Zurtlespace

I was driving home late on a Saturday night when I got the news—my great aunt Gilda had just died. Her death was comparatively sudden; she wasn't exactly in ill-health before the cancer was discovered but deteriorated quickly once diagnosed. I spent the days since then reflecting on what my great aunt meant to me, fragments of thoughts and memories flitting through my mind but never quite settling.

My first instinct was to lament how intermittently I visited her, but I knew that I would feel this way even if I had gone to Las Vegas every other weekend. Such thoughts brought me back to my bubbie's funeral. There was a moment in that service when anyone who wished to relate their memories, feelings and anecdotes about Bubbie were invited to do so, and I, to my shame, could not. I know that, at the time, my own emotional turmoil made everything a murky haze, but I can't help regretting that at the critical moment, my words and thoughts failed me.

Not this time.

My cousins gave a loving and heartfelt eulogy that reinforced what I already knew about Gilda—she was glamorous, kind, generous with her time, and utterly irrepressible. I knew she once went on a date with Elvis, but never knew that she had also dated Jackie Mason; small details that filled in some of the gaps in my knowledge, but still couldn't paint the full picture that was Auntie Gilda.

Gilda was the sort of person who seemed ageless, whose vitality made time seem to slip by quietly, barely touching her. She lived so well for so long she seemed almost immortal. But real immortality is more than just timeless beauty. It is found in memory, in the period after we die, when everyone who knew us carries their memories of us with them long after we are gone. Then they too die, and we are truly gone. It's a limited sort of immortality, but it's all we have, and we owe it to those who go before us if we are to expect it of those who follow after us.

Here then, are some of my most vivid memories involving Gilda. They may seem silly or trite or unimportant to some, but to me they are significant.

I remember her jewely chest. As a little kid I would sneak into her bedroom during one of her infamous parties, open her drawers full of gaudy Leven jewelry and run a tactile exploration of the treasures. I would pick a double-handful of the massive necklaces, bangles and earrings, raise them just above eye-level, and let them fall, watching as they would smoothly slip through my little fingers, dangle from my little hands, and land with a happy clickety-clack back in the drawer.

I remember the piano at her Encino house (of course I would remember her piano) and how she would let me play and bang and hammer away at the poor instrument even in the midst of the most lovely of parties. For reasons I will never know, she always had the same book of sheet music sitting on the music stand and it was always turned to the Blue Danube, a perennial favorite of the Leven sisters, as though she were waiting for someone to learn to play it for her.

I remember her jacuzzi, in both houses. I know that I nearly drowned in the one at her Encino house—and I actually somewhat remember this—but for me this just adds to the adventure and exoticism that is auntie Gilda; something exciting was always happening in Gildaville.

I remember her catching me chip-handed, double-dunking in the spinach-artichoke dip—which is especially embarrasing since now both sides of my family have caught me in the act, and made a public spectacle of it when it happened. Gilda was a lot like my dad's family that way; she never let anything slide. But like Dad's family, it all came from a place of love. Maybe some people can't appreciate such distinctions, but it is difficult, if not impossible, to appreciate who Gilda was without being able to recognize the subtle difference between the loving critic and the spiteful killjoy. The more time you spent with Gilda, the better you learned the difference.

I remember how my music was never good enough. Gilda had a fantastic musical ear. Whenever she was in town I would play her one of my latest compositions, and she always told me what was wrong with it. Even when there was nothing wrong. But I could always count on Gilda to give me a real opinion, honest and blunt. No punches pulled. No prisoners taken.

I remember how, when my bubbie got sick, Gilda came to Los Angeles almost monthly to visit and help take care of her. Despite how hard it was to see her ailing sister in such a state, she faithfully spent the vast majority of her time during these visits tending to her until the very end.

I remember my visits to her Las Vegas house. They usually resulted in a distinctly un-Vegas-like experience. The city of neon magic was just a short drive away and yet I always found myself never wanting to leave the house; no one could spoil you the way Auntie Gilda could.

There are other memories, but these are the ones I felt like sharing. My great aunt Gilda was a vivacious and impressive woman. The world is a little less bright without her.

Posted with Blogsy