Her Name Was Irmgard

She is dead now; she died on June 30, 2011.

I was five years old then, when things were so much simpler and happier - completely carefree.  She had blondish hair that was always perfect.  It was short, and had a wave-like swoosh across her forehead.  Her eyes were always smiley, glittering with bright, happy rays of acceptance, love and pure, unadulterated kindness.  She had a small waist, long legs and perfectly-formed fingernails.  Her nails were always polished, usually a pinkish hue.  She loved living next to the five little Kitzmiller girls that adored her and spent hours and hours in her home.  She loved painting my nails.  The smell of nail polish is synonymous with Irmgard.

At Christmastime, she and Siegfried always had an actual, living Christmas tree; something that we never had growing up.  The smell of pine infused the air.  The bright, shiny red ornaments were always perfectly placed on the tree, alongside various ornaments shaped like a Crucifix.  They were Lutheran.  She had many Crucifixes in her home.  I had never seen that before.  She would wear one around her neck every Sunday.  I always thought it looked so pretty on her; it was made out of turquoise 

Christmas was her favorite holiday, I'm sure of it.  She gave each of us (my sisters and I) an Advent calendar.  There was magic in that calendar, and I couldn't wait to open the little doors and windows on the Christmas Village scene dipicted on the front of the calendar.  To this day, whenever I see an Advent calendar like it, emotions, feelings and memories tug at my heart, and in that moment, I am back to being that little girl, so excited and full of anticipation and hope.  She gave that to me - hope and happiness.  I hope she knows that.  I wish I could have told her myself, before she died.

Year after year, just days before Christmas Eve, Irmgard would knock on the door.  The door swung open, and there she was, eyes smiling, heart brimming, hands full of German Christmas delicacies.  I remember her handing the plate to my mom, and even in the harshness of that ice-cold, wintry night, I noticed her soft pink nails, perfectly painted.  I tried so hard to paint my nails like she did, but never was I able to do it as well as Irmgard.

The Zander's backyard was a forestry-filled wonderland.  Huge pine trees, fruit trees, running water, places to sit and meditate, wooden benches, grassy hillsides.  It was an enchanted place where fear, anger, hurt and sadness simply did not exist.  Our imaginations ran wild in that backyard; free and uninhibited,  untainted by the harshness of life and reality.  They had a glorious hammock that was tethered between two gorgeous pine trees.  I would lay on my back, like a pea in a pod, and gaze up through the wooded paradise and into the azure blue sky on a hot summer day.  Those were the days.

Siegfried smoked a pipe.  Remember?  From the northern most corner of their yard, on the bench, under the tree.  He would sit at the top of his yard, with his pipe, taking in his amazing handiwork and creativity that was his yard - his pride and joy.  From sunup to sundown, Siegfried worked in that yard. He was meticulous and it was perfect.  I will never forget that yard.  And the memories I made there.

We went to their church, the Lutheran church, a number of times.  My family attended their son Steven's wedding.  It was different and almost strange to me, but Irmgard was so happy to have us there that it erased any and all feelings of uncertainty.  Anytime I or one of my sisters would sing in our church, she would be the first one there to support us.  We never tried to "convert" them; they loved their God, their religion, their people.  My dad did an excellent job instilling in us the concept of tolerance, love and acceptance for all of God's children.

Siegfried served under Hitler's hate-filled regime in war-torn Germany.  He was always very quiet about his military service; it was almost as if he just couldn't relive the horrors he witnessed, the atrocities he saw day after day.  One time, and only one time, he opened up to me about the war.  I was an awkward, insecure seventh grader at South Davis Jr. High.  The project: interview someone that lived through WWII.  Siegfried.  I was almost afraid to ask him.  I remember sitting on their living room couch, listening to Siegfried's deep voice and his heavy German accent recount the events he tried hard not to remember.  I recorded his voice and took notes.  I wish I knew where that recording was.

That dreadful day in November 1998.  I was home, babysitting my sisters.  I saw an ambulance pull into the driveway.  I knew it, right then: Siegfried.  I ran over to the house to find Siegfried laying on the back porch, as the EMT's performed CPR.  Irmgard was hysterical.  They were to supposed to be hosting a social gathering later that day at their home.  As I consoled Irmgard, she was frantic about getting the word to her guests, that she would not be able to entertained as planned.  I desperately wanted to believe Siegfried would be okay.  As we watched the paramedics try to resuscitate Siegfried, her hands dug into my teenage arm and clung to me as a baby to its mother. But it was clear, only a few minutes into the life-saving act, Siegfried would not survive the heart attack, and he would die.  He did; at Lakeview Hospital, about a hour later.  I was 17.

She was alone now.  She had led such an incredible life filled with highs and lows that you and I cannot imagine; being drafted into Hitler's 3rd Reicht, fleeing Germany, coming to America, being separated from her husband and young daughter for eleven years, the tragic and life-altering loss of a child to meningitis, among many other tragedies.

She sold the house next door to mine.  It was never the same when that house was relinquished to new owners.  A part of my childhood, and all that my childhood represents and encompasses, died that day alongside Siegfried.  I was so grateful I was there for her that day, that I could help her in some small way; at the very least, she was not alone when Siegfried died.  His death changed her, and she was never the same.  

Irmgard came to my wedding, only a short 30 days after Siegfried's death.  My heart dropped when I saw her, for I knew how difficult it was to come to a wedding reception of all things, but she loved me and my family; she wouldn't miss it, even if she was in her own grief-filled agony.  She told me I was beautiful and patted Jon's face with her pink-manicured hand.  She was wearing Siegfried's wedding band.  I'll never forget that.

She came to my baby shower, when I was pregnant with my first baby.  She was always there to support and love.  She thought Anna was beautiful and held her against her chest.  She came to her blessing day.  Irmgard has been there for all my milestones, and those of my sisters.

She would send us Christmas cards every year, except the last year, when she was so sick from ovarian cancer.  The sad thing, and the thing that I have the hardest time with as I grieve her loss, is I do not remember my last encounter with her.  I regret, deeply, that I didn't reach out to her.  I had the thought, often.  I was prompted, pushed.  I didn't listen, though.  The chaos and break-neck pace of life took precedence.  When I heard that she had passed away, I immediately thought of all those times I was impressed to think of her, and especially to visit or contact her.

It is a life-lesson.  One that is hard to learn, especially when having to learn the hard way.  I wish I would have reached out.  Just one last time.  So she knew that I loved her, that her life mattered to me, that her love meant the world to me, and that her example has inspired me.

Irmgard, I love you and will never, ever forget you.

Much love,

Juliann