My Funereal Circle - Gary

February 19th, 2010  Essay for the Blog

Who's gonna come to your funeral?  Why are they gonna be there?  What are they gonna say?  Think?  Feel?  For real?

Will they celebrate your life?  The things you've accomplished, lives you've touched?  It's important to me only because my answers suck.  Most of the guys I know who've died in the last fifteen years or so?  I doubt they had much of a memorial service.  Especially since they don't give convicts furloughs to attend homeboys' funerals.

Only the good die young, so my body's gonna be a wrinkly bag of bones, believe me.  I always thought I'd die young.  Once I hit twenty-five, I figured longevity was part of the punishment.

The part that tears me is that my life, leading up to now, has left me with a bunch of awareness of what I'm not.  All the things I don't have, haven't achieved, or lost the chance at forever.

Stress is a way of life for me.  Insecurity, doubt, fear, self, whatever . . . I wasn't always this way.  I used to be good at meeting people, comfortable with my own skin.  In other words, if I'd have died before the age of eleven, I'd have been all good.  Standing room only at the 'planting,' ya know?

Thirty five is too old to try and learn how to live.  Too old to have nothing.  To realize there won't be many people going through changes to get to my funeral.

It's not that it matters in the grand scheme, I suppose.  It's that, for so many years I saw no good in myself, and only after total immersion in pain & torture did I glimpse some [good in myself], finally.  Finally.

Yet here I sit, in jail, awaiting transfer to a mental hospital, no less.  Six months to life reads the penal code.  Beaths the hell outta prison.

I have a circle though.  Tiny, but tight.  Real.  It's not common, or easy to make friend in this life.  The ones you often think are, or will be, turn out to have no concept of the word, or its value.

Technology makes it another degree of separation.  Why put in the work when you can just delete someone & make no more with the touch of a button?

I don't know.  I do know that it's a double-blessing to make friends with someone you're related to.  Probably more & more uncommon, too.

Thank You, Begrudged

Dear Used-But-New-To-My-Husband GMC Yukon of the Champagne Shade :

Though I consider you 'the other woman' I find I am yet able to like something about you.  So, boo-yah!  But let me get past a few things first.
  
He Googled you repeatedly, cruised by you often, showed you off to our son and our neighbors, bragging on your fine qualities and overlooking how high-maintenance you were likely to become on all fronts!  He ogles me repeatedly, took me cruising often, showed me off to his family and friends, tells me I am of fine quality and overlooks how high-maintenance I AM on all fronts!  While I was in Savannah with my Earth Divas for my first ever girls' trip, he brought you to our house; I found you there, lurking in the shadows as if I wouldn't spot you, but I played it cool and made no mention of your undesireable presence. 

You're built like a brick house - literally.  Maybe he thinks of you when that funky song fills the cab as you escort him  to and fro.  I can handle that because though you may have more 'up top' shall we say, I THINK my man still prefers the view of my backside best.  You get him for a solid hour, alone, each work week morning freshly showered and each work week afternoon glad to be leaving; he's tired on both ends of the day when we are together but at least WE spoon.  Oh, and though he lets others drive you around, he does NOT share me . . . 'nuf said.

But thank you for keeping him safe from those dangerous blind-spot-lane-changing 18-wheelers on the highway.  Thank you for bringing him safely home to his wife of 21 years each and every weekday.  Thank you for reminding him that while owning one's dream automobile is a dream, it can't fill every mid-life void and who'd really want that anyway?  And, finally, thank you for hosting our road trip to New Orleans this year.  Don't let your head gasket swell up when I tell you that those 20 hours I spent with my husband and you were better than our time of food and fun in The Big Easy.  Hands down.

You made my anniversary trip.

Somewhere Between Degas and Renoir

I made one of those curious discoveries which at once intrigues and delights.  In this case, it also amuses.

Though I'm certain I purchased the weighty THE IMPRESSIONISTS: THE GREAT WORKS AND THE WORLD THAT INSPIRED HIM coffee table book on clearance at Barnes & Noble (the sticker residue is still on the lower-right corner of the front cover), how do I account for the Christmas greeting card stuck between its center pages?  At first glance, the handwriting seemed familiar.  Perhaps I stowed an errant card from my annual pile during a quick clean-up?  Or, maybe one of the kids tucked it in there without thinking?

