Between the whole house thing, the sick hubby thing and the swine flu thing it has been quite a week.
My journey towards homeownership keeps trudging along. We are still hopeful that we will close at the end of the month. Of course finding the house and getting all the negotiation has been a small part of the process. Now I am awake nights thinking about paint colors, decorating, packing, and all the stuff that has to be done to move into said house. At least it has a hot tub.
Unfortunately do not have ownership and access to hot tub. Of no use until dramafest is over and then not as much use. Already regret homeownership as benefits are useless to me now and only pain of homeownership in foreseeable future.
Have come to believe same psychology in homeownership as with parenthood. All those people who haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since conception suffering from sleep deprivation euphoria and proselytizing for their cult. If conception part were less enjoyable, no one would join cult. Have no idea how homeownership cult works or how sucked in. Too late now. Have become pod person. At least am pod person with hot tub.
Sick Hubby has assisted the sleepless nights by coughing in my face and in my general direction since Saturday. I have learned that this is worse that the loud coughing that wakes me up at 3 a.m. Unable to work as Hubby spends all day “working” from home and texting me every time he takes his temperature. Ability to work is further complicated by Hubby’s endless texting obsession with homeownership countdown.
I am counting down the days of the incubation period to determine when and if I will be able to return the favor. Am beginning to regret commitment to vaccinations against bugs as makes payback more difficult.
Work is dominated by war against swine flu. Downstairs vaccine fridge was star on local t.v. news as filmed the lack of adequate vaccine in an effort to appease public and ask for patience. Downstairs fridge now demanding fan mail and all access to be negotiated through her agent – the upstairs vaccine fridge.
I will be getting vaccinated tomorrow. Elected to have the dead virus shot instead of live virus nasal spray. Was certain that if I took the live virus that it would mate with the three half dead viruses in the seasonal vaccine and mutate into super flu. Have no desire to be patient zero for next pandemic flu.
Currently fighting the urge to make self a foil helmet to combat looney brain waves from conspiracy theorists regarding swine flu vaccine. Apparently all other medical technology has been allowed to innovate and progress except vaccination technology. The reason for delay in swine flu vaccine is the need to wrestle infected pigs to ground and scrape infected ick from them to then directly infect humans by scratching them with some crude implement a la Edward Jenner and small pox.
Must take possession of house and hot tub soon to preserve sanity and good nature.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Where Dreams Go To Die
I know where dreams go to die. They go house hunting.
Hubby and I are house hunting. This has not been one of the more enjoyable experiences of married life. Buying a house is a lot like a wedding. In our minds there is this idea of what constitutes the perfect, personalized expression of ourselves and our love – then there are the budgetary realities.
Unlike a wedding, however, buying a house is not a one day event whose details quickly pass into the fog of memory.
Buying a house is more like the commitment of marriage – once you sign the papers the only way out is divorce – or a mysterious fire incident.
Finding a house is a lot like dating – there are a lot who say they are cute, cozy, sexy, and have to be seen to be believed that turn out to be psycho axe murderers. Houses are no different.
My dreams died early in the process, like vampire who have been staked, beheaded and their mouths stuffed full of garlic, never to rise again.
The first place we saw was a supposedly 80% rehabbed, converted church. A man must have estimated the amount of completion. I will only say this, 80% can be defined in such a way to encompass anywhere from 30% to 80%, just as 10 inches can encompass anywhere from an half inch to the average six. Also, 80% does not mean that the rehab work is a) good, b) competent or c) adheres to the commonly accepted definition of craftsmanship. Suffice it to say that if two preachers’ kids think a church house would be hell to live in, there is probably something wrong. This is where my dream of coolness went to die.
My second dream of awesomeness crashed and burned a couple of days later. The house was beautiful on line. I had already pictured putting my studio in the solarium. I spoke to the real estate agent to be told that the owners had horrid taste in carpet and wall paper and not to let that put me off the house.
