Aunt Mary -- One Heck of a Tall Tale Woman!

Imagine a woman who could run a well-digging rig as well as bake a batch of cookies, who could change her pickup's oil as well as sew a quilt, who could catch suckers and milk their sperm to raise minnows and also sing "What a friend we have in Jesus" in the church choir, who could fix plumbing, design a garden, and even yodel "I Want to Be a Cowboy's Sweetheart." She had co-run a service station, clerked at the grocery store and post office, and run for public office. When she won, she served with practical sense and an ear for the many sides of a question as well as patience in the face of sometimes outrageous behavior and name calling. No scandals with Mary!

Aunt Mary made a life for herself in the north woods of Wisconsin, outliving two husbands and teasing about whether anyone knew a good-looking, rich cowboy. Her nephew Darryl Mataya wrote: "You showed us what it took for a woman to live by herself in a remote area. Today there is almost no such thing as being lost or out of touch, with all our modern tools, but you managed to stay connected -- with a unique set of friendships, a vast knowledge of the land and roads around you, a quick honk as you passed a neighbor's house, and one simple pair of copper wires connecting your phone to the world. And I came to learn there was a good reason you had a loaded .22 rifle hanging above the back door and pity any fool who did not understand that there were circumstances where you were prepared to use it. (I also figured out who would be responsible if my curiosities were to get the best of me and I fooled around with it and shot my toe off.)"

Aunt Mary never taught her values, she lived them. Her home was simple--a trailer that had over the years barnacled into a house. She and her first husband, Willie, had built their own home from scratch, but it had been struck by lightning and burnt to the ground. As she had so many times in her life, without self pity or the contemporary feelings of victimization, she rebuilt her life from ashes.

Never judgmental, she lived by faith and tall standards, where all of life mattered, from her dog Friday who understood everything Mary said, to the fish she caught, to the birds and deer she fed daily, and yes, to the bear that passed through her backyard. Every person mattered too, as demonstrated by the collage of pictures of family and friends that took precedent over art on her walls. Her home by the lake was the favorite place for a summer vacation; many a woe-be-gone found refugee in her home when life buffeted them.

Darryl again: "We counted on you to help us, because we knew your guidance would be delivered with love and understanding. When we would put you in a position where you had little choice but to wonder what part of our mind had gone missing, you always treated us gently -- asking deliberately but politely if we were sure we wanted to leave that tackle box open while we prepared to gun the motor, of if we had indeed checked recently to see if the spare tire was back in the trunk. You always made us feel responsible for our behavior, but never ashamed of it."

I came late to the family, marrying into it via Darryl's brother, David. When I first met her, Aunt Mary pulled David aside and said of me: "She's a keeper." The feeling was mutual. The laughter in her eyes drew me like deer to her backyard troughs. From that point on, she became my Aunt Mary too, a woman who had that rare and unusual quality to take people exactly where they were at, look them in the eye, and make them feel recognized, honored, welcomed, and beloved.

As Darryl said, "Most of all, you believe everyone is precious....When anyone entered your home, we immediately felt like your favorite. That is an astonishing ability you have. ... I marveled at how, when each of us would walk in and get a hug . . . we all looked like you had just whispered to us that Christmas had been moved up... we feel that way because you believe it and treated each of us as the most special of God's children."

Mary Mataya Williams, the tall tale woman for whom I dedicated Paul Bunyan's Sweetheart, died on August 17, 2009 at the age of 86. We miss her. I miss her. All the time. I hope to grow into a fine woman like Aunt Mary someday. I don't think I'll make it, but I'll try. The world needs more such tall tale people, big-hearted people who don't live "whatever" lives but sing a bold, bright, courageous song individually and in chorus -- with a yodel thrown in for good measure.