Apprehension

Hard day's work, then sleep
Cats between and cats beside
Waiting for breakfast.



Addendum: Zeppo laying there, Eleanor stopped beside him, put her paw over his neck, then... licked his head. THEN bopped him, of course. It was still very sweet.


That Eleanor and Zeppo chase and playfight and seem comfortable close to each other pleases us so. He clearly watches and learns from her, and she's been demonstrating How-to-kill-a-mouse techniques on the furry-demo-mouses. It's a sort of Woodhouse aunt/nephew relationship, with mutual affection and annoyance. Not a perfect metaphor, similarities enough. Fagin and Artful Dodger? Yeah, a bit of that too. I could see Zeppo as a pickpocket, when caught he does immediately go to "I didn't do nuffin', gov! It wasn't me! I was never there!" He really is gorgeous and sleek, with a thin, long tail quite unlike Eleanor or Moby.

Eleanor is much more active now, more confidently sociable, approaches Dylan more. Gets less food, but it doesn't seem to bother her most of the time. We don't often have to feed her in her Private Dining Room, aka the top of the dryer in the laundry room, anymore. Zeppo is learning to give her a few inches to eat before he gets what she leaves behind, even when he's already eaten his own. He's a bottomless pit some days, supporting our younger age estimate of less than two years. Teenage cat.

Woke up thinking about gifts and Santa and what parents don't get thanked for.

Parents don't get thanked for doing the bare legal minimum. They had kids so they need to feed them, shelter them, educate them, and no debt is owed. Or they expect a lifetime of gratitude, that's called Loan Sharking, and it's manipulative.

Giving unsolicited help to the chosen victim and anticipating they 'll feel obliged to extend some reciprocal openness in return.

Unsolicited, I did not ask to be born, I had no choice to be their child, But Faaaaaammmily! is not a reason. They don't get thanked for not meeting the legal definitions of abuse and neglect.

Parents get thanked for the gifts that come randomly, generously, expecting nothing in return. So, as I lay under a cat, I tried to think of what I genuinely could thank my parents for, the times they didn't give me what they wanted, but what I wanted.

Surprisingly, the first thought was when my father found a broken abandoned bicycle in the alley, and got it to the guy down the way who fixed cars and bikes out of his garage, and did it all for me with no fuss. It was kind and thoughtful and not at all about him. He was actually a bit apologetic. He was a rich man trapped in a poor man's life*. And it was the scrounger in him that I actually liked, I think he hated that part of himself, but it was then he came across as most human and genuine.

I used that bike, never beautiful, it rattled, and kids teased me about it, and I loved it all the more. Not because my father gave it to me, but because it worked and got me around and was mine without guilt.

Strangely, my mother is harder. She did a lot for me, but there was always something about her gifts that demanded more than she gave. She resented giving me what I chose, and fudged a bit to make it more what she liked. The canopy bed being the big compromise. She made the spread and cover in colors she liked, dismissing my preferences as wrong. And I had to be just as grateful, more because she corrected my bad color choices, as well as for all the effort she put in. It felt at the time like my Big Gift had been ruined, and I couldn't say a word.

The last present she sent me, when I was in the army, was a beige sweatshirt with a big teddy bear appliqué across the chest. Something that I wouldn't even have liked as a teen or as a kid. It was a present that shouted "I have no clue who you are!" An un-gift, a bill due for the wrong item.

Like cheap chocolate covered cherries that taste of wax and disappointment. Or granny's chocolate covered marshmallow cookies with the fake red goo surprize that granny bought for me especially, that I ate because I was hungry, but hated. Not real chocolate, never liked marshmallow, the cookie was cardboard, and I have no idea what was going on with the goo, but I had to thank her. The butterscotch pie I actually liked, but because it came after the meal, and was very rich, I didn't eat much of, they scoffed, I was only being polite when I said I loved it, they didn't believe me. They were just no good at reading real appreciation vs fake politeness.

