 |
| Aunt Car, circa 1920 |
It
took me a few minutes to get past the return address label that read,
"738 Macon Street." The last piece of mail I received from
that address was a Christmas card from my most beloved great aunt and
uncle, Caroline (“Aunt Car”) and Henry Gill, who was also my
godfather, in 1967. I had just moved to New Castle, Indiana, and my
grandmother's sister had sent me a card signed in her elegant
penmanship. She had been a "schoolmarm" in Barbados, West
Indies in the early part of the 20th Century and the written hand was
not an art, but a requirement -- to her. Eight months later, on a
visit home to New York, I watched her die after an agonizing fight
with stomach cancer at 73.
This aunt was so important to me. But I never realized how much until the last few months. She has been constantly on my mind. In the summer of 1967, she and I accompanied my grandparents on a pilgrimage to their homeland, Barbados to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. Aunt Car and I were roommates, and shared a double bed under a white mosquito net. We visited Bathsheba, St. Joseph Parish, the town where Aunt Car and Nana were born and raised. Children and adults came running out of their tiny houses and closed their businesses for a chance to see "Teacher" one more time. Realize that these people were all ages. Certainly most of them had never seen her before, but they had all heard of her - from their parents and grandparents, and held her in reverence. Teacher had come home from America. Young and old, they embraced her and gave her flowers, which she accepted with humble grace – that was her way. I was not quite 14, and did not understand how important this afternoon was to her; and now me.
Last month, I thought of her again, and cried as I finally realized that the Summer of '67 was a gift from God. To have the honor to have spent one last summer with this woman who also helped raise me, who guided me, who slapped me when I sucked my teeth or rolled my eyes; and then embraced me in tears of her own; who loved me unconditionally. She taught me to make curried chicken (Trinidad and Barbadian style). She was strict, she was grand, and she was elegant. Above all, she was always a lady! She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. But, I was 14, with poor, undeveloped communication skills, and had no idea how to tell her how much I loved and appreciate the things she did for me. Aunt Car grew heavy on my mind for weeks. I felt her with me those lonely days in the hospital, and I can still smell her soft fragrance, Arpège.
One day in December, I received a package in the mail from 738 Macon Street. I knew who it was from, but a lump began to grow in my throat. Seeing the reality of that return address gave me a chill. A few years ago, I received an email from a gentleman who had found one of my posts on a genealogy site where I sought information about my grandmother's family. He had purchased Aunt Car and Uncle Henry's wonderful old brownstone in Brooklyn, and found me via my post while doing some research. Together, we put a lot of pieces together, and through countless emails and photos, he brought my aunt and her wonderful house where I spent my childhood summers back to life. I don't think he knows what a void he has filled in my life. Brian Hartig is a geographical historian extraordinaire of the Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood in Brooklyn ! He wrote a fabulous book about the history of 738 Macon Street, with chapters about all the owners from 1892 until today, including my family, the Gills.
This aunt was so important to me. But I never realized how much until the last few months. She has been constantly on my mind. In the summer of 1967, she and I accompanied my grandparents on a pilgrimage to their homeland, Barbados to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. Aunt Car and I were roommates, and shared a double bed under a white mosquito net. We visited Bathsheba, St. Joseph Parish, the town where Aunt Car and Nana were born and raised. Children and adults came running out of their tiny houses and closed their businesses for a chance to see "Teacher" one more time. Realize that these people were all ages. Certainly most of them had never seen her before, but they had all heard of her - from their parents and grandparents, and held her in reverence. Teacher had come home from America. Young and old, they embraced her and gave her flowers, which she accepted with humble grace – that was her way. I was not quite 14, and did not understand how important this afternoon was to her; and now me.
Last month, I thought of her again, and cried as I finally realized that the Summer of '67 was a gift from God. To have the honor to have spent one last summer with this woman who also helped raise me, who guided me, who slapped me when I sucked my teeth or rolled my eyes; and then embraced me in tears of her own; who loved me unconditionally. She taught me to make curried chicken (Trinidad and Barbadian style). She was strict, she was grand, and she was elegant. Above all, she was always a lady! She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. But, I was 14, with poor, undeveloped communication skills, and had no idea how to tell her how much I loved and appreciate the things she did for me. Aunt Car grew heavy on my mind for weeks. I felt her with me those lonely days in the hospital, and I can still smell her soft fragrance, Arpège.
One day in December, I received a package in the mail from 738 Macon Street. I knew who it was from, but a lump began to grow in my throat. Seeing the reality of that return address gave me a chill. A few years ago, I received an email from a gentleman who had found one of my posts on a genealogy site where I sought information about my grandmother's family. He had purchased Aunt Car and Uncle Henry's wonderful old brownstone in Brooklyn, and found me via my post while doing some research. Together, we put a lot of pieces together, and through countless emails and photos, he brought my aunt and her wonderful house where I spent my childhood summers back to life. I don't think he knows what a void he has filled in my life. Brian Hartig is a geographical historian extraordinaire of the Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood in Brooklyn ! He wrote a fabulous book about the history of 738 Macon Street, with chapters about all the owners from 1892 until today, including my family, the Gills.
It is fitting that 48 years later, the next piece of mail I received from that address would be at Christmas – it was my very own copy of The Story of a House; 738 Macon Street, written by Brian Hartig - a gift I will always cherish.
But,
it gets even better! Recently, I was commissioned to paint a portrait
of Aunt Car in her Brooklyn brownstone – the way I remember her and
the home from my childhood. I had not seen her or the homestead since
1968 when she passed away; Uncle Henry died in the 70's. I accepted
the commission, but took it in a totally different direction by
portraying both her and Henry in their rose garden behind the house,
along with their dog Trixie, and Waldo, a ground tortoise who was/is
ancient and lived on the property. I painted their yard bigger than
all of the other typical shotgun backyards in the neighborhood; even
though it wasn't. But as a little girl, that's how magical it was to
me.
Hopefully,
I will be able to visit the home for the first time in decades very
soon – in time for Aunt Car's 122nd
Birthday! I'm excited and humbled
to be able to see my artwork hanging on my her parlor wall …
Keeping a piece of me back home again.
No comments:
Post a Comment
I would love to hear from you regarding this post. Please feel free to leave your comments. All the best, Anastasia a/k/a Stacey