Remember her, and keep your balance.

– Rumi

Gertrude Elizabeth Olson Cunningham, matriarch of a large family, consort of Jerry Cunningham, beloved mother of Bill, Mary, Peggy and Pat, proud grandmother, Archangel to a wide circle of friends, lioness when she had to be, the bank employee with the key to the safety deposit boxes, a stunning beauty with the face of a star, the one you wanted to sit next to at the table…

Where did you go?

She was our north, our south, our east and west, our working week and our Sunday rest, our noon, our midnight, our talk, our song; we thought she'd live forever but we were wrong.

(W.H. Auden, modified)

When Gert was born in 1920, who would have guessed, how would she have known, could her parents have surmised that of all things she would grow up to marry a sheriff and live in a jail house? A jail house transformed into a land of beauty, love, generosity, acceptance, patience, and mirth out of which came the best home cooked meals in the state. One of the regular prisoners was quoted at a hobo convention as saying, "If you have to get arrested, get arrested in Olmsted County so you can eat Gert Cunningham's food," for it was the same food she prepared three times a day for 24 years for her own family.

If you ever had the good fortune of opening the door to the Cunningham house you will remember feeling like you were entering the gate to the festival; a place safe from the machinations of the world no matter if you were in jail or there to do business or to see your cousins. Merriment, nourishment, and a well of love were always in the offing.

Brought up in the rich farm land of Wisconsin, the daughter of James and Mary Barbara Olson, she grew up poor by any standard but rich in the company of her brothers and sisters and her doting parents. She inherited her mother's innate talent for playing piano proving it later in life when on occasion she would spontaneously sit down and play if she came across one sitting idle in a lobby or a living room.

Her life on the farm taught her to work hard, keep her eyes open for opportunity, take on a ton of common sense, and weave connection with golden threads. She moved to Rochester, Minnesota in 1940 with her sister Margaret Conway and brother-in-law Bob Conway to help with the demands of their burgeoning family. With that move, one could say the stars lined up extraordinarily for her to bump into Jerry Cunningham, a rara avis if there ever was one, and after she married him her life got off to a roaring start. Mary Conway, her niece of five years old performed cartwheels at the wedding which stands as a good metaphor for what Gert's life would be like raising four wonderful children, running the jail kitchen, acting as unofficial female deputy for her husband, taking care of Grandma Cunningham who lived with them, getting children to and from school, traveling with Jerry to sheriff conventions, managing a household that was public and never closed, being a friend with a listening ear, raising up the underdogs of the community, nursing the sick, dishing out food around the clock, and all without an iPhone.

She was like many of that era; self taught. She learned to play the organ, she could knit in her sleep, crochet, and do needle work which dazzled those of us who couldn't handle a pin. She didn't take lessons, or go to a workshop, or get a book from a library, she was naturally talented, possessed of good wits, diligent, and dosed with an innate confidence that she could figure it out on her own.

It was from her benevolent parents that Gert learned the art of hospitality, no doubt. The farm house was brimming with people, the fire always hot, the potatoes always on the boil, the plates of food stacked high, the place humming with friends, farmers, relatives, neighbors, strangers. Gert could be in the middle of cooking for 30, but when you walked into the kitchen she dropped the ladle and the wooden spoon to engage which made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered. The coffee was always on, sweets were aplenty, the industrial freezer full of popsicles, dream sickles, fudge sickles – her freezer was sickle central. She'd give you the green light to help yourself, and you knew that meant one for each hand. Her kitchen was the only place in the world where a glass of milk was refrigerated within a degree of being frozen.

During the 60s, when things were beginning to erupt and spill out, new ways of thinking were bubbling to the surface, the civil rights movement was gaining momentum, Gert was tolerant, and supportive. Bob Dylan and rock and roll? Sure. Motorcycles in the driveway? Why not. bands playing in Cell Block 9? Shut the door. Her kids moving away? Fly on. Go to school, don't go to school? Your choice. Marriage, divorce? Do what you have to do. Protective? Yes. Limiting and controlling? Never. In her eyes, you were perfect as you were. She loved her children beyond words. Her unconditional love was her biggest gift to them and her entire extended family. If you were under her wing, the shelter was transformative.

The Conways and the Cunninghams must have been sent down to earth to go forth and be close and intertwine. Monnie Conway met her husband Chuck Eichten at a planned dinner at the Cunninghams. Mary and Kay Conway lived on the third floor of the Cunningham house on Center Street after they were married. We all loved being at the Cunningham's because discipline was light, bedtime was a gray area, jumping on the beds was not prohibited, playing in the sheriff's office or the living room was all the same, scoldings were unheard of, and there was plenty of candy. Why go to the trouble of driving cross country to Disneyland when you were already there?

Mike Conway tells a story of how he would bark and howl like a dog upon entering the Cunningham house and taught Aunt Gert to respond in kind. She understood whatever language you chose to speak and her sense of humor was legendary.

Aunt Gert's children grew up in the company of their paternal grandmother, aunts, uncles, cousins, prisoners, city office workers, judges, lawyers, deputies, and the occasional King. All that and her house was never messy. She would go from mashing rutabagas to tending to outbursts in the jail. Jerry's squad car was her second home; there was the call of sirens, squawking scanners; officers in uniform; emergencies and phone calls in the middle of the night; sick children; aging parents; unexpected guests.  If it weren't for Michael's and the Gopher Count in Viola she never would have gotten out of the house!

Gert was usually found in the kitchen cooking, or preparing to cook, or washing up, or trying to catch up. She didn't know if Judge Blackman would be at her table for lunch or Tippy Wit. What she did know is that they'd both get served the same thing; sit next to each other and make nice; pass the bread and butter; chat. Never mind the monkey in the chair beside you, the Watkins' Man, or a portion of the student body from Lourdes High School walking towards you. All were served, all were welcomed, all were equal at Gert's table. She didn't care if you had the letters Ph. D. after your name or AWOL.

Gert only had eyes for the person who was in front of her. She could take you in so far you never wanted to return again to where you came from. People wandered in to her house and took up residence. Mainly, they got a room in her heart because that's what they were looking for anyway.

Gert saw her brothers and sisters dwindle in number. She lost her husband young. She worked at the Marquette Bank for 21 years. She was a well known face in the community, respected for the years of service to her city as well as for her character and her dignity, for how she comported herself without the strong shoulder of Jerry to lean on. She gave love out as naturally as the sun gave light. She suffered losses and stacked them up like bricks to stand on. She out loved everyone.

So it is that she is not needing to do anything more for anyone else. She is free, she is reaping the bounty of her endless good works. She is shining like a star. Vast and full and expansive. She is with us even more now than before. You can hear her laugh, feel her presence, know she is reunited with those she has lived without for so long. And you can remember her and keep your balance.

"The Beautiful One whom I adore has pitched His royal tent inside of you. So I will always lean my heart as close to your soul as I can."

– Hafiz

A memorial mass will be held at St. John the Evangelist Church, 11 4 ^th Avenue SW, Rochester, Minnesota, at 11:00 a.m. on Saturday, June 2, 2012 with Rev. John Lasuba officiating. Guests will be received an hour before the ceremony. Lunch will be served immediately after the mass. Please join us.

Memorials to: Booker Mini Foundation P.O. Box 5805 Rochester, Minnesota, 55903. info@bookermini.org