Really, I am working on it, trying to remember one time my mother gave me something genuine, without an emotional bill later. Bupkus. Nada. Maybe something will float to the surface?

The inheritance, maybe?

I'll stick to cats style. They are grateful, when they are genuinely grateful. And they don't seem to ever expect anything more than food, affection and company.

Dylan had the lamp put up when I got home last night. It's very nice.


*Better that way, he never had enough financial power to be a full blown asshole.

Brother

When the phone rang, Dylan checked the caller ID, as one does in these days of constant spam assault.

"It's your brother..."

I said, "It must be a death."

I missed picking up, called right back. I listened, I apologized, I thanked him. I asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?" I was gentle and I cried with him a little. He checked that he had our right address, told me there would be papers from the lawyer about her estate. I stayed patient, quiet and accepting. Because his relationship with his mother does not need my bad memories. Ring theory of grief.



Taking some comfort in my ability to be kind in that moment. I've been preparing for it long enough. I didn't add to "thank you for calling" the thought "this time." I didn't add to "I'm glad you were there for her" the phrase, "because I sure as hell couldn't be" I didn't mention my conflicted reactions to being in the inheritance, not the time, there may never be a time. He told me she was at peace and out of pain at the end*. I did not contradict, in part because I don't know. In part because he isn't to know how nurses tell everyone that.

And that inheritance does bother at me. Depending on how much it is, and it really can't be very much, it's more a burden than a boon. (Although I know my father bought a lot of insurance when my eldest brother was young. My father did take care of money, to the extent he had any. Fiscal responsibility was ground into all of us.) I may send some of it back to my brothers. I also have to remember to keep enough to pay the tax at the end of the year. Give some to Planned Parenthood, again depending. A windfall is something I immediately want to deal with, shield myself from, not squander, but apportion out. I want to share it, too.

When Granny moved to an assisted living place, I was with Mom at her apartment as the aunts and cousins fought over the things. Nothing valuable, just ordinary stuff. But as Dylan says, the politics were so ugly because the stakes were so low. Mom pointed out that you really find out about people when you share an inheritance with them. The same true of divorce.

I may have to watch The Wrong Box again, and maybe The Quiet Man too.

“Being kind is a matter of altruism, being good is a matter of morality, and being nice is a matter of etiquette.”

*I had no idea just how comforting that phrase is to those left behind after a death. I mean, I said it often enough to patients' families, But, wow. A good death, ease after suffering, in a state of grace. It doesn't have to be factual to be true.

Graupel

Beauty all around. Love and kindness. Light and hope lurk.

Wind turned to rain turned to snow yesterday, graupel actually.

Welcome turning. Enduring anxiety with grim determination, I wait impatiently.

Better dreams last night, of crumbling away the white sepulchres.

House cleans up well, gleaming quietly to herself, a hum.


Watching Dylan dealing with his family, his feelings coming clear.

Where mine were abusive, his were neglectful, manipulative and assumptive.

And he is himself. So he must deal. As himself.

In his own way, his own time, as I stand aside.

We all walk our own path, if we live well.

Silence

Got the emissions inspection done this morning, taxes paid online. All went pretty well.



In the OR, I will often ask a question of my surgeon, about supplies, dressings, splints, c-arm, an endless list of possibilities, but I know what I need to ask about ahead of time. Often about the next case. So, I ask, clearly. Rarely, I get a reply right then. They are busy. I know I will eventually get an answer. New scrubs sometimes get anxious about this, and I have to reassure them, and dissuade them from asking again too soon.

I've planted the problem with them, and I'll hear back later. I'm fine with that.

My father always insisted on an answer immediately. To any question he asked. No time to think, no option to evade, and I would be punished for the wrong answer the rest of my life. My mother also expected a reply right away, although she was less punitive. If only I'd known the power of silence, known they couldn't actually make me form words, that he couldn't really do anything worse to me than he already was. Well, he could have beaten me, which terrified me, but then I might have gotten some help.

