Audrey

The thing about the universe that always brings a lump to my throat is that it never seems to fail bringing you what you need...which isn't quite right, because that's not where the feeling is. The feeling is in the knowledge and the remembrance and the chills you happen upon when you stay up all night thinking about things. Said "things" being in my immediate case a woman named Audrey Nyber Tucci, a woman who among other things was born in 1931, was photographed on her Dad's shoulders in the picture above about 1934, lived a life as a mother and teacher and all-around great spirit, and passed a couple months ago.

But that's the easy part. And finding out last night about her passing was not much harder. Unhappy, and caused teary eyes for more than a second or two, but 88 is a pretty good run on this planet, unless you're someone like me who would be angry if people I love were to only make 150 or 307 years. I am greedy that way: I love them and never NEVER will be satisfied with the "pretty good run" thinking. If you matter to me, and you are forced to leave, I cannot play the "better place" game, either. All credit to those who can; I just cannot.

So here is the story I have to tell tonight. 

My mom and dad and I purchased a camp in a place almost every map has revised its records so as not to say "Moose River". I don't mean the actual river; that still rocks and rolls as strong as I can imagine it ever has. I mean the town, or the hamlet, or...yes: this!...the settlement. We got a place in Moose River Settlement. Location? Nowhere to most. Population? Not many to most.  And we loved it and still do, regardless of piles of non-existence evidence. I've written about it and taken thousands of pictures; Mom has written several books about it. Dad has mostly just kind of quietly dug it in his own way. Which I think is a great explanation of things: there's no one way to care about things you love. Which makes sense, considering how different we all are.

But...

Part of the way some people love that place, is to wonder what anyone can find out about its past. And so, in 1999, I checked out an internet search on I think Copernic, which led to a book about Moose River Settlement called "Siblings Scribblings and Borrowed Children," by Mae Nyber. It was in the Rome, NY, library database, and I figured sometime I might get up the ambition to go there and look at that book. 

Please remember when you hear what I'm about to say that this was the late '90s, not now, with 20 more years of love built into every single thought I have of the place; also not ten or whatever years from now, a time when if I am still striding across this universe I am pretty sure I will (though I can't imagine it possible from this time) care more wholeheartedly and true than I can possibly know from here.

So, to wrap up my extended period of silliness in this matter, anyway: at first I came as close as I could to not considering the importance of Mae's book. 

But...

Every once in a while that book would allow its title to show up. And in the meantime I'd grown increasingly in love with the place, and so, eventually, years later, I found a copy of the book for sale and bought it and..."paydirt" seems like the right word.

There are a bunch of reasons this book means so much to me; it was well written and I love the humor of it, and the tales of living in the wilderness in a camp near ours.

Near ours. Or so I thought. But there were pictures similar to the one above, and my mom, being Mom, took one look at the cottage picture and said "That's our place!"

***

On a rainy day in October 2008, Mom and I are standing outside waiting for a car.  We mostly stood under the big trees in front of camp so we probably only got slightly more rained-on than if we'd stayed in the open area of the yard. Mom was nervous; she was pacing as best one can pace amongst raindrops and tree roots and pine cones and random foot-by-foot elevation changes. "I hope I'm right," Mom said. "I'm sure you are," I said, not because I had any reason to be sure but because somehow I knew I was anyway.  And a few minutes later a car headed west from McKeever flipped on a left-hand turn signal and pulled in the driveway/lawn area and Mom was as sure as I was, and then things got greater.

***

Audrey Nyber, born 1931, arrived in style and remains in my head as the coolest visitor ever to The Cottage. Which, since she wasn't a visitor but just coming back home for a little while, was, if you knew her or us, exactly how you'd expect me to think about this. We talked for hours and looked at pictures and missed her parents and Bert Salg (a great illustrator who lived down the street). We told her about writing projects and photos and music stuff we had no proof of on hand; we were rightly believed. Audrey told us about her life in the happiest way, all kinds of great past but just as much wonderful now, said she was reading historical novels and creating fabric art and substitute teaching. I fell in love with her. We all did.  Later, after most of the talk, we went to the Old Iron Bridge, and checked out the rolling current of the Moose and the leaves on the trees along its banks. We headed back to camp afterward and Mom and Dad and I stood out front while Audrey walked around the yard a while by herself... everything stopped at some point, because it had to. And Audrey left, but only after having been back for the first time in 70 years.

If you ask me of best days at The Cottage, I will likely place the Audrey day first on the list. Truth is, at the end of that day I drove back to what I call The Lower 48 a day earlier than I logically might've, because my mind was blown. I'm sure I missed some great stuff, but how do you face the day after perfection?

***

And last night I found out she is gone away. 

Wherever Audrey Nyber is now, I hope she knows how much she means to us. I'm gonna guess she does: when you're a little kid on your dad's shoulders in a book almost no one knows about, you know you can work miracles.