Memories are the comfort

Today my family said goodbye to Auntie Effie. On a day that, on its surface, should provoke sadness, I am feeling buoyant after the services this morning that brought together a gathering of perhaps a hundred or so, give or take.

Auntie Effie would have been 100 years old on October 18, just a week from today, and that itself is a remarkable feat that most of us can only wonder at. She was born Stephanie Stochmal, but came to be called “Effie” in the family by her 16 brothers and sisters and all the nieces and nephews eminating from that amazingly large brood. She later became Mrs. John Pczonka, but always, to most, she was "Effie."

I asked my father where “Effie” came from, trying to get the goods on the back story that may be there. My husband had suggested that perhaps one of the younger siblings had trouble pronouncing her given name and could only manage the “EFFIE” part, so it stuck.

My Dad, who is 20 years younger than Auntie Effie, didn’t know. He remembers his parents called her Stefania, the Polish version of her beautiful name. Neither of my grandparents spoke English, having come to America in the early 1900s from Tarnow and Kolbuszowa, Poland, so Polish is what was spoken at home -- even down to the names of the children.

Cousin Kenny -- the oldest of Auntie’s three grandchildren -- spoke genuinely about the woman that his brothers and their children came to call “Babi” (pronounced Bobby -- I really don’t know how they spell it, but since it is the mispronunciation of the Polish word for grandmother -- Babci -- I am spelling it with the “c” missing, hoping it will suffice to make this point.)

Auntie Effie was born in Poland in 1910, apparently the only one of the 17 children to have that distinction. It just happened that my grandmother -- a teenage bride living in America with her husband and two small children -- was visiting her own mother in Poland when Stephanie was born. It was just one of the ways that Destiny said Effie was meant to stand out.

In most other ways, Auntie Effie seemed to be much like her siblings -- tough, “old school,” but practical and creative in assessing most situations. Kenny highlighted the three lessons handed down to him by his beloved “Babi,” and they were on-the-money accurate in reminding us of Auntie’s essence.

Be strong.

Be independent.

Be kind.

What great advice to pass along, and now they will be a mantra connecting me to her. I don’t remember much about Auntie Effie, but I do know that my experience of her throughout my life was consistent with those attributes. She was one tough lady, capable and strong, but sweet and caring at the same time. I bet she was a wonderful grandmother, because I could see it reflected in the way her daughter, son-in-law, grandchildren, and great grandchildren presented the united picture of respect and love for her today and always.

It is comforting to have rituals for saying goodbye to our loved ones. In my family, it is the Adzima Funeral Home that has handled arrangements for most of the family funerals. It was no different for Auntie Effie. Adzima’s and St. Michael’s Church -- which my grandparents helped to establish -- were the familiar combo. This is where our ritual had to be.

Following the funeral mass, I drove with my parents to the cemetery service, and kept quiet to allow the opportunity for my father to express whatever he may have on his mind as we left the graveside of one of the sisters who had undoubtedly been like another mother to him as a child growing up in such a full household.

It took about five seconds. My father mentioned how he had looked at Auntie Effie the night before at the wake, as he and my mother approached the casket to say a prayer at her side. Auntie looked perfect, right down to her manicured fingernails.

“I was looking at her hands,” my father said. Funny how we both had noticed something about her hands, folded with a delicate rosary wrapped loosely within them. I had noticed the light pink polish, but Dad had connected much more deeply.

“I was thinking, ‘I wonder how many times she smacked me on the rear end when I was a kid.’” Then, without missing a beat, he said, “But I wonder how many hugs she gave me too.”

Loving hands. Strong hands. Hands that carried and held and supported. A fuzzy memory, rooted in reality, tied to a bond that only siblings know. Wrapped in the bow of family love.

I was blessed throughout the morning to hear the anecdotes of other relatives, all of which reminded me of the aunt whom I mostly recall walking Derby Avenue back and forth from her home on Mount Pleasant Street. She walked with a stateliness, strong in her step, and firm, like the very task of walking carried an importance that required her diligent attention.

One of my younger cousins noticed a bottle of wine on the table at the repast, and commented on it because it reminded her of her own connection to Auntie Effie. Auntie liked a glass of wine now and then, and had saved an empty Chianti bottle that she and her husband had shared. The bottle was transformed into art work -- I don’t know by whom. It was colorfully decorated with the multicolored drippings of candles. I’m not sure if I am remembering the details correctly, but they aren’t the point of this.

This is the point: When this cousin expressed a genuine appreciation of the memento, Auntie’s reaction was one that might be described as typical of her. "T," upon seeing the bottle one day, exclaimed, “I love this!” To which Auntie Effie replied, “Take it.”

I wish I had thought to ask "T" where she keeps that special memento, but it doesn’t matter. It is a lovely sign of a life that was here and now lives on in another dimension in time. Just as our memories of Auntie Effie do.

There is comfort in the knowing.