Differently Able

Aunt Maxine never heard of Feminism. She didn't need to.

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My Aunt Maxine has lived her whole life in the simple straightforward manner of children, animals and saints. She is without guile or artifice. She says what she thinks, and she means what she says. She has heard of embarrassment, but has probably never actually experienced it.

She knows that people often lie, but she has some trouble imaging why. Because of all this, she has never been completely comfortable with the niceties of social decorum. They strike her as pointless and phony.

Of course she’s right , or would be right – in a better world than this one.

Unfortunately, in this world, white lies and the ritual behavior of formal manners do have a point and purpose. They are the tools we use to manage the lusts and frailties’ of mortal id and ego. Even these don’t always work, but they are more reliable than anything else that’s been tried – save for a state of grace -which doesn’t seem likely anytime soon.

Most of us acquire these skills of social maneuver easily. Some become quite sophisticated at it. Others barely get the hang of it at all.

That’s not necessarily a discredit to the latter, or a plus for the former

Social skills do have practical value, but pragmatism is not a virtue, and neither is sophistication. Aunt Maxine’ plain spoken way may sometimes ruffle feathers, or cause a few red faces, but there is no meanness to it, and no contrivance either – that is a virtue.

Anyone who knew Grandad Bill will find much in Aunt Maxine’s style that is familiar. I suppose all the Billups have this quality of directness to one degree or another. Maybe Maxine has a little more of it than do the others. In any case - in Maxine’s case - the result was a sometimes eccentric, but always a completely forthright approach to all she encounters.

Three memories from my childhood will illustrate.

Once a week or so, Aunt Maxine and Aunt Arlene would drive into town (Ames, IA) for grocery shopping. I would often go with them. Aunt Arlene never learned to drive, and never wanted to. I think she was always somewhat afraid of automobiles. Aunt Maxine wasn’t. She learned to drive, and she drove with a boldness that was frequently at odds with her level

of expertise.

The start-up procedure rarely varied. Upon ignition, Maxine would rev up the engine to - oh say, 3000 RPM’S, maybe 3500 RPM’S – then pop the gearshift into first. At which point that car would fairly leap into action. Then Arlene, after pausing to catch her breath, would say, with considerable exasperation, “Now, Maxine, you don’t have to do that”. Then Aunt Maxine would reply something of other to the contrary.

I don’t recall their exact words, but their exact words don’t matter because this wasn’t really a conversation. It was just part of the start-up routine. Aunt Arlene never really expected Aunt Maxine to do anything differently, and Aunt Maxine certainly didn’t see any necessity to do so.

I’m sure Aunt Maxine was aware that a less explosive start-up technique was possible,

but she didn’t wasn’t convinced that such finesse was worth the trouble it would take to learn. After all, her way always got us where we wanted to go and that was enough.

Meanwhile, I would be sitting in the backseat with a big smile on my face. I thought Aunt Maxine’s take-off style was great. I imagined it was the way blasting off into outer space in a rocket ship would feel. The illusion was enhanced by the car itself – an early fifties Studebaker, a model that did look a lot like a rocket ship.

Anyway, if we disregard the wear and tear on the tires, transmission and Aunt Arlene, Maxine’s argument would be unimpeachable.

We always did get to where we wanted to go.

One winter day, after Roscoe and Maxine had moved into town, Maxine had an accident, but it wasn’t an auto accident. She was on her way to church when she slipped on a patch of ice and fell. The Billups girls are all good at falling. Where others find only level ground with firm traction, they discover hazard. But this fall was not in that category; anybody can fall

on slippery ice.

Also, this fall was a pretty bad one. She broke a bone. I don’t recall whether it was a hip bone or a leg bone, but I do recall that she got up and continued on her way to church.

Most folks upon breaking a bone would probably stay put and wait for help to arrive. Not so, Aunt Maxine. She did suspect that she had broken something, and she was not indifferent to the pain, or the near certainty that walking on the break would make it worse,

but none of these considerations stopped her.

When asked why, she said, “Well, it just made me so damn mad, I decided to walk on it anyway”. There you have it; exemplary expression of the pioneer spirt, a stubborn refusal to allow excruciating pain, or even common sense, to get in the way of determination.

It’s the sort of attitude that conquered a continent.

Aunt Maxine brought that same fortitude and offhand courage to longer forms of hardship as well, Sometime before, or maybe after her fall, she was struck with a mystifying ailment. Maxine always maintained a figure that any anorexic would die for – as indeed, many have. Aunt Maxine nearly died because of it too, but not by reason of delusional body image.

She kept losing weight, no matter how much she ate. She grew thinner and weaker as a series of doctors guessed and failed in various diagnosis and prognosis.

Finally, at long last, it was discovered that she suffered from a little-known malady called, Gluten Sensitivity. People afflicted with the disorder lack the ability to process foods containing wheat, oat, barley, rye, buckwheat, and malt. Which is to say, just about every item on the shelf. The only treatment possible is a carefully monitored, pretty dull diet.

This ended the life-threatening stage of her illness, though it did mean forsaking, forever, the joys of a normal meal.

Then too, there was always the risk of a relapse, no matter how careful she was to avoid the forbidden fruit. The world is full of far worse problems, but I think most of us would find this one bad enough

Despite all, I don’t believe I ever heard Aunt Maxine complain about it. She didn’t whine about her condition, and she didn’t brood about why her, and not somebody else. She just made do, taking pleasure in what she could, and abiding the rest.

It seemed to me that she lived every day of her life in that same here-and-now way, without recrimination for what has passed, or what cannot be made better – and with full appreciation for all that is good and present – in the manner of children , animals, and saints.

It’s a rare ability. I admire it.

By K. L. Shipley

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