle Josef passed away last April. Now, their whole generation is wiped out, and we're the seniors. What a strange thought.
Anna, Regina, Käthe, my grandmother, and Gerda
with my cousins Stefan and Bettina, 1968
When I told Joey about it, she said immediately that they're celebrating my mother's birthday in heaven together. If they are, I am quite sure there is an opulent lunch meal involved - more than twice as much as they could possibly eat together. They will be sitting around a large table, all ten sisters and brothers. The sisters will be gossiping about neighbors or celebrities, or recite old nursery rhymes from their childhood, in the funny dialect of the little village close to the Luxemburg border where they grew up. Käthe will, at one point in time, show her latest knitting creation (she owned a yarn store back in the days, and I loved watching her knitting machine create the most incredible patterns within minutes), and Gerda, the second-youngest sister, who died of colon cancer in the 1990s, will pull her her own needlework out of her bag to collect some appreciation. My uncle Adolf, the youngest of the brothers, victim of an ugly car accident in 1973, will get drunk and throw in some bawdy jokes. Johann, Josef, and Peter, all of them craftsmen, and all of them having passed away in their 70s, will be sitting in a corner, smoking and drinking beer, talking about their jobs or about politics, but not too much, just the necessary things - or Peter might find the newspaper and do the crossword. I don't really know anything about Maria, the oldest of the sisters; she died in a house fire right after the war with her two sons, so I never got to know her. Nor do I know Martina, the youngest, who already died a few days after her birth. For some inexplicable reason I imagine Maria being a gentle, rather shy woman, and Martina being strong-headed and fierce - an amazon, a fighter, indestructible.
At one point in time, one of the men will get up and talk the others into going for a digestive walk, or they will turn on the TV and watch a show together. There will be large amounts of afternoon coffee and cake with whipped cream, and everyone will praise the chef (who, without doubt, was one of the sisters), but also complain repeatedly about having overeaten. And they will start bickering with each other, because an old story told by one of them will not make sense to one of the others, so they will try to reconstruct the true chain of events, which can, of course, never be really achieved, since none of them is willing to give in and deviate from their point of view. This is the time when Regina, the youngest, will get up, plant her fists on her hips, look down at the bunch, and start taking care of the dishes, wearing one of her apron dresses over her good clothes, with a big smile on her face.
Or maybe, just maybe, it will be different this time. Maybe they will, for once, all have a really good time together. Maybe they won't even wear the fancy clothes, but be comfortable. Maybe they will eat out instead of spending hours in the kitchen. Maybe they will sing and dance, talk about meaningful things, go for a late-night swim in the village pond, laugh and be happy - and wear flowers in their hair, as they, apparently, did in the photo above, taken in 1968 during what looks like their mother's birthday. I sure hope they will.
On Facebook, I said RIP - but come to think of it, much more than peace, I wish them fun. All of them.
such a wonderful tribute, big hugs.
ReplyDeleteI second Tracy. It's just wonderful to read how you think they will celebrate together. Love this text
ReplyDeleteHugs!