archive
next
Right now I'm
Bio
Dramatis Personnae
Who I Read
Recipes
|
prev archive next |
Right now I'm |
Storyteller Bio Dramatis Personnae Who I Read Recipes |
October 21, 2002LossGrandpa died when I was three. I have a very, very vague memory of an intimidating man who would sometimes pull me up onto his lap. He smelled like wood and cigarette smoke. His teeth scared me. His tattoos fascinated me. When he passed away, I don't think I even recognized that he was gone. He was just there during one visit to Grandma's, and gone the next. I was too young to know, and my family wholeheartedly believed in maintaining the innocence of childhood. My mom passed away when I was eight. I wrote about that time of my life here. It was the first time of my life that I was fully aware and conscious of the impact a person's death would have on me. I remember not knowing how I should act. I distinctly remember not wanting to talk about it. I hated the awkward feeling I would get when someone would offer their condolences, and so I learned to avoid those situations. I'd hide in my room, or down in the basement, when company came over. I segued into my life with Grandma smoothly; it was easy, since I'd been spending at least two weekends a month at her house ever since I was born. After a time, it was hard to remember that I'd ever lived anywhere else. And Grandma, if anything, was a more attentive parent than my night-working, often bed-ridden mother was able to be. Brad died when I was eleven. I wrote about that here. The fact of his death scared me - he was my age. Things like that shouldn't happen to kids. And I was angry at the unfairness of it all. I missed him sorely, and I miss him still. His death was a living grief - practically every weekend, and more often during summer vacations, I would still walk over to his house and sit with his mother. We'd sip tea on their porch, and reminisce, and rail at one another. I don't know how painful my presence was to his mother, but she never displayed anything other than a welcoming attitude when I visited. But I must have been a constant reminder of Brad - what stage of life he would be experiencing, what she missed out on, what he missed out on. Still, I think she needed me, and I most certainly needed her. A few times a week my Grandmother would take me with her to visit her sister (Aunt Peggy) and her sister's husband (Uncle Earl). Uncle Earl and I bonded quickly. While Grandma and Aunt Peggy did their visiting, Uncle Earl would take me out into his garden to show me what was growing. Then he would grab his smooth, ancient walking stick and we would meander down the dirt road. He would tell me about the trees and birds we would see along the way. By the time we got back, Aunt Peggy would have plates of poundcake and watery hot tea laid out for us. I'd giggle as Aunt Peggy would rail at Uncle Earl to, "Put your teeth in, Earl! We have company". To which he'd respond, "Laura's not company, Peggy, she's my buddy!" One day when I was about thirteen, Uncle Earl passed away. He'd gone out to check on the water heater and pick flowers for the breakfast table. When Aunt Peggy realized he'd been gone for too long, she went out to check on him. He was laying at the foot of his garden, the flowers he'd picked strewn around him. His was the first funeral that I ever went to. He had his teeth in. He didn't look like himself. The years went by. I grew up, and I moved away. Grandma and Aunt Peggy clung to each other, the only surviving siblings in a family of ten. Grandma had Peggy move in with her, and they fussed and squabbled and fought with each other. Their bickering kept each other going. Then Grandma called me at work one day - I think I was around 20 or 21 - to tell me that Aunt Peggy was in the hospital. They'd discovered a cancerous tumor in her abdomen, and it was inoperable. It was only a matter of time. I talked to Aunt Peggy on the phone, and her voice sounded just as vibrant and strident as ever. Grandma was shaken. And after a few days, Grandma called again to tell me Aunt Peggy had died. I cried, not for myself or even for Aunt Peggy - who was finally going to be with her beloved Earl. No, I cried for Grandma, bereft of Peggy's constant companionship. I lost Grandma last year. I'm still shattered. I still can't talk about it. I still can't believe it. A few months after Grandma passed away, my sister called to tell me that our Uncle Jim had finally left us. Suffering as he was from MS, for almost all of his life, it was almost a blessing. I remember Grandma taking me to visit him, and my Aunt Marge (Peggy's daughter), once or twice a month. It was hard for me to go - Uncle Jim was a very imposing man, even bound to a wheelchair. He was strict and blunt, and would always ask me awkwardly direct questions. Even after having two himself, I don't think he ever learned how to deal with children very well. Aunt Marge suffers from alcoholism and manic depression - after Uncle Jim's death she went to live in a care facility near to her oldest son's home. Last year I wrote about how my family would spend summers on the lake. I wrote about how my "Uncle" Billy (really my second cousin - my Aunt Peggy's son) would take us out on his boat to watch the 4th of July fireworks, or drag us behind it on the "Torpedo". He played banjo in a bluegrass band, and was always jovial and kind. I saw him last year at Grandma's funeral, and his great big bear hug made me feel like I was ten again. We got the opportunity to catch up, which I'm grateful for. My sister called me last night to tell me that he'd been in a motorcycle accident, and was killed. She'd just seen him at one of the State Fairs the weekend before, playing in his band. Yesterday he was riding his Harley (damn non-helmet wearing Harley riders) just a mile or so away from his home, working out some bugs he'd just repaired. He lost control somehow, faltered for about 200 yards, and slammed into a tree. My mother's brother, my Uncle F, was riding with him and saw it all. I feel so bad for my sister, having to attend a third funeral in just a year. Each time it's for someone who had been at the last. I'm so sick of death. |