To Ann

When I was young, those that knew me may remember that I was something of a crybaby. That's not to say that I was a sad child--far from it--but even into my elementary days, if I got upset, there was a good chance I'd wind up bawling. At some point, however, I grew out of it and learned to take life's knocks with a stiff upper lip. Tears came extremely rarely, and usually lasted for mere moments.

Truth be told, I've lived a life largely without pain, and Ann's untimely death has only highlighted that. The past week has seen me reverting to that helpless, weeping child more often than I'd like to admit. Reading the lovely, heartfelt stories here has been especially difficult through a mist, but it's been worth it to hear so much more about the aunt I only wish I'd spent more time with and known better.

I've said to a few people, and will reiterate here, that there are only a handful of people who I'm not related to who still feel like blood relations to me. Ann was one of those people. I never thought of her as a stranger, as 'my Uncle Tom's wife.' Ever since I can remember her, she has always been Aunt Ann.

Reading through these stories actually reminded me of what must be one of my first memories of Ann. It hardly occurred to me, but as Tom and Ann were married for 20 years, I would've not only been alive at the time, but quite alert and possibly something of a brat. Well, not really, but I do remember being forced to dress up for some marriage I didn't really want to be at, and being bored and stuck in a boring old church and just wanting to go play.

How insolent and rude for six-year-old me to think that way, but how lucky for me to have been there, and luckier yet for me to still remember with semi-lucidity this moment from a time of my life that is largely lost to time.

I remember visiting Dinosaur National Monument in the height of my dinosaur mania, and being thrilled at my Aunt who not only worked in this place where these magnificent skeletons were unearthed, but who even toured us around behind the scenes.

I remember rafting with Ann, Tom, and a variety of other family and friends, and being tickled by their sometimes sassy but always very loving relationship, and being impressed by their mutual love for nature and the outdoors.

I remember visiting Tom and Ann for a few days or perhaps a week in Vernal, meeting Cedar and Stikine, as well as two (or possibly all three) of the cats, and being genuinely impressed with how well-trained and friendly her pets were, as well as how comfortable and inviting their home was despite being foreign ground to me.

I remember sitting with Ann in the busy, occasionally cramped, but always cozy Elder homestead over Thanksgiving, sharing a chat as the rest of the family buzzed about. Ann had a unique way of making you always feel normal and grounded, regardless of your circumstances. She had a hug that took no prisoners.

Although I didn't know Ann 'well,' didn't know the minutiae of her life, or see her very often, I feel like I could go on and on. It's so shocking and so incredibly sad. And there I go again.

I was too young to remember Ellen or to understand her passing, but I still have a little stuffed turtle that was, I'm told, a gift to me from her. When I come across it, usually as I'm packing or unpacking during a move, I think fondly of this woman I never really knew, and of the few fuzzy memories I have of her. I look forward to the day that I can look back at my memories of Ann with a similar warmth, without this bitter sadness.

Happy birthday, Ann. I wish I'd been able to spend more time with you. You are missed.