Remembering Gussy

The moments we have together can be so fleeting and can seem so inconsequential. Life is structured that way, I suppose, so that humans don't realize how precious each moment is or how normal interactions shape who we are. In this post, I want to share my rememberings about my dad's youngest sister who passed away two days after her 52nd birthday in November from cancer. I am not sure that there are any words that make her death less tragic. She was the aunt who still lived on the farm when I was a little girl, the one most available to us when we visited. Although we did not see each other often in recent years, I have many memories connected to her  - and most of them make me smile. It's strange, isn't it, how family and friends are in our lives and, whether in the foreground or background, they comprise important bits of our stories.

So, in the form of a small tribute, I would like to share some of the scraps of memories I have about my Aunt Stephanie, although we called her Gussy.

• When we were kids, she lived on the farm and was still in school. After all, she was only a decade older than me! We went to watch her cheer lead at some basketball games. When she was at home on the farm, she would read stories with us, bake cookies and cakes, and sometimes sit down at the piano and play. She and my other aunts would play with my long hair. I loved the attention. My brother and I loved to visit the farm in part because of my youngest aunt hanging around.
• I can remember going outside to climb and play on bails of hay during a particular Christmas visit in the snow. We ascended to hide and peek down on one another. I can also remember riding in the car with her and cranking up the music. It was so cool.
• Once I wrote a letter to the farm and addressed it "Uncle Gus" as a joke that seemed funny to me as an adolescent. My Uncle Steve and my Aunt Gussy didn't open it for some time because they weren't sure who it was for! That was goofy.
• My two youngest aunts were really close and lived together in a nearby town when they were probably in their twenties. Joe and I got to visit and hang out with them in Bowman. That was really cool! My memories do not totally connect but I can remember them taking us cruising and also to the movies, perhaps to get us to be sleepy so we wouldn't be so attentive at a movie that kids normally wouldn't watch... We also made cookies, of course.
• When my aunt went to school for a while in Dickinson, we exchanged old-fashioned, snail mail letters. I loved pen pals and had several. Aunt Gussy wrote back and forth with me quite a bit to tell me her happenings and respond to mine. Even in the last years, I would pop a postcard in the mail now and then to randomly say hello. Sometimes, my aunt would send me a card with a stick of gum in it. That always made me smile. It's kind of cute, right?
• There were a lot of celebrations that happened in North Dakota. Anniversary parties for my grandparents and the weddings of almost all of my aunts and uncles. This was a blast. Getting dressed up and running around with the other kids, watching the grown ups dance, and just enjoying the big family. I remember my aunt at these events as she paid attention to all of us rugrats. I even remember her pretty (and fun) wedding when I must have been in junior high school!
• Gussy had a really dry sense of humor that made people laugh. She made up a song about Missoula, Montana that still sticks in my memory. She would tell stories about her dog that were hilarious. Some of her jokes weren't very funny except for the telling. We loved her for that.
• I really looked forward to seeing my aunt as an adult and thought it was cool to have her around. She visited my family in Wyoming when I was a teenager and lived with us for a short while. Because they lived "Out West" (to my family this means Washington state), we didn't see each other often. But I do remember looking forward to seeing my aunt when there were gatherings here and there. It was always special when they came, and I was super excited when she came to celebrate my wedding to Uli a decade ago. 
• When I went to Seattle for a conference a couple of years ago, we met up for an evening to have dinner and wander around the city. She and Troy were great hosts, and I enjoyed reconnecting with them. In fact, we talked about coming out to visit at some point with Uli. That would have been fun.

All in all, I would not say that my aunt and I were particularly close in recent years. But she will always be part of my tribe and a piece of my story. It is heartbreaking that she left us all so soon and was so sick. It happened so fast and so unexpectedly. I loved that even when she must have been feeling really icky, we exchanged emails, often with her stories of baby bunnies in the yard or a short note about her faith and peace. I imagine this small tribute might have made her smile - I hope it would have - and she may have had other stories to add. I'm grateful that these shiny fragments remain to remember the moments we shared together. Rest in peace, Aunt Gussy.

Home is where your heart is

Last week I made the long sojourn to the U.S. for Thanksgiving via São Paulo and Mexico City and finally to Mexicali where my folks picked me up.

