Aunt Edie by Harriet Guardino

    For a period of time, Uncle George Barden, a widower who lived close by, boarded at our house for the noon meal, that being the big meal of the day. After each meal, he lay down on our couch in the living room to take a nap. My sister Ginna was very fond of him and curled up beside him. Jokingly, Uncle George agreed to "marry" her when she grew up. So when he married Edith Hunting (Aunt Edie), Ginna was MAD!
    Uncle George chewed tobacco. I remember him walking through his yard humming a little tune under his breath, stopping every little while to spit tobacco. A despicable habit, if you ask me! Otherwise, he was a lovable old gent.
    Uncle George's property adjoined Aunt Edie's property. When they married, she moved in with Uncle George and rented her home to the Seyboths. When the Seyboths moved to a larger house on "G" Street, closer to town, the Bardens moved back onto Aunt Edie's place. This is the home I describe in the following story of Aunt Edie's life.

    The place...Chicago, Illinois; the day...July 5, 1903. Edith Hunting had spent the day shopping for a new wardrobe. Now she was riding in the trailer of a northbound trolley on the way to Irving Park, happily musing over the prospects of going to Denver for her first teaching position and totally unaware of the noise and clatter of the city streets.
    Suddenly, there was a terrific grinding of wheels and crashing of metal and glass intermingled with the painful screams of the passengers. The trailer of the trolley car in which she was riding had entangled with the trailer of another can rounding the corner at the intersection of Elston, not far from the "Loop." Edith Hunting looked about her and saw the cut and bleeding bodies of the men and women nearby. She looked above her. The roof was smashed in, almost touching her head. For a moment she thought, "How lucky I am to have come out of this unhurt!" Then, taking note of herself, she saw that her arms were bleeding, and drops of blood were falling from her face. She was badly cut; yet she felt nothing...only a numbness that had overtaken her entire body as if every nerve were dead. The man next to her was screaming loudly for help, but Edith Hunting, too proud to cry out, determined to wait until aid came to her. After that, darkness, and she remembered no more until she found herself in a hospital bed.
    Although her face and arms had been severely cut, the worst injury was to her spine. This meant months flat on her back in bed, and months ore of treatments to repair the damaged limbs. For over two years she walked dragging both feet, her hands drawn up nearly to her shoulders, her fingers crippled and misshapen. It seemed probable she would always be hopelessly crippled; yet in spite of this grim prospect, she never lost faith. Because of her fervent zeal always to be "doing," Edith Hunting started her rehabilitation by making sponge cake, which she peddled to a neighborhood grocery. One of Edith's customers, a wealthy woman of some prestige, greatly admired the courage of this plucky little Irish lady and recommended her as private tutor to moneyed families of her acquaintance. From this beginning, Edith derived the courage to take her physical examination, after which she was miraculously accepted for a teaching position in a Chicago school.
    This was three years after her accident. At first she was very self-conscious of her misshapen fingers, afraid the children might laugh, but this fear was soon dispelled when to her surprise and immense comfort, one of her pupils took Edith's crippled hands into her own, and without a word, kissed them and caressed them, as if to say, "I'm sorry. Do they hurt?" Encouraged, Edith set about to train her fingers to become useful as they once had been. By the end of the first school year, she had won the top award for penmanship and had been extremely successful in teaching her pupils manual arts. In the ensuing years, she attended art school and became quite proficient with water colors and oil paints. In fact, she trained the crippled hands to do most anything that normal hands could do.
    For 16 years she devoted her life to teaching the children in the slum areas of Chicago...immigrant children of Swedish, Polish, Italian, and Jewish parentage. Needless to say, on their first day at school these young immigrants did not understand a word of English, but due to Edith's infinite patience, by the Christmas season they were able to sing carols in their newly learned tongue.
    Most of these youngsters were from impoverished families, dirty, shabby, even hungry. But to Edith, each was a precious jewel, requiring only the polish which public education and heart-felt understanding of a conscientious teacher had to offer. Behind the dirty faces of these children Edith saw only their eagerness to learn, and in their eyes she saw the hope of a better America. For as she so often marveled in later years, the parents of most of these children stayed in the slums only long enough to earn enough money to advance themselves to better communities. To Edith the slums represented a constant challenge. Often she washed the children's faces before the school-day began. Sometimes she furnished them with much needed clothing bought with her own funds. Frequently, she shared her lunch with a child who had no lunch of his own. No child was too slow or too lacking to merit her undivided attention. She loved them all, and they loved her.
    After 23 years in the teaching profession, Edith retired to a little farm in the West, about a mile from Grants Pass, Oregon, located in the Rogue River Valley. At this point in her life when middle years were crowding upon her, she fell in love with the widowed farmer next door, a jolly, hard-working elderly man named George Barden, and they soon married. This was my first introduction to Edith Hunting Barden, since her farm was close to that of my parents.

In her letter of December 27, 2005, Harriet Guardino wrote: "First I must apologize for not including a note along with the silverware, which I had intended to do. But I had completely wrapped the package for mailing before I remembered. I must explain: the forks and the soup spoons [not pictured] belonged to Aunt Edie (Patent 1913). The pointed spoons--I think for eating grapefruit)--(Patent 1910), were part of Catherine Dobbie Smith's wedding silver. Both are by William Rogers and Son. I believe they are silverplated, rather than sterling silver, a higher quality. You might ask a jeweler."

