Mae, 1969, exactly as she looked when I met her.	Cousin Mae burst into my life in 1970. She came to visit my folks, as part of her tour of long-lost cousins, to fill in and update the family history she was writing. She'd promised her father, who had started this project, that she'd finish it for him after he died in 1954. She was a rotund, red-dressed, black-wigged whirlwind, insisting that we try to, "Guess who I am! Can you guess who I am?" Dad sat in his overstuffed easy chair in the corner of the living room, crossed his arms, and said, "I don't play games." "Oh!" she said, "you're just like your father, exactly like your father! I saw him when he was a baby in his pram, at your grandfather's Edmonton dairy farm. Now, aren't you just dying to know who I am?" "No," Dad said. She badgered him a bit more, until he said, "Either say who you are, or go away." She was even more thrilled that he was so like his dad, whom she'd last seen in 1961 (he died in '66). She introduced and explained herself, and we had a very nice dinner and evening with her, then she continued on her way. Grandma stayed in touch with Mae, but I didn't see her again until the 1980s, when I visited her occasionally in Seattle and corresponded irregularly. I appreciated her company, letters, and encouragement immensely. She was a most singular, eccentric, sharp-as-a-tack treasure.	Mae, circa 1985
She never lost the confidence of a beautiful girl and woman. When my husband first met her, in the 1980s, she was a skinny, toothless, bewigged old character, hard to imagine how lovely she'd been for much of her life.	lifemask, 1936	Mae is tangential to my intent with this website, but to honour the great mess (truly a hodgepodge) of Guild and other material I've inherited from her, I've gathered a chronology of photos to show her from age three through to her death at age 93.

Few words and dates, just Mae through her years.

	father Clarence, mother Mary, May and sister Minnie, Vancouver, 1905
			Mae's much-loved mother
		Mae as I last saw her

In 1997, I took a creative writing class with Paul St. Pierre, one of Canada's foremost storytellers, in print and on screen..
As an exercise, I wrote this piece about one of my last visits with Mae:

Cousin Mae At 90, Mae lived alone in the Seattle home her father had built in an expensive part of town when she was a beautiful teenager. Beauty had long since fled, both from her and her house and yard, which had been scarcely tended for over 20 years, since her second husband died. My father-in-law was giving me and my husband a ride from Vancouver to Seattle to take a flight - a rare holiday for us. I'd prepared them for meeting her as best I could. She had a Fine Arts degree and a Ph.D. in music. She'd been an enthusiastic public school teacher for many years. She was childless. She was fully occupied now tracing her family history back to the Normans, the Vikings, and had recently made a breakthrough to Adam and Eve. We were to arrive at noon for lunch. We pulled up to her house ten minutes early, but no matter. She'd welcome us and, if she wasn't quite ready, better to wait in her living room than to kill time on the streets. As we approached her front door, a high-pitched banging and screeching leaked through it. Should we knock? Was she okay? We listened and considered, then dared disturb her. The door opened. Before us stood Mae, all five feet and 80 pounds of her, in a black wig set awry on her skull. Neither it nor the wispy strands of white showing under it had been brushed recently. She wore a shocking-pink sweater with a deep cowl neck, spotted with breakfast crumbs and, alas, drool. It topped a black vinyl mini-skirt. Her bare, knitting-needle legs disappeared into her trademark black rubber boots. "The blushing bride!" she croaked to me with a wide smile, though my husband and I been married nearly ten years and our two kids were elementary school. Her remaining two front teeth danced on threads. We hugged and shared kisses on the cheeks. I introduced my father-in-law. He tentatively extended his hand, which she used to pull him into a hug. Then I introduced my husband, who dodged the wet kiss. "I was playing and singing," she said, pointing to her piano. It sat midst a room chock-a-block with tall towers of paper, mostly pages of genealogy notes bearing her strong school-marm's hand in black felt pen, plus the latest editions of several newspapers. The piano sat against a wall painted black, surrounded by red velour draperies thick with dust. Spiders had decorated countless brass knick-knacks with their webs. "Did you hear me?" I nodded and mumbled something like, "Very nice." She straightened her wig with wizened hands and well-kept, shocking pink fingernails. "I'll serenade the love birds," she said, and the concert began. The crashing and howling were impressive, requiring our full muster to keep from cringing and laughing in disbelief. An ancient photo of a radiant, handsome young woman sat atop of the piano. If she hadn't signed it, "Best love, Mae," we'd never have guessed it was her. After she'd finished and was suitably praised, she said, "The neighbours complain. These neighbours, those neighbours, the ones with the rock band. Then there are the Chinese people. They've been a problem since they moved in." My father-in-law stiffened. He took quick offence to racial slurs. She cackled. "What can one expect? They're from another country. Of course, they don't understand. They don't complain about me; we get along fine. They complain about everyone else around here who complains about them. It's such a shame: we invite people into our country, then everyone complains, hosts and guests alike. We could all learn so much if we were just more tolerant. That's what I'm always on about--appreciating each other, learning from each other. We're all kin, you know, back to Adam and Eve." My father-in-law smiled. He liked her--a lot. My husband too. We had a lively conversation about the latest politics; she was current and savvy, pointing out this article and that. After, we treated her to an excellent lunch at the Chinese smorgasbord of her choice.

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