Every Family Needs A Gert!

Every family needs a Gertrude Herwig. Technically, Gert was my great aunt; although I'm sure she would never have been caught dead being called Aunt Gertrude, or something equally "normal." No, Gert was always known to us simply as Gert.

Gert was Nana's sister and the two could not have possibly been more different. Nana was petite and always ladylike. Gert, on the other hand, fancied herself as the female version of John Wayne.

That side of our family owned some property near Leasburg, Missouri. It was always known simply as, The Farm. There was, of course, no farming done there, but it was a wonderful place with a dilapidated old house and some outbuildings. A creek ran through the property where we spent countless hours splashing, piling rocks to make small dams and catching crawdads. Going to The Farm was always a treat. The farm was dirty and had bugs and snakes and various wild critters.

Part of the fun of going to The Farm was watching Gert in all of her glory.

Upon arriving; no one was allowed to enter the dilapidated old house until Gert "cleared" it. She would get out of her car and strap on her six gun; slung low on her hip just like John Wayne wore his. Most of my memories of Gert also include a cigarette hanging from the side of her mouth like James Dean.

Gert would walk up the steps to the porch, push open the front door and yell, "I'm coming in and I've got a gun!" Her vocabulary included a number of words that would have gotten my mouth washed out with soap, and she always threw one or two of those into her warning, as well. Gert would then proceed to walk through the entire house; upstairs and down, to make sure no nefarious suspects were using it as a hideout.

There never was anyone in the house, of course, but the ritual continued for years. No one entered the house until Gert gave the all clear. I always secretly hoped that I would hear her gun go off as she shot some wanted criminal who was hiding out in one of the upstairs rooms. It was more likely that she would have screamed and wet her pants if she ever actually encountered anyone, but the routine was fun.

We were free to have the run of the house and surrounding acreage once she gave the okay. Gert would pull out her lawn chair, pop open a beer and begin the process of enjoying the day at the farm.

Gert also enjoyed going camping with her kids and grandkids along the banks of the Huzzah River and Courtois Creek. We would often join them for a Saturday of playing in the water.

Gert's favorite camping activity seemed to center around her lawn chair in the river. She would wade far enough into the stream that she would be sitting in waist deep water once she planted her chair in that spot. She  told me on more than one occasion that she picked that depth because she could just pee without having to move. That was probably necessary because the other part of her routine involved taking a six pack of Falstaff, pulling one beer out and putting the lawn chair leg through the now unoccupied ring in the six pack holder. That kept the beer chilled and she didn't have to go running or, more likely, call one of the kids to go running back up to the cooler for her for a while.

Gert was a widow and always kept an eye out for any "mature" gentlemen in the canoes passing by on float trips. That would get her out of her chair as she waded out to greet the canoe and offer the gentleman a Falstaff. It became part of the game for us to watch for men who met the criteria as they floated downstream toward Gert's position.

A day spent with Gert was always entertaining.

Gert died in a one car accident. The irony was that Mom and I were sitting in a diner out in either Steeleville or Cuba, I don't remember which, as an ambulance drove slowly by. Mom made the comment that the patient must already be dead since they were in no hurry. The pieces came together when we heard a few hours later that Gert had been killed in an accident. The timing was such that the ambulance we saw was quite likely the one that had been dispatched to care for Gert.

Just like that; Gert was gone. Her dog, unhurt in the accident, went to live with Debbie.

We all went to the funeral home and mourned and laughed as we recounted stories of Gert. It somehow didn't seem quite real that Gert's body lay in the casket. There was, after all, no cigarette hanging from her lips and no six pack of Falstaff to the side.

Memories were all we had left of Gert.

But what memories they are! Everyone should be able to look back on their childhood and have memories of their own Gert!