I didn't know, and I didn't have any idea of courage. Small, utterly dependent, I tried to follow the shifting rules where I always lost. He was so sensitive to any slight, and everything I did or said was "rude" and remembered to be used against me. Which I was required to admit to whenever asked.

Drove me nuts in my early adulthood when my questions were ignored. I thought one always had to answer, I thought that's how it was supposed to work. TV show dialogue worked that way, reinforcing the Rule. Took me a long while to understand, and admire, those who simply don't answer when there is need.

Silence is a potent force, no wonder my father wanted to make sure he took it away from me. I repaid him in silence, and he had no one but himself to blame.

Silence is very comfortable for me. Dylan and I can sit quietly together, and it's blissful. I don't mind at all when I don't hear from a friend for a long time. I send emails back quickly only because I'm interested and want to. I'm perfectly content to leave space for anyone to reply, to think, or accept that they may be ignoring me intentionally. Far be it from me to object, or even take it personally. Lives go on, stuff happens, it's all fine.

If it's important enough, an answer will drift through. Just patiently listening as I go about my other tasks. No apology needed if they don't get back to me, if there isn't a returned email, or new blog post. None required. We all have a right to not answer, to think, ignore, or simply not reply for no reason at all. No words are owed. No obligation, no matter what they say.


Found a bag left on our verge, heavy canvas. With a bicycle handlebar, apparently sawn off, and some cut up credit cards. I called the police, they sent an officer, who told me they'd keep it in evidence, especially the cards.

Moby got to sleep in the sunflowers this morning. The truck emptied the bin, and he cared not at all.

Boys

Insights are like the gush of spring thaw, hopeful and startling and chill with truth. One came today, but will take a bit of background.

When I was still small, and my brothers moved away, when they would come home from school or the military, they would come wake me up to say hello, and talk with me. Those minutes of excitement and being listened to were rare treats. These are very special memories, if a bit hazy with sleep. It was all apiece with my adoration of my brothers - fed by my mother's assurance that they loved me so much, and couldn't wait to see me when they got home.

Sure, teenage boys couldn't wait to see their baby sister.

This is my mother's fantasy about her own brothers who were much older, Uncle Walt in particular, who she wrote to every week when he was serving in WWII, and who came back home with a wife. Or the eldest who died at 17, drowned, with hints of suicide.

And the clear truth sat there, patiently waiting for me to notice, raised it's eyebrows and shrugged. Oh. This makes everything make so much more sense, as though I'd been putting together what I thought was a puzzle of a mountain that turned out to be a sailing ship instead.

Well, no. Mom put them up to it. Insisted on it, as she prodded me to send birthday/father's day cards and calls. She orchestrated a loving family, made it out of whole cloth without regard to the actual people involved, most of which were uninterested or assholes. Both, usually. Dangerous thing, to base one's happiness on other people loving each other.

Everything my brothers have done since, in this light, makes complete sense. Including retelling the fable, without actually behaving lovingly - which is what is required for real love.

The most supremely unemotional moment, realizing this. So much better that I was irrelevant to them, than that they once loved me, then betrayed me. No need for forgiveness, nothing to forgive. Simply a story misapplied.

No more false stories.

No more fake fucking heros.

Doors

We didn't get our back door installed this Wednesday. The guy called last week and asked if he could postpone, very apologetic, his daughter's camping trip... . No question, we are not in a rush, we have a door that closes - more or less, and any man who is being a good dad gets my full support. Good fathers touch my heart, and I wish for every little girl a decent, loving, kind dad. Boys, too, but daughters especially.

Worked with a guy who often spoke of his daughter, took it as read that dads let daughters cover them in pink bows and join in for doll tea parties, go to soccer games and learn to brush their hair. He talked about the issue of female adolescence, offering information without intruding, buying a variety of menstrual items - and that she should decide what she wants, and give him the package - he would buy more. (Mom was not reliably in the picture.) He freely admits he was not comfortable with the situation at first, but decided she needed him to be matter-of-fact, so he learned.