What the real estate agent should have said was the house has gross carpet and wall paper, but the real issues are the stairs of death to the basement, the kitchen that needs some serious rehab work, and bathrooms that are a step up from outhouse and bucket showers. At least then I would not have felt like crying at the thought of the beautiful fireplaces with fabulous tile work and original oak mantles, oak pocket doors, and hardwood floors slipping from my grasp.
When you stand in one room and come up with $15K of work that needs to be done just to make the place somewhere you want to live and knowing that you aren’t married to Brad Studopolis handyman, that house is not for you. No, if I can’t fix it with an Ikea card, forget it.
I will not bore you with the details of all the lies we read in house descriptions. Then again if people wrote the truth (i.e. there is a 20% slope in the floor of the kitchen, foundation shifts that have cracked the walls and ceiling, we just slapped a new coat of paint on the walls without any prep work and we were too lazy to sand the floors enough to get rid of the pet peepee stains) people wouldn’t even look at, much less buy their house. It would have been helpful and saved me a lot of agony and time if people could tell the truth. Just like the guy who says that he loves chick flicks and reads all the Oprah picks, but only reads the IMDB synopsis of the films and the reader reviews of the books. He should just say that he prefers WWF to watching the She Cried No channel. At least you know what you are getting yourself into and can move on from there.
Hubby and I are still married, even though he invited his parents, without previous discussion or warning to join us on the final walk through before making an offer on a house. Hubby and I are still married, even though he has spoken ad naseaum about all of his alternative energy plans. Hubby and I are still married, even though the last two weeks have been the stressful cappers to a stressful six months. I have decided not to think about what comes next, the big move. I prefer to be Scarlet O’Hara for awhile.
Hubby and I are house hunting. This has not been one of the more enjoyable experiences of married life. Buying a house is a lot like a wedding. In our minds there is this idea of what constitutes the perfect, personalized expression of ourselves and our love – then there are the budgetary realities.
Unlike a wedding, however, buying a house is not a one day event whose details quickly pass into the fog of memory.
Buying a house is more like the commitment of marriage – once you sign the papers the only way out is divorce – or a mysterious fire incident.
Finding a house is a lot like dating – there are a lot who say they are cute, cozy, sexy, and have to be seen to be believed that turn out to be psycho axe murderers. Houses are no different.
My dreams died early in the process, like vampire who have been staked, beheaded and their mouths stuffed full of garlic, never to rise again.
The first place we saw was a supposedly 80% rehabbed, converted church. A man must have estimated the amount of completion. I will only say this, 80% can be defined in such a way to encompass anywhere from 30% to 80%, just as 10 inches can encompass anywhere from an half inch to the average six. Also, 80% does not mean that the rehab work is a) good, b) competent or c) adheres to the commonly accepted definition of craftsmanship. Suffice it to say that if two preachers’ kids think a church house would be hell to live in, there is probably something wrong. This is where my dream of coolness went to die.
My second dream of awesomeness crashed and burned a couple of days later. The house was beautiful on line. I had already pictured putting my studio in the solarium. I spoke to the real estate agent to be told that the owners had horrid taste in carpet and wall paper and not to let that put me off the house.
What the real estate agent should have said was the house has gross carpet and wall paper, but the real issues are the stairs of death to the basement, the kitchen that needs some serious rehab work, and bathrooms that are a step up from outhouse and bucket showers. At least then I would not have felt like crying at the thought of the beautiful fireplaces with fabulous tile work and original oak mantles, oak pocket doors, and hardwood floors slipping from my grasp.
When you stand in one room and come up with $15K of work that needs to be done just to make the place somewhere you want to live and knowing that you aren’t married to Brad Studopolis handyman, that house is not for you. No, if I can’t fix it with an Ikea card, forget it.
