Actually it was a while before I did know her because of the difference in our ages (about 9 years). She was born in the 1930s, I was born just after the end of WW2. Those were very different decades and the generational difference was obvious.
Pauline Emilia (never known as Polly until a boyfriend, Dave, started calling her that) was a bright and active young student and musician. As a teenager she got pretty good grades, progressed well on the flute - and God forbid, on the Piccolo, won a scholarship to a national music summer camp in Interlochen, MI and it inspired her to make music a permanent and central part of her life.
She left home when she was 18 instead of finishing college and went to England to be married. When she returned home to Fresno she began having babies and Pauline and Dave had difficulty getting established. This was the phase of “Tires on the Rambler, or Shoes on the Kids”. Typically Dave resolved it by deciding that he must have new tires, and our parents ended up buying the shoes for the kids. By 1966 they had a nice brand new home and things were getting stabilized, although not for long.
By late 1967 she was raising the 3 kids by herself as she finished college and began to work. Those were challenging times for her but she always spoke about them almost as a grand adventure. Facing difficulty with determination and a fair amount of pluck became one of her hallmark attributes.
Hard work and attention-to-task returned her to stabilized living and she spent some good times raising her kids. (Don, are you going tell about your roof-top gardening days?)
Our paths diverged from Fresno, she living in Pismo Beach, I in the SF Bay Area. Over the years we would get together and speak of many things. Actually, anything. My sister could converse on almost any topic and hold up her end of the conversation. Another hallmark. Her curiosity, interest, and expertise in a variety of things.
Throughout our childhood and as adults we never had a clear and extensive picture of our family heritage. We were generally aware that we descended from Czech-Austrian maternal grandparents, and “German” paternal grandparents. When retired we had time and began to learn more about our roots. The Austrian-Czech side proved to have many facets, colorful and fun to learn about and to know that we were connected to those lively and fun-loving folks. Our mom used to joke about being Bohemian. Actually Grandpa Emanuel was from the province of Bohemia. We enjoyed sharing notes on this and tracking down new information. We became researchers together.
The paternal side really provided many surprises and it turned out that we were not so much “German” as we are Swiss, and the family name was not really Shirk, but rather Schurch. We found historic records through the Schurch Family Association of North America (
https://www.schurchfamilyassociation.net ) that told us we descended from Ulrich Schurch, a Swiss Mennonite who immigrated to the Penn’s Wood territory (now Pennsylvania) in 1728.
Pauline visited grandparent birth places in Czechoslovakia and Switzerland with Diane. Another hallmark: Love of family history and knowing their stories.
Which brings us back to the 9-year separation. In pondering this for so long, I had come to suspect there might have been a child between, but nobody in the family could verify that. In fact several told me “No way, that didn’t happen.” With all our research I finally found it: A letter from my Aunt Emelia to our mom, expressing her regrets of the loss and wishes for a good recovery. So, in fact there had been a child born between my sister and I but apparently was either a still birth or almost immediately passed away. It would have been a brother. Very relevant for my sister who until literally her last day reminded me that she was disappointed and that she had really wanted a sister.
She enjoyed cooking and a party. We had such great, long discussions over a glass or more of wine. Here is a photo of our last Thanksgiving, 2019 at her place in Pismo. She looks so happy and lively, just as I remember her. Always a great hostess.
Her condition worsened after that and her end time was not easy, but she had planned carefully and stuck to her plans of how to leave this world as gracefully as possible. In her exit we were reminded that dying is part of life, that everyone’s end is as different as their lives, and that there really is no good way to die. Her circumstances were particularly challenging. Although I bemoaned much of what was going on, after it was over I came to realize: She managed to do it with as much order and dignity as possible.
She set a fine example. If you feel like she left your life without saying a proper goodbye, please remember she was facing her biggest challenge and had to make some difficult choices. If you think about having a terminal illness then it really complicates saying goodbye, and she did have a lot of friends. Please don’t feel less loved by her, leaving so abruptly. She found it necessary and all things considered it was probably the best way to go.
It would have been great to have just one more glass of wine with her, but it was not to be. My own farewell with my last and closet relative was extremely brief. And touching. And peaceful … Goodbye, Sis.
