I remember her visits to my grandparents’ ranch.  She came to shoot the life out of a wild animal, skin it, gut it, take it home and eat it.  She was tall, every bit as tall as my dad, who seemed like the biggest man on earth.  She must have been well over six feet.  Her hair was boy-short and silver.  I remember her lack of femininity and her Cary Grant swagger, a slight hunch in her back.  I blamed that distinct stride on her never-ending legs.  She wore a single gold ring on the ring finger of her right hand, large square rimmed glasses, and no other accessories.  She wore blue jeans, probably men’s because of her build, and old plaid shirts that buttoned down the front.  I remember my family’s speculation about her sexual orientation, after all, she never had a man with her nor was there ever mention of one, and she always seemed a little tough for a woman.  It didn’t matter.  She was strong.  She rode horses and got dirt in her fingernails.  She hunted and wrestled calves at branding.  I remember her voice — it was reminiscent of Jimmy Stewart’s slow-paced diction and she said her “s” as “sh”.  Looking back, I realize that I knew very little about her, except for the fact that she filled with fascination some of my earliest memories.  To my young and adoring eyes, she was magnificent, a skyscraper of strength and independence, and completely different from any woman I had known.

***

Many years later, my mom and I traveled to Seattle for a weekend and decided to spend some time with Big Jean.  She picked us up from the airport in her blue Dodge truck. Although driving with the elderly can sometimes be a nail-biting experience, I felt very safe with her as captain.  She was relaxed, and as she drove she talked about her Newfoundland puppy, zoning issues near the interstate, my parents divorce, and about the horse she had just put to sleep.  Into her eighties now, Big Jean is sharp and though not as tall as I once thought, I still have to look up to her from 5’10”.  Her home is set back from the Sound, nestled amongst tall evergreens, blackberry shrubs, and other thick greenery.  She lives alone as she has for many, many years, with the exception of her pup and two horses.  Big Jean is the portrait of independence and loneliness.

As I waltzed through her tidy home, I noticed that while there are hardly any trinkets or decorations, there is a broad array of photos:  Framed and hung, black and white, color, horses, hunting, kids, group shots.  One photo in particular demanded my attention, a black and white portrait of a beautiful young woman, short dark hair, soft skin, dressed like a film star of the 30’s, showing the broad splendor of her collarbones, a single strand of pearls adorning her neck.  In the lower right corner of the photo was a handwritten note: “To my father, this is my feminine side!  All my love, kisses and hugs-your loving daughter, Jean.” My jaw metaphorically dropped to the floor at the sight of her elegance and feminine beauty.  My fascination with this woman grew even deeper.  I imagined her dad—a giant Norwegian, Dr. Kristoffersen—old fashioned and always hassling his daughter to be more ladylike.

“I bet ya can’t guess who that is.  You didn’t know I could look so good did ya sweetheart?”  I didn’t.

“Well, I just wouldn’t have guessed that it is you.  You look gorgeous.”

“I ought to show you some others.  Look at this one.”  She grabbed a framed photo from a far wall and handed it to me.  It was Jean, in jodhpurs, dark curly hair floating out from her head, a smile covering her face.  The man next to her was a lanky, dark thoroughbred, saddled and bridled.  “That’s ol’ Prince.”  She said with a distant look in her eyes, and continued to tell stories of their best days together riding through the countryside and competing in jumping competitions.

After a day of watching horseracing at Emerald Downs, we all sat down for some tea before bed.  Big Jean told my mom and I of the loss of her fiancé in World War II, and never again finding love so great.  “He was the only man for me.  And when I found out he had been killed, I was done.”  She told us this with a deep sadness in her eyes, visible even through the robust square frames and bifocals of her glasses.  She told us that she now dedicates her time to create and uphold veterans’ memorials, and that in some way she feels that she’s helping him.  As the weekend came to an end, I couldn’t stop thinking about this precious gem of a woman.  She has such an intriguing story to tell, such rich lessons to teach, as do many of our elders, if we only take time to ask.

Photo By: Big Grey Mare