I will not bore you with the details of all the lies we read in house descriptions. Then again if people wrote the truth (i.e. there is a 20% slope in the floor of the kitchen, foundation shifts that have cracked the walls and ceiling, we just slapped a new coat of paint on the walls without any prep work and we were too lazy to sand the floors enough to get rid of the pet peepee stains) people wouldn’t even look at, much less buy their house. It would have been helpful and saved me a lot of agony and time if people could tell the truth. Just like the guy who says that he loves chick flicks and reads all the Oprah picks, but only reads the IMDB synopsis of the films and the reader reviews of the books. He should just say that he prefers WWF to watching the She Cried No channel. At least you know what you are getting yourself into and can move on from there.
Hubby and I are still married, even though he invited his parents, without previous discussion or warning to join us on the final walk through before making an offer on a house. Hubby and I are still married, even though he has spoken ad naseaum about all of his alternative energy plans. Hubby and I are still married, even though the last two weeks have been the stressful cappers to a stressful six months. I have decided not to think about what comes next, the big move. I prefer to be Scarlet O’Hara for awhile.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Monday, Bloody Monday
It has not been a good morning at the Rubicon.
First, I picked up my cell phone on the way to the grocery and discovered that I had not charged it since Thursday. It was dead, D E A D dead, dead as a doornail, dead as a hammer, dead as a cock roach legs up on the kitchen floor dead.
Then, as I got off the exit to get to the grocery store, some moronic woman talking on a cell phone ran a red light and swerved into my lane nearly hitting me head on. I almost needed new underwear, the clenching for impact saved me.
Mercifully the grocery store was quiet. I got my shopping done, only to realize in the checkout lane that I had forgotten my reusable bags in the backseat of the car. Those little goober frogs of the Amazons are now extinct due to my forgetfulness.
As I got on the interstate, I realized I forgot to get two things - tortillas and most importantly, toilet paper.
This distracted me enough to cause me to miss the exit to stop by the UPS depot to pick up a package. Their driver gave our package to one of the neighbors and our neighbors' package to us. We were nice and gave the neighbors their package. The neighbors had UPS pick ours up and take it to the depot. I can think of several things to call them.
I would have turned around to fix all the above, except I had frozen food and other stuff that needed to be kept cold in the car.
In other news, I may be getting my ability to sit in the front room to watch t.v. and knit again. Hubby has beaten his game, God of War. I had been watching him play some, but that gets annoying after a while. He is making noises about starting it again, because he really liked it. I hope he waits a few days, as the new seasons of some shows have started and I am being deprived. I have some Christmas knitting to do, so it would be in his best interest to let me have an hour a night to do my thing.
Of course watching t.v. now is deprivation of decent programming. The networks have determined that paying decent writers is too much. Why pay professionals when you can download off You Tube some guy getting hit in the crotch with a wiffle ball bat by his three year old and call it programming?
It seems that Americans prefer watching train wrecks and things that are so unnatural and wrong (Tom DeLay dancing?! I think I just threw up a little in my own mouth!) that you can hear the brains rotting. I have been surprised that a couple of shows have survived the summer because I liked them. Usually if I like a show it is the kiss of death.
There are those who will say I am a snob. When it comes to t.v., books, and yarn, they would be right.
First, I picked up my cell phone on the way to the grocery and discovered that I had not charged it since Thursday. It was dead, D E A D dead, dead as a doornail, dead as a hammer, dead as a cock roach legs up on the kitchen floor dead.
Then, as I got off the exit to get to the grocery store, some moronic woman talking on a cell phone ran a red light and swerved into my lane nearly hitting me head on. I almost needed new underwear, the clenching for impact saved me.
Mercifully the grocery store was quiet. I got my shopping done, only to realize in the checkout lane that I had forgotten my reusable bags in the backseat of the car. Those little goober frogs of the Amazons are now extinct due to my forgetfulness.
As I got on the interstate, I realized I forgot to get two things - tortillas and most importantly, toilet paper.
This distracted me enough to cause me to miss the exit to stop by the UPS depot to pick up a package. Their driver gave our package to one of the neighbors and our neighbors' package to us. We were nice and gave the neighbors their package. The neighbors had UPS pick ours up and take it to the depot. I can think of several things to call them.
