Beginning At The End

What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.

T.S. Eliot

Where Do I Begin?

Over each newly dug gravesite, a pewter urn was placed upon a small table draped in satin. Situated to the right of the old grave, one urn was inscribed: Zora M. Steenson 1904-2001 "Ars Longa; Vita Brevis." The urn on the left, was inscribed: Hughberta E. Steenson 1908-1998 "Semper Fidelis". A crisply uniformed Honor Guard snapped to attention saluting the remains of this United States Marine, veteran of the Second World War. In full dress attire, the aging veterans' ribbons and medals celebrated valiant ascendancy over brutal assaults of history. At last, respectful formalities were accorded: dignified attention was being paid to the lives of two brave and fiercely independent women. Plaintive strains of Taps called through a bright October afternoon, finalizing the journey of Zora and Hughberta to their mother's side. There was not another sound other than the soft breaths of the tiny group of mourners. Brilliant vestiges of Minnesota's autumn bravado splashed intense shades of scarlet and gold, a color mix that might have been projected from one of Zora's paintings. Nature's own artwork painted the hillside sheltering the diminutive, sweetly tended cemetery. After the minister spoke of eternal life and recited the Twenty-third Psalm, the little congregation joined hands and prayed together:
The light of God surrounds us; the love of God enfolds us; the power of God protects us and the presence of God watches over us. Wherever we are, God is, and all is well.
A folded American flag was ceremoniously presented to my husband,Robert, their nephew. The urns were set into the earth. I drew in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. When I slowly exhaled, releasing a burden of guilt and sorrow, I felt at peace.

I had known them well. I thought that I knew them well. But I didn’t know them in the prime of their careers. The women I knew were living their last trimester- the final third of their long lives. “Meeting the aunts” was Bob’s and my second date. That was when we all lived in Southern California. Five years later, Bob and I, having legitimized our life together through the offices of the State of California with the kindly officiating of Rev. Lovely of the Pasadena Unitarian Church, moved to Washington State with our “blended” family. Within a couple of years Bob’s grandmother, who lived with her two aging daughters, passed away in 1977 and so Bob and James, his son, drove our van down to Los Angeles, packed up their belongings and transported Zora and Hughberta to Tacoma, Washington. Plucked from their sunny hacienda and plunked down in a drafty old house in gray, disconsolate Tacoma, they hung as many paintings as wall space and good taste would permit and defied the clouds to obscure their surrogate sunshine. We were now the only other planets in their universe and, with jobs and business, not to mention children, we were less attentive we might have been. Regardless of jam-packed schedules and commitments, Bob and I had many delightful times with them: we had pleasant little dinners at their house- Hughberta's Turkey Curry was a splendid repast with bowls of condiments and spicy sauces. Family celebrations- birthdays, holidays were, and continue to be, gatherings of 25-30 people at our house and always included the aunts.

I must share one memorable outing. We had four tickets for La Traviata, a gorgeously costumed tear-jerker at the Seattle Opera House. Both Zora and Hughberta were too hard-of-hearing to get much out of the legitimate theater, but one would have to be as deaf as Beethoven to miss the passion, betrayal and decadent gaiety expressed in Puccinni's glorious score. We queued up in the atrium, merging with the excited, dressed-to-the-nines crowd. Bob presented our tickets to the formally dressed usher at the door.
"Sir, your tickets were for the performance last night."
"It can't be. These are our season tickets. We always come on Wednesday."
"I'm sorry. You need to discuss this with ticket sales."
Baffled and outraged, we approached the ticket window, protesting that we always attend the Wednesday performance. Most apologetic, the gentleman inside the booth, explained that on this occasion only, the Wednesday performance had been rescheduled to Tuesday, and said we should have received notification of the change. Bob pointed out the elderly ladies in our company and pleaded for some special accommodation.
"To night has been sold out for four months, but we are setting up portable seating in the front. Would you mind sitting in the front row?"
"Well, yes, if that was all that was available."
It was better than disappointing the aunts and leaving without even entering the Opera House. The transaction accomplished, Bob led us toward the entrance. As he was about to hand over the newly issued tickets, he read the printing.
"This has turned out well!"
He handed me my ticket. We were going see and hear Luciano Pavarotti- in the first row.

I have many personal remembrances of Zora and Hughberta including quite a few contentious episodes as they became older and wackier - two women who had called all the shots in their long lives: accepted directions, followed advice from very few and for a long glorious season, lived the life of their dreams. In describing some of these episodes, I am attempting to clarify for myself my role in their declining years. With hind-sight, I see that there were many choices that I could have made differently, encounters that could have been handled more skillfully.
To justify my participation in the Steenson sisters lives, I could present my reminiscences as a cautionary tale. But who might be cautioned? A young artist, determined to live her life doing what she loves to do? There may be consequences of following one's bliss that are not blissful. Should one set orange cones or yellow caution tape around the path she seeks? To avoid the anguish of Zora's ninetieth year, I might encourage that young woman to prudently consider the years beyond passionate production: to make a financial plan, set a little aside and invest, marry someone with a practical degree. I know that's what their brother, DeVern, my husband's father, wanted his artistic sisters to consider. A familiar filial posture involved a shaking of the head, a rolling of the eyes, exasperated sighing and gloomy predictions of the fate awaiting the improvidential sisters.
As I watched Zora sabotage her health and eyesight with misinformation and prejudice regarding medical practitioners and was aware of Hughberta endangering every pedestrian between her house and the Safeway with her myopic and unlicensed driving habits, I joined the chorus. Nevertheless, even at times of highest frustration, when they referred to me as "bossy boots"in confidence with their short term care-giver, I admired them. I admired their enormous talent and I admired their guts.
As I said, I thought that I knew them well. But it wasn't until after their world finally dwindled to a shared room in a nursing home, that I began to really become acquainted with Zora and Hughberta. When I cleaned out the basement of the house they had occupied- the house we bought for them to live in, I came upon boxes and bags and bundles neatly tied up in twine, suitcases and satchels filled with their art. Paintings, drawings, sketches from life drawing classes- stacks and piles of images we had never seen before. The life they loved- about thirty years as Southern California artists- was contained in that treasure trove.
It has taken several years to sort, store and preserve with acid-free liners the contents of that basement find. My respect for their legacy increases as my intimacy deepens with what is truly tangible, visible projections not only of their inventive minds and skillful hands, but of their very souls. They may have died penniless in the medicare ward of a nursing home, but their essence has survived them.
If Zora and Hughie encountered their generation's equivalent of orange cones and yellow tape, they would have regarded them with the contempt accorded any such philistine caution. I'm certain this was more true of Zora; Hughberta, had greater ambivalence about self preservation, but that's part of the longer story.
It is not up to me to add more orange cones and yellow caution tape to the infrastructure: the landscape is cluttered with them already. If my tales of Zora and Hughie bear any message at all for the young female artist, it is something like this:
Do what you must, what you should to sustain and maintain your existence on this sweet blue-green planet, but above all, let your spirit have its say.