This is Ann Louise.
I met Ann Louise in Canada. She is my third cousin, second cousin to my mother, and an immediate cousin to my grandmother. Her and her husband Ed live in Ontario, depending on one another, and chain smoking like crazy.
Originally thinking about this project, I was going to process stories about Ann Louise that weren’t true, and to let you, the reader, decide. However, looking back on my visit and remembering being trapped in the house for somewhere around 6 hours- me and my immediate cousin of the same age, Chris – it was a startling thing to realize age, and how real things still are. There is no immunity to real life, no matter how invincible you feel, or how unfair things are because you may be so feeble, old or young.
This project is about my process of visiting Ann Louise. My mom, cousin and I hopped into our rented car, and from Ann Arbor, Michigan, drove a good 8 hours to and through Canada to find her house among the French-English traffic signs. From the beginning of the day, there was an excitement, and what I find to be a fault in myself at some times, much expectation. I woke up expecting to see this unclaimed third cousin of mine to find a great aunt-like figure who was sane, cheery, interested in me as I had been in her, easy going and fun. Yes, the perfect relative.
We drove and drove and looked at the landscape that felt just like anywhere else. It felt like where I grew up, and where we used to go to pick pumpkins in the pumpkin patch during the fall. The space-age rented car drove us on as did the nostalgia that fueled me. This was going to be a family member that I could genuinely care for, a new start, a new beginning, and a lifetime of stories. Hell, I was excited.
Having never been to Canada (or anywhere else besides the U.S. and Mexico), this was to be a thrilling trip for me. Surprisingly, Canada is no different than Michigan, except for the only place you can buy beer is the Beer-Mart. And how can I forget the French signs. Otherwise, no difference. My glee was starting to fade as we crossed the border and into Canuck territory.
Eventually, we get to their house after being lost for a half hour, knock on the door and see an older woman all skin and bones in a button up shirt, looking happy as hell to see us. She opens the door to see us in and hugs everybody. Ann Louise smells dreadfully of hard liquor.
Reality hit me in the face, and I begin to learn why Ann Louise is so damned salty. The realness of her life has caught up with her and she doesn’t know what else to do but drink. Of course she didn’t say this, but it was clear. Her son died at 55 of kidney problems – he was an Air Force pilot and had accomplished much in his life. “He was a good boy, and strong, handsome too, never meant anybody no wrong!” Anna Louise would cry, to be followed by offering us drinks after drinks after drinks so she could keep going to the kitchen.
Ed, her husband, would poke fun at how thin she was getting. So very thin, “she’s just skin and bones anymore, not an ounce of flesh on ‘er!” Ed chortles, smokes more Players and follows it all up with an “Eh?” He has just had a stroke, not his first, not his last. His large belly is tight and round and he smokes cigarette after cigarette in his chair for the first 4 hours we are there.
These two people are not anything that I expected. They have problems and hardships left and right (as I kept finding out through all of the memorial service cards for friends who had recently passed, with their son, tucked into books of self-help and how-to-grieve). They have a small house and not many things to keep one busy, which surprised me since they rarely go out. I began to feel very afraid of becoming old, of dying, of not being as strong but having problems just as potent as ever.
It was not a negative experience by any means. I learned a lot from Ann Louise (she did most of the talking), and heard plenty of stories that kept me hooked. I wished to stay and listen more, and at the same time wanted only to come home. The thing is, you see, they are still so happy. From seeing Ann Louise turn from party-host to tearing up in a matter of seconds at the mention of her son was… startling to see. This is maybe cheesey to say, but you never know what you have until it is gone. And then you are older and see important people and things around you disappear, and your life is lost a little more. I am not old and obviously have not been before, but it feels this way. Things will always be hard; you will just become more tired.
You will always, however, have amazing stories.
Since I have gotten back from Michigan, I have been telling everyone I know about sweet Ann Louise. How she is crazy, funny, genuine, sad, exciting, exuberant, sincere, and at times melancholy are not the words I originally picked for this made up lady. To be any of the latter make her so real and cunning that I would much rather pick her than who I thought I was going to meet.
As Ann Louise is quite old and ailing of this or that, I have come back knowing that she has had turns for the worse that eventually bring her out for the better as a person. She is very caring and one of the most interesting people I’ve ever talked to. Even when there is no more Ann Louise to visit, I will always tell my stories of seeing her, and stories she had told me (however badly I may butcher them).
Ann Louise is a stranger in my family who I can absolutely see how I am related to.
Like her, I will learn to swallow my lumps and still smile so wide.