I would have turned around to fix all the above, except I had frozen food and other stuff that needed to be kept cold in the car.
In other news, I may be getting my ability to sit in the front room to watch t.v. and knit again. Hubby has beaten his game, God of War. I had been watching him play some, but that gets annoying after a while. He is making noises about starting it again, because he really liked it. I hope he waits a few days, as the new seasons of some shows have started and I am being deprived. I have some Christmas knitting to do, so it would be in his best interest to let me have an hour a night to do my thing.
Of course watching t.v. now is deprivation of decent programming. The networks have determined that paying decent writers is too much. Why pay professionals when you can download off You Tube some guy getting hit in the crotch with a wiffle ball bat by his three year old and call it programming?
It seems that Americans prefer watching train wrecks and things that are so unnatural and wrong (Tom DeLay dancing?! I think I just threw up a little in my own mouth!) that you can hear the brains rotting. I have been surprised that a couple of shows have survived the summer because I liked them. Usually if I like a show it is the kiss of death.
There are those who will say I am a snob. When it comes to t.v., books, and yarn, they would be right.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Wool Gathering 2009
As an adult, I have long ago realized that things rarely go exactly as planned or meet expectations. Since I enter into most anticipated events with this as my given, I am a lot less stressed. This modus vivendi also means that what would be a good time under impossible expectations can be a great time as I no longer expect perfection.
This past weekend was spectacularly awesome – even by my standards. First, it was the annual Wool Gathering at Young’s Dairy in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Second, the day was perfect – not too hot, not too cold, sunny, with a slight breeze. Third, I had been able to convince my mom and aunt (my mom’s younger sister) to join me on the trek.
We rode up together and died laughing as we talked to each other. After everything that has happened, it was good to just talk and laugh. The drive seemed really short – a lot shorter than when I drive up alone. We got to Young’s Dairy and the Flat Marcos (FM) adventures began.
I had a picture of my nephew and gave it to my mom to tape to a Swiffer handle so she could take pictures with him during the day. FM saw llamas, alpacas, sheep, and angora bunnies. He got his picture taken in hay stacks, corn shocks, piles of fleece, at lunch, dinner and brunch. FM got to do a lot. FM was a pretty good companion for the day as he didn’t whine, cry, throw a fit, or need to go to the bathroom constantly. He was the perfect child.
Mom and my aunt were good companions, too as they didn’t whine, cry, or need to go to the bathroom constantly. My mom was even a good sport about getting close enough to the livestock to get a picture with her and her grandchild next to a pen of llama. I was impressed.
As usual, there were plenty of options for the fiber addict. I had to maintain tunnel vision – spindle, fiber (no yarn), some stitch markers, a swift, and home – to keep from going crazy. I even resisted temptation of the sale bin at one of my favorite yarn dyers. It was not due to my virtue, but more that I refused to let myself linger.
I was afraid my shopping conservatism was putting a cramp in my mom and aunt’s style. They are marathon shoppers and I am not. I got my spindle and fiber, sat in a chair and started to use it. I could have sat there the rest of the day spinning with my new spindle, were it not for the sun and my lack of sunscreen. They got finished and we went to eat some of the best ice cream in the world.
In short, this is the kind of day I dream of, and it wasn’t even finished.
We had lunch with one set of my knitting friends and dinner with another. There was a point when finding the restaurant for dinner seemed a bit iffy. I wondered as we passed the entrance of Wright State several times why they had a row of porta potties by the entrance. We found the restaurant, but the burning questions of the porta potties never got answered.
Several of us spent the night in the same hotel and we stayed up talking, knitting and spindling until midnight. I stayed up a little longer because I was dying to ply some of the singles I had spun on my new spindle.