It's funny because my home has always been in Wyoming in the same red house on the top of the hill on the north side of town. In my mind, it is a fixed, immutable space where I could imagine sitting at the kitchen table or counter drinking coffee in the morning, watching the occasional cow or horse approach the back fence, listening to birds chirp, or, very rarely, see a squirrel be chased up a tree by whichever lucky mutt was part of the family. The familiar. The routine. Memories stacking up one against another of the brown cabinets and sitting clad in robes to read the paper or watch the morning news. This is not romanticized. This is the fabric of the every day home to which I have returned from every corner of the earth. The richness of the fabric was not in its presentation but in its details, the little frog figurine that hung from the bar stool counter top, the mismash of coffee mugs in the cupboard, the treasures in the junk drawer under the counter, the grandfather clock chiming on the quarter hour, my dad's storage in the cabinetry above his space... I do not know if any of this is very important, and I wondered how I would feel about not returning to that home any more.

What is even funnier is that this time I returned "home" to a place that was not home. My parents' new place in Arizona is nothing like the split-level I grew up in. But, even situated in a retirement community underneath the flat, wide skies of the desert, it maintained the heart of a home. Some of the familiar pieces of childhood made their way south to this new location, even the grandfather clock. But, I am not sure that those things really matter. It felt like home because of the people who were in it. Resuming conversations, deepening relationships, retelling stories, and returning to family made it home. The dog racing after a ball, the turkey in the roaster, getting creamed at Scrabble by my mother, Dad "resting his eyes" in his chair after making lefse, and drinking coffee around the table in the morning. These are perhaps the pieces that make a place home and I enjoyed the return.

Post #38: In the Mood for an Interlude

Setting aside Brazil for a moment, I am brooding about other people, places, and times today. In this seventh week in country, the thoughts close to my heart today are far, far away. It's peculiar how this lifestyle is one that supersedes arbitrary boundaries, even if entirely by necessity. Since graduating from high school, I have explored many parameters, moving first from Sioux Falls to New York City and the continuing to Stará Turá to Guadalajara to Monterey to Craiova to Brașov to Tartu to Arlington to Tartu to Astana to Jakarta to Arlington to Brasília. My intention is not to boast but rather to share how my sense of place overwhelms.  This attention to naming is somehow coupled with a lack of attachment to their definition - in my mind one runs right into another. It doesn't matter that I am in Brasilia because I feel that pieces of me are everywhere, attached to each and every one of you and the different trails I've traipsed. The biggest piece of me is connected to my sense of home place and family. That core piece has been quivering as some of the boundary lines that have not changed over time are imminently and irreversibly being altered.

The one constant in the list of places above is the square red house I returned to, the living room in which I played cribbage with my father, the petunias I planted with my mother, the countless cups of coffee drunk with those stopping by to visit, the bedroom where my best friend and I played school, store, and barbies, the rooftop on which my red tabby cat Tigger meowed each morning until I got up to let him in, the split level steps at the bottom of which my first dog laid to greet with thumping tail for visitors, the driveway in which we held a block party and rehearsal dinner for my wedding, the backyard which I and my brother mowed a few thousand times, the yard which served us for snowforts in blizzards, improvised imaginary zoos and acrobatic stages, and hastily constructed daredevil bike tricks... There is so much connected to that spot of earth - I could literally go on and on and on. 

My childhood home in Wyoming

My experience is not unusual as I suppose all adults eventually have to say farewell to a childhood home for various reasons and become less tethered to their youth. What strange luck for a self-professed world wanderer and vagabond to have grown up in one place for so long and to have remained connected to the same steps and walls and bright marigolds year after year. The house is just a place - the people are the ones that make it special. And yet, when this property belongs to someone else, I will feel a bit of a hole. I feel it already, knowing that it is empty of junk drawers and the pictures that hung on the walls. All to say that I am feeling surprisingly sentimental while grappling with this loss of space.

At the same time, I am preoccupied with one of my favorite aunts (actually, I would probably say that she was my childhood favorite, but it is plausible that another aunt might read this, so I'll hedge a tiny bit). My Aunt Gus is only ten years older than I am, and, when I was a child, she was still at home with my grandparents. This was incredibly awesome - our aunt was young and funny. We got to spend more time with her making cookies, doing chores, and watching her cheer leading. I loved penpals as a kid, and she was also the aunt who would answer my letters when she was in college and beyond. My aunt, the youngest of 8 kids has been attacked by insidious cancer and she is not doing very well. I can easily imagine her dry wit and the sound of her voice as she made up a song or did something goofy. I am completely flummoxed and sad about her illness. I just don't understand and I hope that she knows however far away I am, I am hugging her close to my heart.

