Little Indians

Lillian was my grandfather’s sister, my mother’s aunt…and therefore, my great-aunt. With best intention, my mother recently sent me an old photo of Lil in a wedding dress, torn in half, without a groom. –black and white. In her mind, my mother was probably thinking… "wow, look at this old photo of Lil… you like old photos…and, well, you were somewhat close with Lil, so you should have this.” Of course, that gesture was great… I do like old photos, I did like Lil. I was legitimately surprised to see this torn modest artifact tucked inside a card. Under normal circumstances, I’d find something like this at countless flea markets, shops, etc… I’d relish in the fact that someone took the time to cut out their husband, yet, somehow couldn’t manage to discard the photo of themself in a wedding dress? I’d find this ironic and write a little story about it. The story would be dry, or, tongue-in-cheek, yet “somewhat” close to the truth, because, as truth would have it, we’re not all that unique. Just like cancer isn’t unique, neither is divorce, sadness, or loss. We’ve all crossed someone out of our book. Defacing a picture can strangely make things seem a little better. – so long as we don’t stare too long at the remnants.

The difference here is that I knew Lillian (Aka, Aunt Lil…). This wasn’t a photo I found in some rotten box. I grew up knowing her… and at twenty, I personally met her profound sadness and alienation. It was a magnificent character swinging over her head like a construction crane, always building. When I opened that card with her photo, I was more than intrigued. I was rushed with overwhelming sorrow. Lil was so damned alone… it’s criminal how alone she was. I can’t even begin to polish prose because it’s just that fucking sad. She didn’t even have a pet. Not a bird, not a dog, or cat… not even a fucking fish! Just her, alone.

When I was a child, Lil was still somewhat part of the family. We lived on the east coast, in Connecticut and she was back in Illinois (Forest Park), where my mother’s family was originally from. Over the years, I’m not sure who crossed who, but Lillian found herself ostracized from the family (this could be a story in itself). By absolute chance, I moved to Chicago for college, just a few miles from where Lil lived. With my mother’s encouragement, I made contact with Lil. I didn’t see here everyday… not even every week or month. I’d call, keep tabs, and she’d have me come over from time to time to do chores around her Cicero home. It was an extremely modest post-war house, typical of the era. I’d find myself cleaning gutters, waxing her car, raking leaves, and often, just sitting at her kitchen table listening to her rants. She’d go on about how so and so kicked her out of the family home. At the same time, Lil would force feed me disgusting lunch meats that she bragged about stealing, “This is good stuff, fresh head cheese, you want it… take it… take it…no, don’t worry, I stole it… you like it??… I stole it… it’s good stuff, fresh.” One of Lil’s jobs, or maybe I should say pastime, was as a sample distributor for local supermarkets. However, I think Lil did little sampling and pillaged the majority of her stock. She always sent me home with “little” dish washing soaps, “little” barbecue sauce containers, “little” almost everything!

Those “little” samples were much more than consumer waste. In this story, they’re icons of what someone might resort to in an effort to feel alive. The last time I saw Lil was in the hospital. It wasn’t her final trip to the hospital, but she told me then, “I don’t have much longer kid...” No joke, this is really how she spoke, straight out of Casablanca. At the time, I passed it off as typical melodramatic Lil. Not too long after that, I moved to California for graduate school. Sometime during that first year, I got the news that Lil had died. I wasn’t fraught with sadness, but somewhat relieved for her. It’s hard to carry that much anger in you. It’s much heavier than any tumor. Cancer is not always biological.

I didn’t go to Lil’s house to reap the benefit of “little” groceries. I went because, genuinely, I felt for her. She was my blood, my family, and she had no one left but me. I only wish I was older when I really met Lillian. In those college years, I was wrapped up in my own world of worthless posturing. I was selfish and should have given more. Only recently, when I opened that card could I see that. I owe this short little story more. -I owe Lillian more and I promise to return to it.

Ironically, some of the same people who pushed her aside for so many years were the first to head to probate court. –hands out for whatever small amount of money, or property, Lil left behind (as meager as it was). When clearing the house, I took two ceramic Indians, circa 1965. There was one squaw and one chief, all seven inches politically incorrect in every way. I thought it a fitting gesture, these two little outcasts, beating drums, suspiciously staring at each other. I wonder what Lil thought of them? No doubt, it was something crass like, “Little Indian fah-kers… look at those cute little Indian fah-kers, you like em? …I stole em…” said somewhat endearingly, with just a hint of nasal that runs wild in Cicero territory.