A quick study of the contents, skimming down to the signature, created not an answer to my questions, but instead generated more questions: who are Adelaide and Grampa?  From where did this frankly written, quirky little missive come?  And, why have I not actually read this handsome picture book before now?  (Because if I had, surely I would have caught this scribbled interloper more than a decade ago, as the contents reveal a significant century change!)

I think I would have liked this Grampa character.  He does not mince words or dramatize situations.  Per my leaning toward length, I am an instant fan of his brevity.  Is he still alive?  Did his wife have #6 and was it her last?  I hope his business picked up and grandkids once again opened holiday envelopes from gramps to discover dollars mixed in with his updated well wishes.  And lastly, who was this mysterious recipient of many moves and locations, this person who was obviously an object of Grampa's stern affection?

Unless you know him, it all stops here.  But, I rather feel I do know him.  At least on cardstock.

"Grampa here:  This is not a normal xmas.  I'm at zero because of entrepenurial needs.  I'll make up for it in time.  Let's hear how things are going and theres high hopes your luck is good for a change.  Hope the address is a good one.  You change addresses like I change socks.  Grama had #5 and is moving on.  The big one is long overdue and it will be a blessing when it happens.  The next four weeks may have a lot of turmoil with Y2K, terrorism and the start of depression.  Lets just see if I am perhaps right in my guessing.  Bless you all --  Adelaide, Gramps and the rest of the family
 

Thank You Letters Second Series

Dear-Other-Ashley-of-the-Confused-Hit-and-Run:

A week ago, you pulled out of a parking lot in a hurry for somewhere and smashed your little truck into the side of my Ashley's vehicle where she was parked at a red light awaiting a left turn arrow on her way to work.  You then left the scene for parts unknown but managed to call 911 for advice on how to handle the little situation.  I want to thank you for not driving an overblown SUV or heavy double-cab pickup truck.  I want to thank you for buying Geico with your money.  I want to thank you for providing me with the opportunity to brush-up on my insurance knowledge.  I'm even grateful for the impromptu visit to the ER.  While awaiting medical treatment, me and both my girls squeezed in an afternoon nap and engaged in scintillating conversation to pass the slow ticking of minutes.  And, all of us have enjoyed juggling our cars to fill the void left by the absent Pathfinder.  The adjuster seemed like a nice enough fellow; I'm glad I don't have his job.  You left me my daughter to live and fight traffic another day or several thousand.  I am forever in your debt . . . and I'm genuinely relieved that you, too, are okay .  We all have lapses in judgment!

You gave me pause.

Dear Witnesses-at-the-Scene-of-the-Accident:

The both of you were headed to your respective somewheres on that fateful February morning at the intersection of Broad Street and Medical Center Parkway.  In fact, your attention was also focused on the arrow light awaiting a green-go-ahead left-turn order.  Another second's pause and one of you could have been the blockage which thwarted the darting efforts of the smash-and-dash driver.

Mr. Military Man stationed right behind my daughter, you are a credit to your respective branch of the armed services as you swiftly ascertained the license plate number on that little truck as it slid down the side of my daughter's vehicle and dashed dazily on down the road.  Thank you for checking on my first born and reacting with calm in the midst of instant drama.  Thank you for putting such significant qualities to work for the good of our country.  Thank you for expressing your willingness to be an on-the-record witness if ever she should need to call on you.

Miss Attitude who whipped her car right around and chased down the attack truck as it left the wreck in the opposite direction, you deserve an Oscar.  (Oh! Is there still time to nominate you for this Sunday's awards show?)  For your boldness in taking charge of the situation out of your innate sense of rightness -- thank you!  For actually leaving the safety of your driver's seat and rapping sharply on the window of this escapee, "Excu-s-e me!  Miss!  You just hit somebody!  You can't just LEAVE!  Get back over there!"  Knock, knock, knock . . . "Helloo-o!  Miss, oh no you DIDN'T leave the scene of an accident!" -- both my admiration and my appreciation in equal generous measure.  For returning to my daughter with the license number and whereabouts of the derelict dasher, thus allowing the police to retrieve her and place her back at the scene in person -- my thanks are not enough!

You gave me pause.

Dear Across-the-Street-Neighbor-Friend-Co-Worker-to-Ashley:

I was not the first on the scene for her.