A visit with Gussy in Seattle in 2017

And what happened to me today in the midst of brooding? An old friend called out of the blue to say hello and to listen. Sometimes those dissipating boundaries work equally in my favor.

Post #3: Red Dirt

Trudging through the city park, I could see the fine, red dirt forming a fine dust on my sneakers... the very sneakers that I took the pains to wash of our red Arizona desert dust from vacation. Brasilia's dirt is a dense, red clay that peeks out of the grass and between the cracks on sidewalks. My sneakers are covered in it. The contrast with the open, blue skies is kind of beautiful. And, oddly enough, it reminds me of Wyoming too, which makes me feel like I might learn to call Brasilia home too.

Balbals and Kazakh Cowboys on the Steppe

We headed out in late September for an adventure on the Steppe. With no mountains to climb or forests in which we can forage for mushrooms, we are left to wandering on the flat and breath-taking plains together with the herders, cowboys, and ancient hand-made statues or балбал. A day out in the countryside of Kazakhstan, about two hours outside of Astana, felt refreshing. Gorgeous blue skies and crisp fall weather -- a perfect day to get out of town. Out there, in the middle of nowhere, is the "real" Kazakhstan. Vistas of hundreds of miles, windswept hills, and lone cowboys working the land or livestock. Somehow, Kazakhstan still feels an awful lot like Wyoming.

Desperate to get outdoors on a beautiful fall day, the Outdoor Adventure Club convened before we journeyed out to our destination (3 hours outside of town).

Our caravan of a dozen vehicles cruised off-road and onto the Steppe in search of Balbals. 

This lone Kazakh cowboy saw us walking and left his herd to come say hello. With pop music blaring from his motorcycle and a stylish skullcap, he seemed to be iconic and authentic.

Our first Balbals -- statues from the Bronze age that are scattered throughout Central Asia (and Turkey and Romania and elsewhere) denote a leader who was buried in the same place.

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Our group had two leaders and amateur anthropologists who helped explain the significance of the half dozen balbals we visited.

A man with pitchfork (but where is the hay?)

Gorgeous outcropping of rocks offers some relief and a nice vantage point of the Steppe.

Splendor on the Way to Bishkek

Gorgeous a day and lucky was I to enjoy its wonder on the road between Almaty and Bishkek. 

Twelve time zones

The distance from my home state and Kazakhstan could not be any farther, and, yet, it sometimes feels like one is the other's alternative universe. On a day trip to the nearby town of Atbasar yesterday (and nearby in Kazakhstan, just like in Wyoming, means a three-hour drive!), the similarities were striking. I am beginning to believe that if my niece and nephews began to dig a hole straight into the ground from Gillette and kept digging until they came through the crust of the other side of the earth, their shovels would break ground somewhere near Atbasar.

For your viewing and reading pleasure, here is the evidence:
- The drive to Atbasar covers huge expanses of land, without the relief of roadside rest stops, small towns, trees, or mountains. It's just wide open space--what we would call prairie, but here it's the steppe.
- The monument at the entrance of the town is a tractor.
- There is a coal mine on the drive in and a place to purchase coal for heating on the roadside.
- City folk think that Atbasar is a village, but those that live there are proud of the 30,000 inhabitants and consider themselves civilized when compared to other nearby small towns.
- There is one museum to celebrate the heroics and grandeur of the town; in reality, the building houses  pictures of everyone's grandfather, stuffed wildlife, and a couple of paintings.
- People are absolutely down-to-earth, friendly hosts, and full of wild stories that make you laugh and like them even more.

Sturgis 2010

From 08-07-2010 Sturgis

need a bike trip

I wish I may, I wish I might
Get on my bike
and leave tonight.

I want to go, I want to ride
Out on the road
and live outside.

If I could, I want to roam
My bike and I
The road's my home.

~ posted by Microbe at Meanderings on Two Wheels




Ah! Yes! Life on two wheels is good.