My American grandmother, Alvina Becker Hardt, born in Alsace-Lorraine, Germany in 1902, at the very dawn of the 20th century, has been on my mind all day, almost as though her ghost has decided to pay me a visit. I half expect a drift of her perfume in empty rooms. I named the town on Alvina, Ontario in Wild Fell after her. Some of my most cherished early childhood memories are of her, her soft arms and hands, her thick German accent, the scent of her (very German) cooking, her occasionally florid emotionality, and mostly her utter delight in, and kindness towards me as a small gender-variant child. All my life I have not been able to shake the sense that my grandmother would not only have been OK with my queerness, but also that she saw it clearly before most people did, and wrapped it in a soft pink cloud of understanding, even protectiveness. I am gently and lovingly envious of my cousin Kimberley, who was able to spend more time with Grandma Hardt, and was the beneficiary of many of the things she had to teach, and her stories. Alvina died on May 23rd, 1976, while were living in Geneva. My mother must have gone back for the funeral, but I have no actual memory of her making that voyage back across the Atlantic. Childhood memories are odd things; but I will remember Alvina's tender touch until the day I die. This photograph of her was taken in our back yard in Ottawa, probably in the summer of 1972, with our Norwegian Elkhound, Prince. I cherish it for so many reasons.