I bought a Greensleeves spindle in the Loki model. It is a 0.7 oz spindle and I love it. It spins incredible thin singles. The balance is great. Of course the fiber I am using to practice with is awesome, too. I got 4oz of Three Bags Full Signs of Spring fiber in a dark purple blend. The fiber is a mix of silk and merino cross. The silk has slubs in it that when plied make a tweedy yarn. I think the only things that made me stop spinning was the right hand cramp and the left finger spasm. Just like the ice cream after lunch and the margarita at dinner, it was probably too much of a good thing.
The weekend with my mom, aunt and friends was just long enough to be fabulous and short enough that we didn’t get tired of one another. I was glad that the people that are so important to me got to meet each other. My friends definitely learned where my storytelling gene comes from – and they only met half the equation. My mom and aunt were able to see that all the friends I talk about on a regular basic are in fact real and not figments of my imagination.
I am already looking forward to next year. I am already researching what event we can attend. I am hoping that my other aunt and some of my cousins can join us. I have also thought that perhaps we can pay for the hotel and event by booking a performance at the local comedy club – The McDonald Girls on the Road. Then again, we would just look at each other after one word and spend the rest of the time laughing. For some reason that doesn’t translate well to larger audiences.
This past weekend was spectacularly awesome – even by my standards. First, it was the annual Wool Gathering at Young’s Dairy in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Second, the day was perfect – not too hot, not too cold, sunny, with a slight breeze. Third, I had been able to convince my mom and aunt (my mom’s younger sister) to join me on the trek.
We rode up together and died laughing as we talked to each other. After everything that has happened, it was good to just talk and laugh. The drive seemed really short – a lot shorter than when I drive up alone. We got to Young’s Dairy and the Flat Marcos (FM) adventures began.
I had a picture of my nephew and gave it to my mom to tape to a Swiffer handle so she could take pictures with him during the day. FM saw llamas, alpacas, sheep, and angora bunnies. He got his picture taken in hay stacks, corn shocks, piles of fleece, at lunch, dinner and brunch. FM got to do a lot. FM was a pretty good companion for the day as he didn’t whine, cry, throw a fit, or need to go to the bathroom constantly. He was the perfect child.
Mom and my aunt were good companions, too as they didn’t whine, cry, or need to go to the bathroom constantly. My mom was even a good sport about getting close enough to the livestock to get a picture with her and her grandchild next to a pen of llama. I was impressed.
As usual, there were plenty of options for the fiber addict. I had to maintain tunnel vision – spindle, fiber (no yarn), some stitch markers, a swift, and home – to keep from going crazy. I even resisted temptation of the sale bin at one of my favorite yarn dyers. It was not due to my virtue, but more that I refused to let myself linger.
I was afraid my shopping conservatism was putting a cramp in my mom and aunt’s style. They are marathon shoppers and I am not. I got my spindle and fiber, sat in a chair and started to use it. I could have sat there the rest of the day spinning with my new spindle, were it not for the sun and my lack of sunscreen. They got finished and we went to eat some of the best ice cream in the world.
In short, this is the kind of day I dream of, and it wasn’t even finished.
We had lunch with one set of my knitting friends and dinner with another. There was a point when finding the restaurant for dinner seemed a bit iffy. I wondered as we passed the entrance of Wright State several times why they had a row of porta potties by the entrance. We found the restaurant, but the burning questions of the porta potties never got answered.
Several of us spent the night in the same hotel and we stayed up talking, knitting and spindling until midnight. I stayed up a little longer because I was dying to ply some of the singles I had spun on my new spindle.
I bought a Greensleeves spindle in the Loki model. It is a 0.7 oz spindle and I love it. It spins incredible thin singles. The balance is great. Of course the fiber I am using to practice with is awesome, too. I got 4oz of Three Bags Full Signs of Spring fiber in a dark purple blend. The fiber is a mix of silk and merino cross. The silk has slubs in it that when plied make a tweedy yarn. I think the only things that made me stop spinning was the right hand cramp and the left finger spasm. Just like the ice cream after lunch and the margarita at dinner, it was probably too much of a good thing.
