Not In Vain - Emily Dickinson
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain:
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
I have come here today to say a few words about my Aunt
Jean. Let me begin by acknowledging that some of you knew her as
Mary Jean, but to me she was always Aunt Jean, so that’s how I will
refer to her.
I feel I have to start by
acknowledging that Jean’s life is not one that lends itself to an
easy summary. If there was ever anyone who truly marched to her own
drummer, it was Jean—a trait that is apparently genetic
[significant look at Mark and Ian].
To someone on the outside
looking in, it would be easy to assume that she had a difficult life,
defined by a series of trying circumstances. She was a single mother
at a time when that was uncommon. She suffered a couple of severe
injuries at work that resulted in years of hearings and appeals on
top of sometimes grueling and tedious medical treatment. Looking at
her this way, it would be easy to miss the quiet courage and sheer
persistence that it took to make her choices and continue her
battles, and to overlook the ease and resilience with which she met
each new challenge. She marched to her own drummer, but she also
lived by her own values, and that is something to be respected.
First of all, it is
impossible to talk about Jean without talking about her art. It was
so much a part of who she was and how she interacted with the world.
A simple brush or pencil in her hand was a magic wand—with a few
deft strokes she could capture a moment or tell a story. When I was
a child, I was frequently complimented on my artistic ability and
told that I must have gotten my talent from my Aunt Jean. I took
that as an enormous compliment, but it wasn’t until I got older
that I understood just how good she really was. I took my first
drawing and painting classes in high school, and quickly realized
that I am what’s known as a “realist” or realistic painter—I
pretty much paint or draw what I see. Jean was an impressionist—she
painted with blobs and smears and light and colors, and when she was
done, what she created was more beautiful—more true—than any
photograph. I was humbled.
Please allow me a moment
of artistic geekery here, but I also want to point out what a tricky
medium that she mastered. Watercolors are delicate and require
patience—you have to paint a little and wait for it to dry, then
paint a little more and wait for it to dry—it is the art of
painting in layers. Oil is the most forgiving medium. It takes a
long time to dry, so there’s time to edit your work and get it
juusstt right before you call it done (I prefer oils—I am an
editor). For those of you who aren’t painters, what you need to
know about acrylic paint is that dries almost instantly. There is no
editing—you get it right, or you paint over it and start again.
Jean preferred acrylics, working quickly and confidently to produce
startling and amazing things. Acrylics sometimes get dismissed in
some artistic circles, because if you don’t know what you’re
doing, what you end up with is something flat and cartoonish. Jean’s
works were anything but flat and they were far from cartoonish. They
had dimension and light and movement, and the fact that she
accomplished that with a medium like acrylic is just all the more
remarkable.
When I was a kid, she gave
the coolest gifts, because a lot of them came from her art stores!
We had latch hook rug kits (remember those?), crewel and embroidery
kits, kits to make leather bracelets and wallets and chokers (hey, it
was the Seventies), and (my favorite) paint by number kits. I am, as
I have mentioned, a realist, and my brother Wade is an engineer (he
was even then), so we would sit with our kits and meticulously follow
the instructions, staying carefully within the lines. When Aunt Jean
painted with us, it was a completely different experience: She
viewed the manufacturer’s printed pattern as a mere suggestion, and
she took, shall we say, great liberties with the images on the board.
Her paintings never looked like the ones on the box—they were
always much better! And yet she used the same little plastic pots of
paint that we did. It always amazed me.
But her artistry wasn’t
restricted to two-dimensional painting. She was always trying—and
mastering—different mediums and crafts. She delighted in any new
technique or tool that came along: macramé and Modge-Podge,
woodburning and leather working, beading and jewelry making. She
crocheted baby blankets and booties, pillows and socks, delicate
snowflakes and angels as well as colorful afghans and ponchos (again,
Seventies). She painted ceramics and pottery, giving the pre-formed
greenware details and colors that definitely were above and beyond
what those simple forms suggested. And she loved to share what she
made. Over the last fifty or so years, there are probably hundreds
of babies all around Lynchburg who received, a sweater, layette,
blanket, Christening cap, or framed announcement of their birth.
They may not have never even met, but they still benefited from her
handiwork.
Jean had an eye for beauty
and a love of color, light, form, and arrangement that she brought to
everything that she did. She always had a project going—usually
several at once!—and was happy to show off what she was working on,
but she was also always happy to drop everything and help you put
together a wreath or a flower arrangement in a way that she made look
effortless. She loved to work with other artists and crafters and
had a great appreciation for things that were handmade.
That brings us, naturally,
to her love of baking. Jean was a good cook, like her mother, but
she was an excellent baker. She was always trying new recipes,
making cookies and cakes and pies and cobblers, but also dips, Jello
salads, and simply amazing cheese balls. Mom and I both have many
recipes in our boxes that came from Jean, because Jean was always
willing to try something new and share the results. She tested and
happily passed along her successes, carefully noting where she had
“improved” on a standard recipe to make it better. Her
improvements were usually phenomenal, and we were all happy to be her
guinea pigs.
