Her two cents worth

I miss my Aunt.

Her razor sharp wit and flair for the dramatic. I idolized this larger than life dynamo of a woman. Aunt Zu was the best combination of fearless leader, creator of theatrical magic and down to earth loving friend and confidant. I grew up playing in her world of theatrical magic, uproarious gatherings and wonderous wanderings.

I loved her tales of adventures around the world:

Romantic train rides in Germany over the Ravenna Gorge; snow blown mountains and black forests flying by.

Hectic rickshaw rides in Beijing, and the sunset glazing golden China’s great wall.

The feel of handwoven kilims in the markets of Istanbul. Sipping strong Turkish coffees and foreign tongues calling out “come buy”, sweet strains of song , drums and dulcimers. The heart pangs felt for a fabulously-moustached boatman, browned from the Mediterranean sun.

The tinkle of an ice-cooled drink and touch of desert blown breezes. Sailing the Nile on a wooden-decked Dahabiya, surrounded by monumental mysteries. Shading her eyes from sand’s sun glare.

Basking in Fiji’s soft white sands. Warm waters lapping her legs while wading out in a coral-surrounded blue water cove to catch breakfast.

Musical notes gloriously resounding off the walls of St. Michael’s Cave inside the Rock of Gibraltar.

The cool luscious curves of Gaudi’s architectural wonders in Barcelona. The light-stoked glorious glass colors in ever-shifting patterns of Sagrada Familia.

We would sit in her home, side by side, under handblown glass globe Moroccan lamps, feeling the rough colorful kilim below our feet. Touching trinkets and coins, her special souvenirs. Pouring over pictures and her notebooks filled with sketches of strangers now friends, delicate pressed flowers from afar, jottings of unique moments to keep dear memories clear.

Zu’s generously shared tales of travel adventures and photos of foreign lands always stirred something in me. All those exotic places I figured I’d only hear about, my own experience just pipe-dreaming.

Then she began to falter and succumb to age. Small strokes stealing movement and memories. All those photos and journals searched over and over for something slipping away.

I can still feel her well-worn, softly wrinkled hand in mine as she quietly embarked on her final, or perhaps just new, journey.

Aunt Zu left me a part of her adventures:

One carved wooden apothecary box from China, full of trinkets: blue glass earrings from Santorini Island, an antique chandelier crystal from Venice, and oh so many more beautiful baubles from everywhere she had been.

One beautiful handwoven Turkish kilim. If you look carefully at the intricate pattern, you can see a flaw, a blip in the pattern’s perfection. I remember her telling me that the mistake is on purpose so that the weaver’s soul cannot become trapped in their creation.

One wonderfully abused little notebook, black and battered and filled to bursting with pictures, train tickets, flattened flora, writings and sketches. A familiar ribbon bound receptacle of remembrances.

And lastly, one envelope addressed to me:

“Sweet T (her nickname for me)

Don’t let life leave you on the sidelines…Do whatever you can to leap headlong into life’s flow, drink in all its delights . Fill yourself and feed your soul with new experiences, get out and see the world.

I have become painfully aware that one’s ability to adventure can change in a moment. So, my dear, stop waiting and embrace it now!

Here’s my 2 cents on the matter and I suggest you take it for what it’s worth .

I love you immeasurably,

Aunt Zu”

And true to her sense of humor, enclosed were two pennies.

I cherished these items, these parts of my aunt and her adventurous life, placed them carefully in my home, and went about my own life and work. Working through my grief at her departing.

One warm weekend, a month or so later, I sat watching the late afternoon’s light splintering into rainbows refracted from Zu’s crystal hung in my window. While running my toes across her sun warmed rug of many colors, something in her letter started me thinking. The way she referred to the worth of her two cents… I took her letter off my shelf and rolled the coins out onto my palm. Nothing unusual that I could tell, just two 1969 Lincoln pennies. But, out of curiosity, I looked up the coins on the internet, and…

I sit here now, across the world, in Cap de Creus at the top of Spain. Writing in my own little sketchbook. The Mediterranean waters on three sides, the sun setting behind a wonderful musician, enjoying a fresh caught fish feast and glass of dry Spanish red wine. A huge smile on my face as I tearfully toast my Aunt, my wonderful unique friend who recognized something rare in me, and in a few coins worth almost $50,000…

To Aunt Zu who generously opened up the world to me.