I want every child to have a good dad, or several, in their lives. I had a few uncles, and my brothers were occasionally helpful - mostly I had to figure it out as best I could. I went through no "I-hate-boys" stage, always preferred male company. It's more straightforward, less fraught than with women. Not looking for a father, but for decent men, decent human beings without regard to gender.

Children need good people in their lives, men especially. They need to see power in terms of forgiveness and kindness, not distant judgement, or hot, angry abuse, or far worse - sexual exploitation. Women tend to children, overwhelming them sometimes. Fathers are too often absent or frightening. Men who nurture are so valuable. Not really rare, but it feels so to me. So far away, so impossible. When I come across the ones who consider it normal, I want to shower them with appreciation.

Like the men who are horrified at any man who would beat up a woman. Not rare, not at all, I know this in my head. But they seem so to those who have lived with the other sort.

We'll have the door in next Wednesday. Plenty of time.

Indelible

Reading about PTSD in children. They thought I was depressed, more than once in my life. My father thought I was "turning on the waterworks." Later, when I was on the emotional yoyo that was my first "marriage" I actually got on medication. Hyper-vigilence, bouts of crying, distrust and over-trust, anger, violent thoughts, physical distress, gas and cramps, sore throats and vague pains. I have come to believe I was never primarily depressed, only traumatized, with a dash of anxiety.

I remember drying dishes while my mother washed, and my father sat in the dining room. The phone rang. I was ordered to answer it. Walking past him. I had the paring knife in my hand, wooden handle, and on the way back, I stopped behind him for an eternity, knife in my fist, contemplating jabbing it into the back of his neck. And the whole thought process, not having any idea where to cut, if it was long enough, sharp enough to kill, or just enough to piss him off. I walked back and finished my task, but the thought stayed. I used to console myself while being raged at for hours, his red, greasy face a foot from mine, by reciting prayers in my head, Hail Mary, Our Father. From then on, I began to replace that with fantasies of terrible ways to kill my tormentor, and learned to focus on the bridge of his nose when he insisted "Look at me!" At least I didn't have to stare into those mad, stupid eyes again. Instead, I imagined shooting him in the mouth with a crossbow bolt - which would shut him up.

When both my brother and mother assured me (unprompted) that he'd died peacefully, I listened. He died of obstructive lung disease, one of my nightmare ways to die*. I've cared for patients dying while gasping for their every breath. I have a very clear image how he died, no doubt fighting and blaming every moment. I would not have wished it on anyone, even him. But I will not lie by saying I mind terribly that he was chained to that fate. Whatever they were told by kind nurses, I will hold to my own knowledge of how people die, and how nurses offer comfort to the living, and take my own comfort thereby. He did not die peacefully, he could not have, he would not have had any idea how.

They thought I had something wrong with my gut, for all the pain I had. I had a GI series as a kid, very distressing. I remember when they asked me what I would have for dinner, every one of my favorite foods† started with the word "fry." I did not mention how most meals were fraught with my father screaming, angry, hostile. They asked my mother if I was "nervous." A bad word, one of those my father bandied about, and my mother decried, so would not use to describe me, however accurate. Yes, I was terrified and anxious, traumatized and malnourished.

For the last twenty years, I have recovered, stabilized. My father's death, reestablishing contact with my mother, has aroused these sensations and memories. It'll never be gone because it is what I am made of. I can make something new of them, I have, like junkyard art. No fine porcelain for me. Different, neither better nor worse. Taking it out and reassessing it all, like cleaning out the deepest closets in preparation for moving.

Everything leaves it's mark. I see the scars, with a mild wonderment, that I survived, and have come out the other side. Content, happy, loved.