Speaking of small mammals,
it is also impossible to talk about Jean and not mention her love of
animals. From the time she was a little girl with her beloved Cocker
Spaniel Nippy she was surrounded by pets. When she lived in an
apartment and couldn’t have a dog or a cat, she had a parakeet
named Mike that she taught how to talk. But once she and Mark moved
back to Lynchburg and back in with her mom, she got Suzie, a sweet
little dog who had to learn to share her life with a lot of cats.
Jean was the person who would stop on the side of the highway to
pick up a stray dog or cat and get them to the vet or to a shelter
(or, occasionally, simply to her house, where they settled right in).
She had a long succession of cats and they all lived the spoiled,
decadent lives that every cat seems to think it is entitled to, a
tradition that Mark and Ian seem to have carried on! Jean would
ignore Grandma’s rants about “feeding her food to those dang
cats” while she silently swiped a leftover chicken thigh to shred
for them.
And she wasn’t content
to simply feed her own cats. She maintained outdoor dishes of food
as well in order to feed any strays that might be in the area. The
rest of us may have suspected that the neighbor’s pets were simply
finding a way to sneak a late night snack or that the local possum
and raccoon populations had discovered an unexpected bounty, but Jean
didn't care. She just wanted to make sure that everyone got fed.
And she didn’t just feed those strays, she took care of them. I
know of at least one occasion when a neighbor got angry because they
found out that their cat, who had been missing for a few days, had
been trapped and taken to the vet and neutered. Hey, if you weren’t
going to be a responsible pet owner, she’d do it for you!
That love and caring for
the less fortunate also played out in her work at the Training
Center. The Training School was not the first job that Jean ever
held—she talked fondly of her days working for the telephone
company when she lived in Arlington—but it certainly became a
defining space in her life. For those of you who don’t know the
details, Jean worked in a ward with men who had been labeled for one
reason or another as “difficult” patients. Some had a history of
violence, some were suicidal, all had some sort of “behavior
problem,” but Jean loved them, and they loved her. She took care
of these men that had been cast aside by their families, society, and
even the institution that housed them, and they listened to her. I’m
sure that her calm, unruffled nature certainly helped, but I have to
think that they appreciated that she was willing to meet them where
they were and treat them with kindness and dignity. Even after she
was injured by one of her patients, she didn’t blame him and it
didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for working with “her boys.”
Eventually, Jean found a
way to take it a step further and bring beauty into their lives, as
well: She brought her art to work with her. She looked around her
ward and saw how bland, featureless, and colorless it was, so she got
permission to bring her paints and brushes, and on her own time began
to paint murals on the walls. Some of them were permanent
decorations, but some of them she would change up, painting Easter
baskets and bunnies, Santa Claus, or Jack-O-Lanterns as the seasons
dictated. Her murals were so successful and so well-loved that she
was asked to paint other wards as well.
After her leg was
re-injured by another patient, she finally had to leave the Training
Center and take care of her own health. At the time she was injured,
Jean was overweight and had other health problems and had never shown
much interest in physical activity, so when the doctor told her that
the only way to keep from losing her leg was to begin a
strenuous—almost daily—routine of physical therapy, exercise, and
massage therapy, I think he expected that he would sooner or later be
amputating that leg. Much to his surprise, she began her therapy
immediately and took it quite seriously. It was while attending a
water aerobics class at the Y (a low-impact form of exercise that her
therapist recommended) that she had a life-changing experience: She
found the Senior Women’s Swim Team.
Jean maintained all of her
prescribed therapy appointments, but added the Swim Team practices
and meets to her schedule. This opened up a new world to her—new
friends to hang out with, the opportunity to travel out of town to
attend swim meets, the chance to explore new cities and new areas.
Suddenly, instead of art store gifts, I started to get cool new
earrings from craftspeople all up and down the Eastern Seaboard as
Jean indulged our shared love of funky jewelry. It was clear that in
addition to a shared interest in swimming, Jean also found friends to
share her love of painting and flowers and crafts and people, and it
was fun to hear her stories of their triumphs and exploits. The team
brought a great deal of joy to her life.
You may have noticed that
the word “joy” keeps coming up, and I don’t think that’s an
accident. Jean certainly had her challenges, but Jean’s life was
not a sad or miserable or depressing one. She had a way of looking
for the beauty around her, and if she couldn’t find it, she made
it. Jean reveled in her art, but she always colored outside of the
lines, and what she created was far better than anything the lines
could imagine. Jean took in strays, whether they were animals or
people and always kept a sharp eye out for the underdog. She loved
her family-- especially Mark, and most especially her grandsons-- and
demonstrated that with her actions, if not her words. In her quiet
way, she brought calm and beauty into a lot of lives.
Those who
march to their own drummers sometimes frustrate the rest of the band,
who can’t understand why just don’t just follow the routine, but
the world would be a far less interesting place without them.