I missed THE CALL from Ash because my silenced cell phone was not at my side.  (This will come as a disbelieving shock to my friends who believe there is an umbilicus which extends from iPhone to my belly.)  Fortunately, my husband happened to be in town on an errand that day; he was able to get through to me with the news.  As he was without benefit of his hefty GMC Yukon (the very type of vehicle I am glad did not make contact with our 1995 Nissan SUV that Wednesday morn), the minutes of concern continued to tick on by until I had us both in the cab of our Chevy Silverado double-cab (yet another large-scale carnage-inflictor I'm grateful did not dent our daughter) and on our way to the scene.  To drive up and find a familiar face there with our shaken and stirred girl . . . relieving her anxiety . . . conveying comfort . . . and ensuring her wholeness . . . thank you for hearing her call and answering.  Thank you for always taking her under your wing.  Thank you for understanding who she is and loving on her in such a Lordy way.  I'm grateful for your back-up.

You gave me pause.

Landing My Life's Work

There was no interview. I did not respond to a classified ad or present a resume of my qualifications. My education to this point was not going to be of assistance in this particular long-term employment venture. Really, the job fell into my lap not because I pursued it but because I ignored the possibility of it being possible . . . for me.


In a waterslide whoosh of singular effort, preceded by hours of focused breathing, convulsing physical discomfort, and orders by initialed individuals dressed in tan cotton-poly blend scrubs, my biggest job to date landed in the waiting hands of Dr. Potestio of Saint Mary Corwin Hospital in Pueblo, Colorado. At the time, all I could utter was a surprised and tiny “oh!” of exclamation. I had anticipated hours more of concentrated pushing before the arrival of this miniscule mound of pink-skinned perfection into my world. Instead, with nary a single bearing down to be executed, my first day of parenthood had begun with a wee but lusty cry from a 5-pound, 6-ounce perfectly formed baby girl.

Though she would leave me for the required examinations and bathing, what she had started for me – a neon-lit M-O-M on the permanent letterhead of my life – would become my ongoing work. A 24-7 bonanza of thrills, spills, and more than a few uphills.

My first test I would fail: diapering 101. Her legs were twigs I felt sure would snap if I touched them, much less moved them into position for wiping, powdering, and taping securely! “Um, here,” I mumbled, handing her back to the ward nurse on duty, “I think I’m gonna need one more day before I tackle this. Let her put on some weight or something!” However, by that night, I could boast that she had ‘latched on’ as they say in the La Leche League handouts. We passed those twilight hours in a fog of fatigue and wonderment – me in my hospital gown and her in the knit cap and baby gown she would have to wear for her maiden voyage to her first home because her ignorant young father told her naïve young mother that we didn’t need to pack an outfit because the hospital gave them to all the new babies.

Somehow, though, I managed to overcome my lack of specialized education and the absence of an exhaustive training manual. She ate, slept, pooped, cried, laughed, grew, welcomed two more additions into our merry company, and became that oxymoron we all lovingly call ‘the adult child.’ And I’m STILL working!

Around Every Corner

My second daughter now drives on her own.  She uses my big Chevy truck.  Often and with great enthusiasm.  In exchange, my errands -- including filling that tank with gas -- are now often performed by someone other than myself.  That aspect of this new parental adventure is outstanding!  Oh, the countless trips to Super Wal-Mart I've NOT had to log since October of last year.  You simply can't imagine the inner sigh, okay, perhaps audible sigh, of relief that moves through me each time I dodge that bullet.

But, having a child out on the road, moving, stopping, and starting in traffic with hundreds of other drivers, many of them not very capable, is also troubling.  My eldest daughter did not go after her driver's license early, waiting as she did until the almost elderly age of 18.  Though we worried, the worry was on a smaller scale.  She had presented us with myriad other concerns early on in her illustrious career as an American teenager.  We managed to scale those mountains, without safety equipment much of the time, and get her through the graduation procession with cap and gown intact.  Seating her behind the wheel as master and commander of the veteran Nissan Pathfinder did not seem nearly as daunting in light of those adventures.

So, it was with a mixed sense of excitement and anxiety that we first put our 16 year-old into the cab of the ol' Silverado and pushed her off into major intersections without training wheels or her mom and pop.  "No texting!  Keep the music down!  Watch for stop signs!  No speeding!  Make SURE the light is green and no one is coming!" ranked high on the list of DO's and DON'TS.  And, she heard it all more than once or twice. 