*Pancreatitis is the other horrible way I'd rather not die. Drowning, any immediate traumatic event, heart attack, all fine. Just not COPD or a sick pancreas.

†My mother did not believe in fresh, green, vegetables‡. Potatoes, canned corn, canned lima beans (blech) - that was it. I remember when Aunt Alma gave me spinach for the first time, I was in heaven. I ate cherry tomatoes out of the yard, as well as sweet clover and rhubarb, and sour green grapes from Mrs. Rizzardi's grape arbor all summer.

‡Not to mention fiber.

Obligation

Two full on days, when home is sweetest, so long as love is there. Here, three souls who love each other.

And having my mother back in contact means I hear her voice again, the one inside my head. That animals are animals, not people. As though that excludes them from real love. Her disdain for those who think too much of a mere cat or a dog. I find myself explaining - again, only inside, why we really do love Moby, and he, in his cat way, seems to love us. We rely on each other, are kind to each other, make each other laugh, provide comfort and joy. If that's not love, what is? (As Tevye would ask.)

Then a lyric prodded me, and I listened to Graceland.

And I may be obliged to defend
Every love, every ending
Or maybe there's no obligations now

I let go, live in my moment of home, my small, complete family.

We are doing Thanksgiving here with D's parents. My idea. We are planning, and looking forward to this very much. In our tiny apartment, snug and warm.

Perpetual

Pestery thoughts. My mother wanting to see me, which is unlikely. I'm not about to spend my precious vacation time going to Buttfuck, Texas to visit people I don't much like. I certainly do not want to inflict this bunch of kin on my beloved D. More, I would not want any of them here. I'm not convinced it will be a good idea for me to have reestablished contact. Had to, for the sake of my own integrity. The price may prove very high in peace of mind. Well, somethings just have to be paid.

The idea of unconditional love, un-reciprocated love, seems to me akin to perpetual motion machines. A lot of people convince themselves it's real, because of a core lack of understanding. It's seductive, it's so appealing. That it can't work doesn't stop a lot of people from believing that it can. They can keep on pouring out love, without ever getting anything in return, forever. A never emptying bottle. It's magic, martyrdom, a mystery. It's insulting bullshit. My reconnection should have been treated with wary courtesy, not full flood "love." I'm not the prodigal son asking forgiveness.

Even many, or most, parents, (who I am willing to believe) are overwhelmed with a rush of protective urges toward their children, need to turn that pure emotion into a genuine interest in that small person, and accept interest in return. Because the better analogy to real love is of an electrical circuit. It has to go around, not just from one to another. And energy has to be put into the system. One must give, and accept in return, each has to strive to be worthy, and take everything given, and give everything in return. Both should feel hopelessly indebted, getting the best of the deal, unutterably grateful.

Even parents, maybe especially parents, if they want to love and be loved by their offspring all their lives, need to take that instinctive emotion - which needs another word, and gradually transform it into a real, loving, friendship. I've seen it happen, so I do know it is possible. My Massachusetts cousins seemed to do it by gradually including their children among the friends, until they were full friends, with only the memory of being kids in the relationship.

Real love is a verb, to treat each other lovingly. Anything else is a scam, a delusion, a wish. And wishes are as useful as wax screwdrivers and cotton candy anchors. And perpetual motion machines.

House

Looked at an open house this afternoon, and ran into an agent we met, and very much liked, before. We'd walked into an open house, maybe a year ago, knowing that a house was a long, long time into our future, and liked her then. It was way too much house, and we were very upfront about not really being in the market at that point. Now. Well, now we are thinking that a year, year and a half from now, we might just as well own our own place. So we are getting our ducks hatched, with an eye to getting them in a row. Getting all the finances in order, meeting agents at open houses, training our eyes, educating ourselves. It's going to be quite a process.

