Remembering a matriarch

“Eh, girl, you’ll never find it that way,” the voice in my memory is as clear as if she’s standing right behind me.

In the days after Ostara, my beloved, chain-smoking mother-in-law died… essentially from the flu. I shake my head in sorrow yet again and set my teeth. It’s 2016, but we might as well be living in 1918 for all the good the antibiotics did.

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She wasn’t that old, only 72. She washed windows earlier on the day she went into a coma from the sudden onset of opportunistic pneumonia, though she was already sick. She was the picture of a rugged farm matriarch. She always said she’d stop when she was dead, and she was right. 

She ruled her kitchen with an iron fist. She cooked all the meals and this is the first time I’ve ever been allowed to rattle around her kitchen, the first major holiday we’ve spent in her home without her. It’s the eve of Beltane and I’m trying to cook spaghetti for a house full of Czech uncles and cousins. 

I know she used to keep a lot of kitchen utensils in the front hall closet because her kitchen looks perfect and thus it has a sorry lack of storage space. I can’t find the strainer… or the cheese grater anywhere. And there are some in the family who are gleefully waiting for me to fail simply to prove one point or another.

It doesn’t help that I’m legally blind. Marie knew that well enough but she never made much of it. “Eh, girl, you go on and get the wood. I’ll get lunch.”

I poke through shelves full of the parts of her many mysterious kitchen appliances. She never showed me where anything was because she didn’t let anyone else fuss with her kitchen, least of all me. I was good with entertaining hordes of little cousins and hauling wood and collecting medicinal herbs. We both agreed I wasn’t that good in the kitchen. 

 She didn’t live to see me turn forty, but only by a few days. That never stopped her from calling me “girl,” not in any derogatory way. To her it was simply a statement of the difference in our generation. “Eh, girl, you’ve got so much energy. Have fun while you’re young.”

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I can hear the men tramping on the veranda. And I don’t have anything to strain the noodles with. “Damn it, Marie, you could at least give me some ouija board sort of sign, couldn’t you?” This is a very patriarchal culture and there will be overt criticism if I don’t have lunch together properly. 

“Eh, girl.” I can hear her hoarse, ironic laugh too now. “It doesn’t work like that. I’m sorry to leave you like this.”

I’m suddenly filled with remorse, as if she were really there and I was cruelly criticizing her for not leaving her kitchen in better order. “I’m sorry, Marie. You did plenty,” I think fiercely. “You did so much for us and you left us well set up. We’ll manage. You did your part.”

The men and children spill into the hallway and the next thirty minutes are chaos. Yes, I get hassled for not having it ready. Then I get criticized for getting crumbs of cheese on the floor from using a makeshift cheese grater. We never did find the real one. 

Later I sit with the other women who have married into the family by the Beltane bonfire, watching the men of the village, including all of our husbands, raising a 50-foot maypole by hand. It’s hazardous. The damn thing could fall on them. It’s a full grown pine log after all. 

But I’m still very glad this village has hung onto the old traditions. Few places have their history so well rooted. My husband’s family farm dates back six hundred years. The long stone farmhouse itself is four-hundred years old, the walls as thick as those of a small castle. Marie used to tell me stories she had learned from the village chronicles about her husband’s family, not so much about her own. She took on many of the ideas of this patriarchal society, where a mother’s history is less important.

But they wanted to put her ashes in the Catholic church yard in the next village, with her husband’s ancestors. My husband refused and stood alone against the other men over it. She had told him she wanted her ashes buried in an urn in a beautiful place between two ponds under a great oak tree at the back of the farm, not in the yard of a church she’d never put any stock in. 

I watch the flames of the Beltane fire lick at the ragged skirts on the figure of a wood and straw “witch” the villagers made. This is also tradition. Beltane is not called Beltane here but “witch burning night.” Some say it is the crone of winter that they burn and that it is not an anti-Pagan tradition. Most of the villagers are no more Catholic than Marie was. But still the sight sends a shiver up my spine, a sharp contrast to the warm Beltane evening full of live music and revelry. 

Creative Commons image by Stewart Black

“Eh, girl, you and your earth-mother theories. Are you going to forget to pick the plantain on the hill before the mowing starts?” 

I was worried because she wouldn’t be here to remind me which herbs were ready when I visited the village. I am good with medicinal herbs if I know they’re there. But initially finding them is hard when you’re almost blind. But it seems like my memories of her will help some.

It is a wonderful Beltane all around. I’m not actually the only woman who cooks and though there is some criticism, I come through pretty well. I eat too many goodies and feel a bit guilty with that instinctive shame this society has taught me.

“Eh, girl, eat!” The most iconic statement from Marie yet. “When the fat are thin, the thin will be cold in the ground.”

She was roughly barrel-shaped herself but more muscle than anything. The same flu that killed her did make me get thinner than I’d been in quite a while. But not being thin hadn’t helped her. The cigarettes played a role. Everyone knows that but few say it.

The things we let society do to us. 

I lie down in one of the many beds late at night and whisper goodnight to the ancestors in the walls made of field stones. 

Then I think of all the cooking to deal with in the morning. “I’ll keep the hearth warm, Marie. I’m not the matriarch you were and don’t want to be, but at least on Beltane, I’ll make sure your people are fed.”