The weekend with my mom, aunt and friends was just long enough to be fabulous and short enough that we didn’t get tired of one another. I was glad that the people that are so important to me got to meet each other. My friends definitely learned where my storytelling gene comes from – and they only met half the equation. My mom and aunt were able to see that all the friends I talk about on a regular basic are in fact real and not figments of my imagination.
I am already looking forward to next year. I am already researching what event we can attend. I am hoping that my other aunt and some of my cousins can join us. I have also thought that perhaps we can pay for the hotel and event by booking a performance at the local comedy club – The McDonald Girls on the Road. Then again, we would just look at each other after one word and spend the rest of the time laughing. For some reason that doesn’t translate well to larger audiences.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Happy Birthday - Not!
Anyone who tells you being married is all romantic dinners, roses and mind blowing sex is either 16 or so crazy in love that reality is on a picnic. There is a reason for all the better or worse stuff in the vows. Of course people just repeat them blindly because if you went into marriage thinking about all the sickness, poorer, worse, and other vagaries of marriage, no one in their right mind would actually sign up for that.
Let’s face it, if it weren’t for sex, the human race would be segregated by gender. Air quality warnings and haz mat suits issued at the checkpoint to Maletopia. Testosterone supplements issued at the checkpoint to Eve’s Paradise, lest the men fear growing a vagina (as my brother would say) just from exposure to candles, salads, and chick flicks.
For those of us in reality, marriage is a constant state of compromise, tolerance, and the knowledge that killing one’s spouse for leaving the seat up, again, does not meet the standard of severe psychological distress and will get you 25 to life.
A marriage can chug along this way until one spouse becomes such a teenager that the other spouse feels more like a juvie parole officer than a spouse.
Hubby had the misfortune of having his birthday fall on the same day as the visitation for grandmother.
It would not have been so bad were it not for the fact that it was also THE birthday of the slide over the hill – the big 4 – 0. Given where we were and the gloom, there wasn’t a celebration. The best we could do was Long John Silver’s and a Best Western. Hubby would have preferred Bravo’s or Red Lobster and a night at the Marriott or Hyatt. Hubby would have preferred not spending the evening in the funeral home in an introvert’s computer nerd’s nightmare – people, people he didn’t know, and more people with emotional stuff going on.
We did celebrate with his parents at one of Craig’s favorite places – Maggiano’s – a week later. We had great Italian food. His mom made a delicious chocolate cake complete with candles. There were so many candles on the top of the cake that when Hubby blew them out, we almost died from smoke inhalation.
He did manage to blow them out with one breath. I wonder what he wished for? I hope it doesn’t entail gold chains and a red sports car.
Let’s face it, if it weren’t for sex, the human race would be segregated by gender. Air quality warnings and haz mat suits issued at the checkpoint to Maletopia. Testosterone supplements issued at the checkpoint to Eve’s Paradise, lest the men fear growing a vagina (as my brother would say) just from exposure to candles, salads, and chick flicks.
For those of us in reality, marriage is a constant state of compromise, tolerance, and the knowledge that killing one’s spouse for leaving the seat up, again, does not meet the standard of severe psychological distress and will get you 25 to life.
A marriage can chug along this way until one spouse becomes such a teenager that the other spouse feels more like a juvie parole officer than a spouse.
Hubby had the misfortune of having his birthday fall on the same day as the visitation for grandmother.
It would not have been so bad were it not for the fact that it was also THE birthday of the slide over the hill – the big 4 – 0. Given where we were and the gloom, there wasn’t a celebration. The best we could do was Long John Silver’s and a Best Western. Hubby would have preferred Bravo’s or Red Lobster and a night at the Marriott or Hyatt. Hubby would have preferred not spending the evening in the funeral home in an introvert’s computer nerd’s nightmare – people, people he didn’t know, and more people with emotional stuff going on.
