Aunt Beulah makes up her mind
 Aunt Beulah likes to have the last word. She has a gun under the bed in case it gets too hard for her to get up in the morning. I asked her to think of the mess that would leave and to please consider taking pills for the sake of those of us consigned to clean up what's left of her. She's only half-joking about blowing herself away. Aunt Beulah used to ride side-saddle in a dress, drive across the country on a whim, party like preacher's kid, swear like a sailor and dance 'til the break of day with Uncle Don. Now she wakes up alone, in time to swallow an entree of medications before watching "Dallas", then she dives into yet another day of eating engagements and card games on the Sun City, Ariz. party circuit. Glaucoma is stealing her eyesight, muscular dystrophy her mobility, and now plaque is filling her arteries. Aunt Beulah's not bitter or mad. It's all part of the program, she figures. She's had a good life, and if the day comes she can't enjoy cleaning a clock or two at a game of bridge or watching old J.R. turning the screws, then she's out of here in no uncertain terms. I might argue with her if I thought for one split second I could win, or if I could think of one good reason, in my body still willing to take about any abuse I can dish out, why the wild and headstrong soul of my Aunt Beulah ought to stay chained to a body caving in on itself. Maybe because we're farm people we don't get too excited and launch into diatribes about why Aunt Beulah or anybody else in my family shouldn't take it upon themselves to decide when it's time to go. Animals decide. My dog Pete, he just up and disappeared one day. Same with Carlos the Hooter dog. The glue truck came and got Shortstuff, and Pop had to put a bullet into Bobbie when she got hit by a tractor and all her guts spilled out. Now my people, they've got their God, but their God is a thinking God, not Simon Says, and somewhere between the aegis of reason and servitude of blind faith, we decide for ourselves which is most ungodly - pulling a trigger or plugging in a respirator. I don't want to see Aunt Beulah leave. She's been my hero all my life. We both grew up in the same unheated bedroom in the house her grandpa built. We learned to swim in the same irrigation ditch and went to the same school. She lived in a house at the foot of the Rockies with a white stone fireplace and owned a dress shop while I was growing up. She had flame orange hair, with lips and fingernails to match, and she was the only woman in my family that didn't take baloney from any man. I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to wear nice clothes and big jewelry and write a check for my very own Mercury Couger. I wanted to travel with friends and rent houseboats for Labor Day weekend. I wanted to know exactly how I felt about everything that existed on earth and not hesitate to tell anyone foolish enough to ask. She never seemed scared. I'm scared all the time, but I usually get something done in spite of it after I get tired of hearing myself whine. Maybe Aunt Beulah gets scared, too. Maybe that's why she has to have the last word. Monday, March 2, 1998 |