Sketches, Husbands, and Other Artforms

Didn't intend to outlive four husbands, Aunt Nita told my grandmother cheerfully, Reckon I can still git me another.

Nana paled slightly at the suggestion since the fourth coffin was barely covered with dirt and a handful of townspeople were still at the scene. Hush, Nita, she whispered, He's hardly cold! Nita laughed good naturedly and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Alice, she said briskly, You need a drink.

Aunt Nita was in her early sixties then, an ample woman with comfort written all over over her. She wore her hair to her shoulders and rouged her cheeks, favored hoop earrings and bright lipstick, and had been known to polish her fingernails before she went to church, a practice which scandalized the local women. More appalling, she wore high heel shoes and sheer stockings from a store in Halifax - Mrs. McIntyre had nearly fainted at the suggestion that she order such things from the Spiegel catalogue and Nita was obliged to make a trip to the mainland herself. It was said that she stayed in a grand hotel and took her meals in the lavish hotel dining room. And mind you, Aunt Pearl had told Nana meaningfully, She doesn't eat alone. Aunt Nita was, in the words of the islanders, a spectacle.
Nana, what's a spectacle? I asked and my grandmother blushed before giving me a swat and reminding me that little pitchers have big ears.

Nita had married - in relatively short order - a local scalloper, a dairy farmer from Annapolis, a dance instructor from no one was quite sure where, and the captain of a Yarmouth tug boat. Each had taken up residence with her in the house she had inherited 'round the cove, a grand, three storied affair with a glassed in porch and an attic studio in which Nita herself painted colorful and some said garish sunsets and ocean scenes, filled with passion if not talent. She often packed her paintings and drove them to a gallery in Halifax where tourists admired them for their primitive feel and were more than willing to part with their money to drive one away. This mystified the islanders to whom a lighthouse was merely a lighthouse, certainly not something to hang on a wall, but Nita loved her art and dismissed the criticism with an airy wave of her hand, Everybody's a critic! she told Nana, Especially if you're making money. When she grew bored with coastlines and waves, she began experimenting with portraits - pencil sketches and charcoal drawings of the locals - unexpectedly good work that pleased and surprised everyone.
Soon she was considered less of a spectacle and more of an slightly eccentric artist. She sketched my friend Ruthie with an armful of new kittens, Sparrow in his rocking chair, half asleep in the morning sun, Long John baiting hooks by lantern light, Uncle Hubie, chin in hand, considering his next cribbage move, my grandmother with a pan of biscuits still steaming, even Willie Foot collecting his rocks. She came to the schoolhouse and drew the children, did an entire series on the choir, was there with sketchbook in hand just before Aunt Lizzie died and within minutes of several newborns arriving. She neatly rolled each picture up like a diploma, wrapped it with ribbon, and gave it away with a smile of satisfaction. This was something the islanders did understand and by the time she had decided on her fifth and final husband - an unemployed house painter she met in Bear River - the village had been won over and captivated. There was not a single word of protest, not the first snipe.

Getting along in the world is very often as simple as discovering a common interest with those around you. One sketch, one story, one song, or one adventure leads to another and soon you are accepted. And you don't have to forfeit your soul, Aunt Nita told Nana with a gleeful grin, Just a tad of your differences.