Shaking

Yesterday it got to 90˚F. So strange for the sun angled so low and the heat so high. Last hour of work, very nauseated and dizzy, got some anti-emetic from recovery before I left, sat on the cold tile floor of the locker room until it kicked in. C, who got me the drugs, spotted me on my way out, and told me to keep the AC on the whole way home. Excellent idea, nevermind the extra gas this time.

Good thing too, or I might have missed, or rather hit, the idiot jaywalking though the traffic who ran out from between stopped cars to my left into my lane without looking, on her cell phone. About three car lengths from an actual pedestrian crossing. Thankfully, I did manage to stop, as did the guy behind me. But it was close, and I still don't think she realized.

D feeling much the same, so we ordered Chinese, and kept each other miserable company. Watched some Inspector Lewis, for the sake of Kevin Whately and Laurence Fox, and other actor spotting. Certainly not for the ridiculous plots. Comfort food, comfort show. Anti-histamines against the massive amount of sage pollen, a hot bath, crossword puzzle (well, half done) and sleep. Both much better this morning.

When I say I grew up going to funerals, it's not really an exaggeration. Big families, I was the youngest child of a youngest and second youngest child, so by the time I came along, the great aunts and uncles regularly died off, and that was how I got to know most of my extended kin, the cousins - mostly maternal, but some paternal as well. Between high school and college, I lost both grandmothers, a few uncles. A funeral meant a funeral home, everyone gathered, a bit sad at first, then the stories would start, then the jokes and laughter. A large, loud clan, maternal side very funny. Maybe being small, I didn't catch all the undercurrents and resentments, or didn't take them seriously. Like holidays with everyone together, all I can remember is the play and laughter and ease. It all felt fun and joyful to me, so much different from my own house.

And I think some deep part of me expected this experience again. Impossible, of course, which I knew as soon as I realized what was missing. There will be no community to make it feel normal, no mutual acceptance. I can tell no loving, humorous stories of my father, only sad, explanatory tales of how it all went wrong. Raised by his older brothers, his own father dead by the time he was in his early 20s, poor education, functionally illiterate. A man who probably should never have married, certainly never raised children. He could have been the good guy in the neighborhood who shoveled snow from the walkways, helped fix cars and bikes, pulled funny faces at the kids and bullshitted with the other old guys at the diner every morning. He wasn't really a bad person, just a bad father - a bad father to me, to be precise.

I didn't find out until a few years ago, from dear Mass cousin, that my father and eldest brother were not liked. Because my father was one to get on the floor and be silly and roughhouse with kids - that they all seemed to think Uncle R wonderful. I thought the show he put on in public was effective. Only so much later did I realize that they could see through it. They just couldn't DO anything about it.

The drinking from the fire hose of memory eases, down to a steady stream. Endeavoring to slow it further, until it's down to a few drips and trickles. Seeing my way through. Nothing has really changed. But life does feel a bit lighter, now that the shaking is over.


Awaiting autumn appropriate weather, expected within the week. Not today, though.