We did celebrate with his parents at one of Craig’s favorite places – Maggiano’s – a week later. We had great Italian food. His mom made a delicious chocolate cake complete with candles. There were so many candles on the top of the cake that when Hubby blew them out, we almost died from smoke inhalation.
He did manage to blow them out with one breath. I wonder what he wished for? I hope it doesn’t entail gold chains and a red sports car.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
What Comes Next
We buried my grandmother two Saturdays ago. In many ways it was more difficult and sadder than when we buried my grandfather.
My grand parents had paid for and planned most of the funeral arrangements. When my grandfather died, it was all about what my grandmother wanted and needed. When my grandmother died, it became about other things.
As I sat in the funeral home for the visitation, it occurred to me that every one has some philosophy about the after life – even nihilists. I will admit to being a bit schizophrenic in my beliefs. On the one hand, I believe we are transformed into pure spirit beings joining with the Creator of the Universe. On the other hand, I think of the afterlife like this luxury resort where people get to do what gives them pleasure and satisfaction the whole day long.
It is this last imagery I use when I imagine my maternal grandparents.
My grandmother is most assuredly cooking for half the inhabitants of the resort and having them over for dinner. If the luxury resort is perfect, my grandmother will have this wonderful expanding table and dining room that will easily set 10 or 10,000. If the luxury resort is perfect, there will be a telephone so my grandmother can call her sisters and let them know to the last soul how many ate at her table.
My grandfather will have a wood shop where he can whittle and create his tables, chairs, and yard art. Each room in the luxury resort and each dining table will have a tooth pick holder he made.
For my paternal grandparents, I think of the after life as a spirit place.
My grandfather’s body gave out on him and we buried him 5 years ago. The last few years of his life, he slowly suffocated from emphysema. My grandmother’s mind has given out on her. Her body keeps going. Arthritis put her in a wheel chair and unable to do most things.
For them I imagine a place where bodies are redundant. It is enough that the spirit lives in a place of light and peace.
Thoughts about the afterlife are like funerals – they are more for the living than the dead and that is fine with me.
My grand parents had paid for and planned most of the funeral arrangements. When my grandfather died, it was all about what my grandmother wanted and needed. When my grandmother died, it became about other things.
As I sat in the funeral home for the visitation, it occurred to me that every one has some philosophy about the after life – even nihilists. I will admit to being a bit schizophrenic in my beliefs. On the one hand, I believe we are transformed into pure spirit beings joining with the Creator of the Universe. On the other hand, I think of the afterlife like this luxury resort where people get to do what gives them pleasure and satisfaction the whole day long.
It is this last imagery I use when I imagine my maternal grandparents.
My grandmother is most assuredly cooking for half the inhabitants of the resort and having them over for dinner. If the luxury resort is perfect, my grandmother will have this wonderful expanding table and dining room that will easily set 10 or 10,000. If the luxury resort is perfect, there will be a telephone so my grandmother can call her sisters and let them know to the last soul how many ate at her table.
My grandfather will have a wood shop where he can whittle and create his tables, chairs, and yard art. Each room in the luxury resort and each dining table will have a tooth pick holder he made.
For my paternal grandparents, I think of the after life as a spirit place.
My grandfather’s body gave out on him and we buried him 5 years ago. The last few years of his life, he slowly suffocated from emphysema. My grandmother’s mind has given out on her. Her body keeps going. Arthritis put her in a wheel chair and unable to do most things.
For them I imagine a place where bodies are redundant. It is enough that the spirit lives in a place of light and peace.
Thoughts about the afterlife are like funerals – they are more for the living than the dead and that is fine with me.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Birthday that Ends All Birthdays
Today is my maternal grandmother’s birthday. It will be her last. She has gone from dying by inches to dying by millimeters from cancer.
This morning the memory that has been most present in my mind is from a few months ago. I stand with my mom in the house where she grew up. We are in the middle bedroom looking down at a dress. My aunt has impeccable taste. The dress is absolutely beautiful. The dress is the palest pink of a cottage rose. As I stand there looking at that stunning dress, my heart clenches and my throat tightens. In my soul I know that the next time I see this dress, my grandmother will be wearing it at her funeral.