    I was a small child at the time, and along with my sister and all the other neighborhood children, I learned to love and admire this unusual couple who we called Aunt Edie and Uncle George. Among my most treasured childhood memories are the Sunday afternoons spent in their livingroom, sprawled on the floor reading funny papers. It was like stepping inside a story book to visit them. The open fireplace, the high-backed, over-stuffed chairs, the bright Cretonne curtains, the braided rugs...all lent an atmosphere of charm, ever enhanced by the warmth of Aunt Edie's sparkling laughter.
    Holiday picnics, visits to Santa Claus, out-of-town rides in their old Model-T were all part of my childhood association with these people. I recall on one occasion, because I was angry with my mother for having given away my pet cat, I packed my suitcase and ran away to Aunt Edie's house. With characteristic understanding, she allowed me to stay until my childish wrath was spent before ushering me home.
    After 18 golden years of marriage, death came to Uncle George. To Aunt Edie it seemed as if Life had dealt her a blow more cruel than her handicap had been. Lonely and grief-stricken, she returned to Detroit to the comfort of her sister's home. Soon she found herself gravely ill from an incurable ailment. This time there were 17 months in bed, and gradually she grew weaker until she weighed only 85 pounds. The day arrived when the doctor, who, incidentally, was a Jew, said there was nothing further he could do for her. Relatives came home to be at her bedside. A Catholic priest administered the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. Aunt Edie knew she was going to die, but was not afraid. Having been a zealous Roman Catholic most of her life, she philosophized, "I live for God; I die for God."
    And while we waited for death to overtake her, the negro maid who had been employed at her sister's home knelt to pray for her recovery. The Mormon nurse who stayed at her bedside knew that a miracle had happened, for unbelievably, Aunt Edie lived! Within a week she was sitting up in a chair; in a month's time she was going to town under her own volition. Truly, she had lived for God!

    Only a few short months later Aunt Edie set out on a quest to regain the happiness she had once known. Without a word to her sister and doctor, she conjured all her strength, packed her few belongings into a bag, and boarded a bus en route to Grants Pass. Since her long illness had left her thin and worn, it was little wonder that my parents failed to recognize her when she planted her small self on their doorstep five days later. Although nearly exhausted, this little woman, who always saw the bright side of everything, chuckled and said, "I'm back. Are you surprised?"
    This was the beginning of a new era for Aunt Edie. Despite the fact that she herself was in almost constant misery, the remaining 12 years of her life were dedicated to the service of others. She kept house and cared for the children of working others who could pay only a pittance for her services. She tended the sick, and often used her last penny to buy them vitamins or some other needed drug. She tutored backward children, always without charge. But even more gratifying than her deeds were her words of counsel.
    Aunt Edie, a strong disciple of St. Francis of Assisi, patterned her humble existence after his, seeking, as St. Francis wrote, "not so much to be understood as to understand." So it was for this reason that many of us poured out our problems to Aunt Edie, who was never too busy to listen and who always left us feeling encouraged. Despite her poor health and advancing years her mind was constantly active, and in her spare time she dabbled in paints and children's literature. She read extensively and entered dozens of contests, winning notable prizes, among them an automatic washing machine, an electric oven, and a wrist watch.
    When she was well past 70, she met a kindly middle-aged gentleman named David Finley, who had been legally blind since birth. She became his constant companion. She proof-read the stories he typed and offered her constructive criticism. She talked and read to him by the hour and tended many of his personal needs. She led him on long walks through town. In fact, Mr. Finely agreed, she showed him the happiest years of his life.
    And then, at last, Aunt Edie was forced to relent to the weakness of the flesh. For six months she lingered, bed-fast, praying that each day would bring an end to her suffering, yet accepting each added hour patiently, without fear or bitterness. During those last torturous weeks she told me, "I know this thing is going to take quite a while, and I've decided not to complain." Then, setting her jaw in true Irish fashion she declared, "I'm just going to take it on the chin!" And that's exactly what she did!
    On December 12, 1955, Aunt Edie died serenely, and three days later following a requiem mass, she laid here to rest on a hillside grave overlooking the valley she loved. To be sure, she had left behind very little of the material worth...a typewriter, a set of encyclopedias, a few personal things. Yet to my mind and to the minds of all who knew her, she had left a fortune, for during her 75 years she had etched a pathway strewn abundantly with life's most precious endowments...Faith, Hope, and Love. Yes, Aunt Edie had died as he had lived...for God!

    Aunt Edie had a profound influence on my life. In my mind she was the perfect example of a good Christian. When I asked her why she had converted to Catholicism, she gave me an answer I'll never forget. "It's as if Protestants drink from an earthen vessel," she explained, and Catholics drink from a golden chalice."
    As you know, I was born a Methodist. When Monte and I were married, I was reluctant, because of my Protestant background, to embrace Catholicism. So ours was a "mixed marriage," which meant, under Catholic law, I had to allow him to raise our children in the Catholic faith. For a long time I had been, as the Apostle James described, a "double-minded" person, "like a wave of the sea driven with the wind," going from church to church, doubting the Word, even rejecting the notion of God. But there was always an emptiness inside me, a hunger that would not be satisfied. Even though I attended Mass with Monte, the conflict still raged within me. It was not until after Mary was born that I finally became a Catholic.
    One of the common criticisms of the Catholic Church concerns its ritual. However, I have discovered that the Mass is much more than pomp and ceremony. It is the beautiful expression of God's relationship with Man. Every gesture, every accouterment, every word has meaning, showing us the way to God and Eternal Life. Yes, it is truly like drinking from a golden chalice.

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