Then we came home, ate lunch, I drank some beer, and with great trepidation, called my mother. Strange, how I did not recognize her voice. I aggressively changed the subject as she got weepy, telling me this was "the greatest day of her life." What? That the daughter who had to work herself up for a month to talk to her finally called? And even then, it took some Dutch Courage? But I went on Full Entertainment Mode, and jollied her along. All positive and amusing, the complete show. I could not stand her gratitude. I fulfilled my sense of duty. It's not love, but a functional kindness. She asked if I was still with D. Which rather shocked me. And when I told D, rather offended him. I assured him that, after all, she doesn't know him.

I'd begun to feel like I was worse than my brothers who couldn't bother to tell me, for me not to call her. She has sold the house (for less, in actual dollar amount than they bought it for in 1952 - this is Detroit) and her DIL is finding her an apartment near the oldest son in Texas. She will have family around her, and Texans who are notorious for being friendly. I gave her my phone number, since my brothers are not bright enough to find us in the online white pages. I have no compulsion to answer the phone if I don't want to. I can call as I feel necessary.

She assured me that at the end he (her husband, my ass of a father) did not suffer. And I know this is not probably true. Oh, he suffered, but mostly from his self inflicted anger and bile. Nothing to do with me, but I am content. I would not have inflicted harm upon him, and obviously wishing is less than useless, but it bothers me not at all that he had a difficult and lingering death. Brother and mother say that he went peacefully, the details tell a different story, one I have told to family myself. I recognize the platitudes, the code. In the end, we all walk that last corner alone, fast or slow, painful or peaceful, and I will accept whatever kind of death is mine. He would not have done so, of that much I am certain. He would have resented and whined throughout, worst of all, lied to himself and everyone around. I have seen the deaths of liars and dramatists, the chronic complainers and haters, I know he had that kind of death. He made it himself, then had to lie in it.

I always wished she would have a few years of quiet, without him. Despite the fact that he was her choice, and she stayed with him. But part of me would have appreciated her going first, and me being able to tell him exactly what I really thought of him. So, one sin my soul will not be stained with. She will have her son, her DIL, sometimes her granddaughters and great granddaughters to visit, no more snow, a far place.



So I sit, strangely unemotional, and a bit intrigued. What just happened? And why? I must wait and watch. But at least I feel I have done the Right Thing. For good or ill.

Parentage

Usually, I'm fairly good at jokes. I remember punchlines, and my timing is decent. But sometimes I remember the punchline, and can't remember the joke. "I'm never doing that for two bucks again" is one, the other is "Artie chokes three for a dollar." The last came to mind, because I got some very nice artichokes today, have eaten one, the other is cooking now. I somehow figured I wouldn't eat two, but then decided I would. D is not a fan of the vegetable. I learned to eat if from a Cypriot Greek friend, long, long ago. I used softened butter with lemon peel spice instead of mayo this time. I can't remember the last time I bought mayonnaise. Anymore than ketchup.

We had lunch with D's parents. They are not quite the exemplars of my Massachusetts cousins - who have made all their children into friends, and all comers welcome - in a way neither D nor I had ever experienced before. But they are lovely people, mellowed over the years and become less presuming, more just folks. I am very glad of them. My MIL assured me she likes all her DILs, all five of us. I realized slightly later that I am the eldest and most senior of them. D's older brother has been married a few times, the latest seems to be staying - so far. The next younger is on #2. The next two are still with wife #1. And so I get to be both oldest and longest lasting. We take some pride in this, although only privately.

MIL bothered on my behalf about not being told about my dead father. I really appreciate her being on my side. She also hoped I thought of them as parents. She is actually not quite old enough to be my mother, but I do think of them that way. On the way to meet them, I thanked D for sharing them with me. I'm glad to have folks.

I've not really felt any need for parents, not for a very long time. But for kinship, acceptance, yes. And that I already have.

Whites

Warm today, warmer tomorrow. Dammit, this is NOT how autumn goes. Still, cat is happy.


