Tekla

I contemplated what it might have been like to be her. I can't. Not yet anyhow. I really never knew Tekla, she was my father's Aunt. My grandfather's only sister in a house dominated by five boys, she was cast aside, undervalued for her sex.

Tekla worked at a battery factory with my grandmother for many years. I remember asking my grandma Martha how her own hands became so knuckled, like the burls on a twisted tree. She'd show me the exact function her hands held so long ago. After a lifetime of labor, they just naturally fell into an unnatural position. I thought they were beautiful, especially since she always wore bright red nail polish. It was usually chipped off near the tips from working hard in the garden. These were the hands of a caretaker.

Tekla had a little house over by the city's "Athletic Park". This is a classic small town ball diamond, surrounded by a gorgeous red granite fence quarried from the local pit. Her tiny home was right across the street. I wonder if she sat out on the porch and enjoyed a summer night, listening to fans cheering on the local team. Friends, lovers and drunks, walking past her house, happily communing on their way home. Intimacy. Was she lonely?

I asked my dad why she moved out of her house. Was there something wrong with her? Was she crazy? No, she wasn't crazy, she just didn't take care of herself. The house was overrun with filth. Old single woman with cats and such. It was apparently so bad that they only asked $11,000 for the house and took $6,200. I am assuming that "they" are social services or the state. This was over 20 years ago. Calling her a 'Poor Thing' my dad said she never had a chance in that family being the only girl. Why?

"You know how weird that family is, Heid," he says to me.

Yes I do. My dad came from two completely 'Polish' people, both were the first generation of American born from the last big wave of immigrants at the turn of the century. The big similarity was the lack of emotion in troubled times, remaining stoic and stiff if at all possible. I know relatively little about my own father's childhood. He just doesn't share and he's defensive or joking about it when confronted.

He doesn't speak with his own sisters on a regular basis. They see eachother maybe once a year if they all decide to come up for "The Graveyard Tour" of all the beloved. There is a complete disconnect. Their mother Martha, my polish granny was different.

When Tekla was forced to leave her house and placed into a nursing home, it was Martha in old age who showed compassion. No one in her family cared about what happened to her or could be bothered to take the role of guardian. So my granny did it and Tekla wasn't even her sister. Martha took out an insurance policy for her just so she'd be able to have a decent burial. It was my grandmother who made trips on the city bus after my grandfather quit driving to see her on a regular basis, even after he died. She would bring her the comfort and necessities that nursing home care will never provide. She brought love.

I went once with my grandmother to visit Tekla. All I can remember is how much of a little girl she seemed, so suprised and happy by our visit. She was spacey and sweet. It also creeped me out because she looked exactly like my grandfather and my dad looks exactly like him.

Martha died in 1994. What a remarkable woman she was and I barely got to scratch the surface with her. After her death, I'm sure no one ever came to visit Tekla. Not on holidays, not on her birthday, never. When I try to imagine what it must have been like, it brings tears to my eyes and I feel a certain kind of sickening guilt that only death can bring. Can I cry for someone I never really knew and mourn the sadness I feel for her life?

I think of poor Tekla who died on Tuesday at the age of 90 years completely and utterly alone. Her funeral is today. They're finally coming to see her.
R.I.P.