My grandmother is over 90. She is a fabulous cook. She is a skilled quilter, although in recent years she hasn’t been able to quilt as much due to failing eyesight and poor physical health. Although she and my grandfather were never rich, my grandparents found ways to share what they had with others less fortunate.
The most unfortunate part of my grandparents’ end of life is how it robbed them of what they loved most. My grandfather slowly got to the point where he could no longer even whittle all that much. My grandmother could no longer cook, quilt, read, or even talk on the telephone.
When I was little, my grandparents seemed impossibly old. As they were grandparents, they didn’t have a life as children or young adults. No, they sprang old with grandchildren from that place that all grandparents originate. We saw pictures of strangers with the same names and younger faces. Now that I am older, when I see the same pictures, my grandparents seem impossibly young and beautiful.
I have been blessed that my grandparents have lived as long as they have. I began to lose them in my 30’s. I have known them as a child and as an adult. I have been blessed to have so many good memories of time with them.
One of my favorite memories of my maternal grandparents as an adult is a trip to visit them over Easter weekend. I had stopped at the Target in Lexington to pick up a couple of things and decided to buy little baskets and candy for my grandparents. (They had candy time every afternoon.) I lay in the bedroom on Easter Sunday morning pretending to be asleep as I heard them getting up and around. I heard my grandmother say, “Look, Daddy, candy!” The dinning room chairs creaked and I heard them empty the baskets and compare their loot. I heard the happiness in their voices and I could imagine them as children. It has been the joy of this moment and others that have made it easier to face the inevitable.
Memory is akin to opening an oyster. Not all events rate a beautiful, fully formed pearl. I count myself lucky to have a string of opera pearls instead of a choker.
This morning the memory that has been most present in my mind is from a few months ago. I stand with my mom in the house where she grew up. We are in the middle bedroom looking down at a dress. My aunt has impeccable taste. The dress is absolutely beautiful. The dress is the palest pink of a cottage rose. As I stand there looking at that stunning dress, my heart clenches and my throat tightens. In my soul I know that the next time I see this dress, my grandmother will be wearing it at her funeral.
My grandmother is over 90. She is a fabulous cook. She is a skilled quilter, although in recent years she hasn’t been able to quilt as much due to failing eyesight and poor physical health. Although she and my grandfather were never rich, my grandparents found ways to share what they had with others less fortunate.
The most unfortunate part of my grandparents’ end of life is how it robbed them of what they loved most. My grandfather slowly got to the point where he could no longer even whittle all that much. My grandmother could no longer cook, quilt, read, or even talk on the telephone.
When I was little, my grandparents seemed impossibly old. As they were grandparents, they didn’t have a life as children or young adults. No, they sprang old with grandchildren from that place that all grandparents originate. We saw pictures of strangers with the same names and younger faces. Now that I am older, when I see the same pictures, my grandparents seem impossibly young and beautiful.
I have been blessed that my grandparents have lived as long as they have. I began to lose them in my 30’s. I have known them as a child and as an adult. I have been blessed to have so many good memories of time with them.
One of my favorite memories of my maternal grandparents as an adult is a trip to visit them over Easter weekend. I had stopped at the Target in Lexington to pick up a couple of things and decided to buy little baskets and candy for my grandparents. (They had candy time every afternoon.) I lay in the bedroom on Easter Sunday morning pretending to be asleep as I heard them getting up and around. I heard my grandmother say, “Look, Daddy, candy!” The dinning room chairs creaked and I heard them empty the baskets and compare their loot. I heard the happiness in their voices and I could imagine them as children. It has been the joy of this moment and others that have made it easier to face the inevitable.
Memory is akin to opening an oyster. Not all events rate a beautiful, fully formed pearl. I count myself lucky to have a string of opera pearls instead of a choker.
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