For a beloved woman; you are dearly missed.
Marj Heinrichs. My mother's sister. My dear aunt. When I think back and try to frame up a single story of such a legend, my mind becomes hopelessly tangled. ONE STORY? Impossible.
In the past decade of life lived without Marj, I cannot possibly count the number of times I have asked myself "How would Marj do it?". I have asked myself this question while sitting in a dim garage amoungst a non-responsive crowd of farmer-hatted farmers drinking bad coffee in a small town homemade Tim Hortons. I have asked myself this while trying to soothe other people's children as well as my own. I have asked myself this with bated breath, my camera poised and ready, waiting for that incredible moment when a tiny life emerges from its life-giving mother. I have asked myself this while holding up the heaving dress of a drunken bride puking her guts out behind her reception tent. The weight of my camera around my neck reminding me all the while that my job is to capture the story of the person to the best of my ability. Just as Marj did / would have. I think the "it" in question was her twinkle and cheeky grin. Immediate comfort and trust. Those fantastically funny teeth flashing before you like a blinking neon sign: Go ahead, tell me all of your secrets. She never promised she wouldn't tell. That wasn't the point. It was the moment shared where you felt safe to share, to exhale, let your hair down and then laugh about it with someone who GOT it, who appreciated the vulnerability of the expulsion of information, who celebrated the courage in one's sharing. It was so easy to spill the beans to her. Marj delighted in the wicked, wild and wonderful lives of those who she cared deeply for. I was lucky to be one of those many people.
On my twentieth birthday, we happened to find ourselves in side-by-side stalls of a public washroom at a nice restaurant chosen to celebrate the occasion. I have no idea how we cut to the chase so quickly, but for some reason I felt compelled to share with her that I had received my first Brazilian (as a grown up gift to self) that very morning. "No wonder you are walking so funny!" she yelled and then shrieked with laughter. And then to my surprise she banged on my door and demanded to see my new look. I doubt she had ever seen a Brazilian wax job before?! I showed her :) No mortification was felt, no shame, just pride. My Aunty Marj had an incredible way of celebrating the follies of life. Laughing in the face of disgrace. Softening the blow with a good belly laugh was her way.
In the spring of 2009, I hightailed it to the bush of Northwestern Ontario to try my hand at treeplanting. It was an enlightening ten weeks to say the very least. While I was toiling over rough land like a low bent grasshopper, I imagine Marj was carting vats of chilli one direction and frozen hunks of moose meat homeward from Pickle Lake, Ontario where she was working at the time. Lucky for me, one of her return trips from Northern Ontario coincided with the end of my summer contract. She agreed to scoop me up from the bush camp I was working out of and drive me back to Rosenort where I could recalibrate in the cool comfort of my mother's house. As soon as I entered the vehicle she spun around and yelled at top volume despite having her friend Lucy in the front seat, "Oh my God child, CLOSE YOUR LEGS. You stink to high heavens". I was mortified but then laughed hysterically and promptly fell asleep in the back seat. Happy, safe and stinky in the care of a second mother.
That same summer, home from the bush and rather idle, Aunty Marj decided to put me to work and "hire" me to help her stain her rather large deck surrounding her swimming pool. I was happy to help. We toiled together all day under the July sun, painting furiously in our bras and panties. I loved how she was happiest in the beating sun. She welcomed the heat and always seemed sun burnt to me. When she would heat up just so after a good work stretch, I remember her flopping into the pool casually without a sound or announcement. Like a seal. She was satisfied with our work and "paid" me at the end of that gruelling day with a large, novelty-like cheque made out to Marj Heinrichs for the sum of 150 dollars to Dollarwise, a dry-cleaning company. Ummmm, thank you? She had generously signed the back and in retrospect it was a perfect payment as I had an enormous collection of silk dresses and fancy party clothes that I wore and dry cleaned in high rotation that year. Classic Marj! What a woman.
Helluva woman, I tell ya.
Many more tales to come. These were just a hysterical few I had at the top of my head while reflecting fondly. When Marj's eldest daughter Jen reached out to me to contribute to her Story Queen collection of short stories about Marj, I was in a strange headspace. An old friend of mine had just past away suddenly, I was deep in the process of packing up my household in Winnipeg in preparation for a big shift to rural life in Carman, Manitoba. I also wanted to contribute something PERFECT and kept coming up short. Grief kept washing over me as I would sit down to drum up a story and it really made me think about the last decade and how I spent my time in the wake of that giant, giant loss. I think I completely shut down and stoppered all Marj related grief to the best of my numbed ability while living in Montreal for that first year after her death. It was the simplest option. No one knew her out there and being so far away from family meant there was no one to shoulder the sorrow with. It was easier to put the sadness in a box and take it out tenderly from time to time to explore it, sit with it, weep and long for a fallen spirit and then put it away until I was ready again. And that is okay. But eventually, I moved home and faced the music. Grief never goes away. It changes form over and over again like a tumbled rock. These days, I keep it close as one would an admired stone on a sacred shelf. I look at it often, take it down, hold it and admire it. I think Marj would approve.
I miss her deeply and try to honour her fierce spirit every time I raise my camera to my eye, nuzzle and undress a new baby tenderly, enjoy a glass of red wine, laze in the beating sun and flop into a cold pool soundlessly. Like a seal.
Soar on Eagle Woman. I have a feeling my daughter will carry a little piece of you in her spirit as she crosses over to the other side. Wishing you were here to capture the joyous occasion of her arrival!
Until we meet again, cheers and much love!
Megsy