On that list were a few items written in invisible ink with instructions not to reveal themselves until the proper moment.  Alarmingly, those 'proper moments' invariably came either during or after the fact.  For instance, how was I to know to remind her to "check the bed of the truck for those throw-away beer bottles your grandpa sent home for me to recycle so they won't be there when you go to that bonfire you talked me into letting you attend . . . that way, when the sheriff's deputies respond to a tip that minors brought alcohol to the event, you won't have to explain under duress to everyone there why you are in possession of Bud Light and Dos Perros empties!"  (The mini-keg-bearing kids who threw the evidence into the bushes -- creative choice -- should have been warned by THEIR parents not to be so obvious when breaking the law!)

Or, how about informing her to be on the lookout for the one male driver in a few hundred cars who is not just executing a quick double-take to admire a pretty girl.  "Um, be aware of the man who will follow you to a stoplight and then pass you up to make a right turn off into the distance . . . only to turn up parked directly beside your truck when you emerge from the fast food joint you visited for an employment opportunity.  Don't look into his cab and realize he is masturbating while looking directly at you and then freak out, jump in your truck, call your mom, and head home!  No.  When you see him and recognize that he has stalked you, quickly note his license plate, return to the store in the safety of strangers, and call the police."  (He did not follow her home, and there was a follow-up visit by the police to take it all down.)

I'm gonna make it through this.  I know that.  I worry far less.   I'm a realist, having witnessed more than my fair share of reality in the lives of those for whom I carry much love and affection.  In place of the worry is that matter-of-fact knowledge that even with the best of drivers and the safest of roads and the smartest of kids, sometimes accidents will happen.  And, they have . . . thus far to other people's children.  I read of them in the newspapers or hear of them on the nightly news.  So, my practice is to hug her whenever she is going out and about.  Just in case.  Even if we are not on the best of speaking terms as is sometimes prone to happen in mother-teen dynamics.  If my son, who will be the next and final teen driver in the household, accompanies her, he gets in on the embrace action, too. 

Why, just this afternoon they both journeyed forth to pick up three cheesy pies for Pizza Night, and I corraled them in for the obligatory hugs.  "Just in case!  C'mon over here!  I want to remember the love."  She one-armed me with a "Gee, mom, I can drive!" and was out the door; the boy gave me both arms, a squeeze, and a buss on the cheek.  We laughed as I yelled out, "I'll remember him best . . . he'll get the biggest tombstone!"  Gallows humor to mask that which we cannot control.

 

Joined Over Hollandaise

There was this moment during our Savannah breakfast outing -- the one planned around my desire for eggs Benedict -- when the spirit of friendship manifested in an almost physical presence at the table. I looked across the expanse of brightly colored coffee mugs, plates of fruit, smoked salmon and poached eggs, and discovered a mother, teary eyed and beaming, leaning into the embrace of her grinning daughter. Having just experienced my own emotional inner quaking, I was surprised at what I saw in this tableau. She shared her story of how this loving child had told her how very pleased she was that her mom had these good friends in her life. This gem of truth had embedded itself instantly. Hence the tears.

In an almost simultaneous broadcast, my communion with this truth had come as I listened to my fellow Earth Diva sitting next to me in our booth. What the actual conversation was, I do not recall. What I remember is my appreciation of her as I watched her profile of brow and nose and mouth shape the words and express the tone of our talk. A sudden wash of affection engulfed my entire being, warming me from the inside out. I felt the urge to cry as my mind filled with this one big heart thought, "I really love these women." My gratitude at having stumbled upon this balance of chemistry and personality with three other unique ladies and their families (the daughter is an Earth-Diva-In-Training) felt suddenly as right as a perfect Spring rain.

It solidified a bond which had been growing between us, those at the table and the lone friend unable to make this trip, with a clear and satisfying snap. As if the final joints and edges in a fine piece of handcrafted furniture were dovetailed into place, never to be undone again. The end result is a thing of obvious beauty, all at once fully functional and given to a familiar comfort. A solid structure of complex angles and deceptively simple unions that will endure the years with grace, taking on a patina with age that will only increase its value and enhance its appearance.

Only a Master Craftsman could have planned and completed such a construction as this.

I see myself curled on this chair or leaning over this table, reading or writing or gaming, for years to come. Only the softest of dusting rags with quality orange oil polish will ever come into contact with its surface in gentle concentric motions. Our reflections will settle permanently into the grain of the wood, each of us a knot or a whorl of character and interest.

It will never end up in a yard sale.