If there’s anything that my Auntie Joan taught me, it’s that collections can be become treasures. Treasures can become household-defining. And, when passed on to the right person, the whole shebang becomes elevated beyond a group of tchotchkes to a mantel (or room) worth of heirlooms that make your heart sing.
How else to explain my fierce adoration of the whimsical pewter animals- some with startled expressions- gracing my desk? Or the teacups, so many teacups, from her travels across the globe, and the ones passed down to her from my Nana? Then there’s the set of improbably large pepper grinders; one is a gigantic chess piece that hasn’t actually ground pepper in years. I will literally never part with it.
She appreciated my appreciation for these magical objects she picked up in towns around the world, and I appreciated her never-ending supply of them. She gifted me with so many treasures over the years, and once I had my first real home the trinkets really started rolling in. “For the kids,” she said. “So that the other pewter animals won’t be lonely,” she told me. “Because you take good care of these things,” she reminded me. This, as she lovingly polished up and wrapped my great-grandfather Jido’s Turkish coffee pot to pack in my carry-on alongside a special keychain, two sandwiches, and a stuffed monkey for Jasper that she just knew he’d love. (She was right.) Having these things in my home means I will always have her in my home.
Auntie Joan died yesterday morning.
She deserved much better than the cancer that took her from us; from her sons and daughter in-laws, from her grandkids, from her great-grands, from her nieces and their crews, and from her sister.
She was 19 years older than my Mom and, as such, always referred to my mother as her baby sister. This made my sisters and me closer to being her grandkids; if by “grandkids” I also mean “they are so wonderful, don’t scold them, Debbie.”
We adored her.
(And I adore this photo. Look at that impish SMILE!)
We loved how she’d whirlwind in on visits with our Uncle Rich and, in no time at all, he’d be installing closet fixtures and she’d be showing my Mom the better way to roll and store sweaters. It was fascinating to watch these two incredibly strong women pretend they weren’t joke-fighting about proper amount of seasonings and vitamin supplements and Tupperware cabinets. And, sorry Mom, but Auntie Joan usually won, because she was the party who also produced the green chile enchiladas and spicy beef burritos.
She was also the one who, every late January, shipped out cartons of sunshine from her Arizona home to our doorsteps in Chicago, New York, and all points Massachusetts. Her trees created grapefruits of pure sugar and lemons as big as softballs. Opening those boxes felt like joy. They were joy, spritzed with citrus, and usually containing a slightly damp note explaining that she hoped these were any good, sorry if some got smushed in transit.
Two weeks ago, she had her loved ones in Arizona send out the last shipment; a few are still on my counter, and the thought of eating them makes me sad. That said, I know I will eat them. They’re ridiculously good.
Right before I had my last baby, I found out that Auntie Joan was traveling East for Christmas; something she hadn’t done in years. I was beside myself that I couldn’t go be with everyone, but Auntie Joan hatched a plan: what if she and my Mom stopped in Chicago for a few days on the way? She’d get to see my girls, be among the very first to hold my son, organize a few closets, and stuff enough food for a family of linebackers in the freezer. It was one of the best visits with her in my entire life, and not just because I could now potentially open up an actual store and sell trays and trays of green chile enchiladas.
No, it’s because I watched her as my then-2 and 4 year-old daughters “painted” her color-changing nail polish with ice cubes. (And she hated the cold. Hated the cold. So she really must’ve loved my daughters.)
It’s because I witnessed an epic battle for counter space between my mother and her big sister. A battle of lovingly raised voices that everyone else won, meal-wise.
It’s because I spent the night before delivery watching old movies with her- and also watching my belly jump as the Roo did backflips. (“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it were a boy?” she marveled as she felt soon-to-be Jasper kick.)
It’s because I got to hear my Dad and my Auntie Joan joke with P.J. about his Costco-sized popcorn kernel jar. (“But what happens if they run out of popcorn?” “Hey, speaking of popcorn- do you have any?”)
And it’s because she formed a bond with my newborn guy that didn’t fade an ounce over time.
I was supposed to go to Arizona soon and hug her goodbye. She wanted me to bring Jasper. She knew I couldn’t bring Jasper. But as recently as last week I received an Instagram message from her in the middle of the night, addled with morphine but so full of love: “…Really, though, let me know about Jasper.”
She’s with her husband now, our beloved Uncle Rich. She’s up there with her other little sister, Jeanette, plus our Nana Alice and Grandpa Jack. My Dad’s there to help welcome them home, alongside the crew of loved ones we’ve lost over the years, all of whom knew and loved and were loved in return by Joan. What a party they all must be having.
We’ll grieve her, absolutely, but we’ll also rejoice in her life. I can almost hear her saying that’s what she’d want. This, of course, after she’d thank us for even spending our time thinking of her- aren’t we kind? So yes, we’ll celebrate.
I’ll bring the pepper mill.
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