..And Back Again

My Father's Sister had passed away alone in her apartment, Toronto, ON. 2012. But that was how she wanted to live her life. As an artist; you are never alone, even when you want to be.

A profound quilter, childless and a little strange; she was my Godmother and she loved us dearly. She always came to visit Ottawa around our Birthdays - all of us born in April; 6, 12, & 24.

Easter had adopted her in an epic portrayal; as her pockets were filled with cheap, chocolate bunnies, wrapped in their purple tinfoil, all scattered about her car from the long drive.

This purple was the same shade of purple that was painted on the walls of her three-bedroom condominium, somewhere deep within Canada's largest city. I assumed it was to match the parquet flooring. She was proud of her place, and every, little, thing in it.

She lost her mother at a very young age, my 'Grandma Quilts,' we would call her, and she was not prepared to take on the role. I guess no one would be. Somehow, I found myself staring with a blank look at the purple apartment.

The ambulance had a terrible time getting up to her room, #1106, as the Superintendent had a mix up of keys and other locked doors; stalling the last life-saving moments, of 64 years.

They protruded their way in and navigated between the mountains of stuff. They were just doing their job; pushing things aside to fit the stretcher through. Things were chaotic already in her apartment, but this looked as though a tornado took charge.

My father was already on the phone and I heard him say, "the ambulance took her purse, we don't know." His voice faded out as he paced slowly, listening and speaking softly. His arms were crossed and he held the phone with his left hand, nestled between his hunched shoulder and tilted neck.

My mind could not seem to form a precise thought. My eyes were transfixed on the parquet floor. This was a relief from the precariously stacked piles of books, boxes, papers and bins; all of which formed shapes like buildings, wavering dauntingly as I moved cautiously around them.

I came to the place where her heart gave out. A small plate was shattered on the floor; the remote for the TV, not far away. To spare my Father, I tried to sweep it away, although he walked through and around me, listening intently, ear to the phone.

I stood up and silently prayed; although I did not know what it meant at the time. I turned to take the broken dish to the kitchen and I stopped before the last row of thirteen cabinets with doors. I paused, reached out for its handle and I suddenly felt as though someone was watching me. There was a curious draw within me to open it.

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This began a colourful journey of understanding where my family had come from, my home and my life as an artist.

The cabinet held beautiful arrays of colour-coordinated, cotton fabric; the building blocks to my Aunt's quilts', that of her mothers', and both of their lives.

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I had one of two choices; do I stay in this apartment of the city to live a new life or do I go home to where I was born? I always dreamed of going to live with my Aunt in order to go to school. I was excited about a new life; and hesitant at the same time.

"Now, what do we do with all this?" My mother asked, holding much the same pose I had made, peering into the cabinet, leaning in with two hands on the doors. I answered with confidence, "We will haul it in garbage bags." She held the bag open as I pushed the neatly folded fabric off its shelves and into the dark depths of a crumpled disaster.

From Toronto, on the 11th floor, down the elevator and piled together on trolleys, we hauled everything to Ottawa. Week after week, month after month, into my poor, little Chevrolet, Cobalt. The car sank in protest with the weight of every trip, and the fabric bags teasingly ripped open and split with every pull.

It was quiet and empty at the Storage unit, after driving the 810kms round trip, back to Ottawa. The cameras were the only things to greet me in disdained contempt, as I tackled the heavy cart through the entrance way in my summer flip-flops. The bags would burst outward on the concrete floor with thuds that echoed down the lengthy hallways in mockery.

One Christmas Craft show I was attending, sold out of kits I had made with colour-corrdinated fabrics and threads. I picked the brain of the woman who bought these kits from me, asking her, “What do I do with the garbage bags full of cotton fabric, back at the storage unit?”

This angel, Mavis, invited me to come into her house with each bag of fabric and teach me how to measure, label and sell it. I gave her more fabric so she could continue to make charitable baby blankets for donation at the local Hospitals. An angel indeed.

For years I had joined many communities in Ottawa who specialized in the fabric and needlework world I never knew existed; and discovered a form of art, all of which was at the front door of my hometown. Some customers even stated they were from Toronto.. I wonder how they hauled it back to the place it had once came?