A confession, I've been watching this show about women buying wedding dresses in an upscale New York City salon. The drama and family interactions are fascinating. And part of me always wanted to try on posh gowns, a part of me that is still eight years old and would like a flowing tutu, crinoline, long swishing extravaganza.

When I was in a wedding as primary, I got an off white, lacy, calf length dress that was actually a skirt and top, from a department store, and did not cost more than $150. Eventually, I would get about $50 out of it in a consignment shop. I never considered anything more expensive. Very glad of that.

When D and I married, I owned a very nice teal dress, that I wore to his parent's living room, for the ceremony. When we planned our reception, seven years later, I looked for something poofy/formal, and failed utterly. A few steps into a Bridal Warehouse store, a brief bit of sticker shock and snowblindwhite* overload, I walked out. A mall store formal wear store, and several dresses later, I felt like a well wrapped sausage, not like anything pretty. Nothing fit in any way, but then, dresses have always been problematic for a wide hipped, broad shouldered, flat chested, plain tasted person such as myself. Not to mention cheap, and often poor. Skirt/shirt combinations are more flexible. Which is what I got.

When I approached my Confirmation, I had to have a dress. My mother was not about to compromise on that construction. It was the middle of the 70's, there was polyester knit everywhere, and none of it fit nor looked good. A long trial of a shopping began, and eventually ended with a dress with a green patterned smooth polyester top - sleeveless, sewn to a cream polyester skirt, and a boxy cream polyester jacket with a squared collar. Seriously, the best I could find, since red was an unacceptable color for a church ceremony, and I didn't want it too short. Actually, I didn't even want to do this, I was not sure about faith, worse, I was pretty sure I didn't want to belong to this church. And I had to wear this outfit that made me feel ugly. I was, 14, 15, it all blurs, but it all felt so coerced. The conversation with the priest to find out if I was ready to affirm my baptism was not at all what I hoped. He talked at me, and I had some real questions, which I realized he was not in any way prepared to answer. Form only, he talked about teenagers talking on the phone with god. Refusing would have made an already tense home situation explode, alienating my only semi-ally mother.

First Communion I had a real white frilly dress, and I did like it, and the veil. Wonderful costume. Too bad the shoes, bought long before to grow into, were still very large, and gave me blisters. A boring mass, like all masses, no moment of revelation when I had the host on my tongue, just a bunch of obnoxious children around me, and the pretty dress a slight compensation.

Maybe this is why I never much valued a lush wedding dress, despite a continued fascination with it as costume.


And this is why I don't contact my mother. Every time I think about talking to her, I wind up shouting at her in my mind for insisting on actions that should have been optional. Which I could have let go, if only she'd made any effort to actually bother to have any interest in who I really was from the moment of puberty or at any time during my adulthood. I reflexively edited everything I said to her, so as not to offend her. Because her unconditional love for me did not extend to my not being catholic, or being sexual, or having a drink, or anything else that she considered vital. Like not drinking milk at every meal, or wearing jeans, or not ironing shirts. Yeah, best to let it be. She'll only deny it, or beat herself up at me, or claim she doesn't remember, or say she didn't mean that by it.

Still tangled up in her. All very sad, with no solution. Or I want to rail at her about her sons' lack of human decency. At their half-assed non-attempt to reach me to let a woman know her father has died. Even if they knew I wouldn't care, this is essential, this is basic. That I had to call them still baffles me.

Humans, who can figure 'em?



*I"ve never looked good in white anyway. Had to wear white for nursing school, and it was not flattering. Glad to get into colored scrubs. Although, now that the hair has gone grey, it's not as bad.

Cusp

The season is on the cusp of revolution, over the horizon, but sending harbingers. Change upon the wind, the last of the summer heat, grasping. Tomorrow, tomorrow should be much different, as the wet Pacific front resets all the switches. There may well be snow on the mountains by the weekend.

The gout of emotion and memory has ebbed away, leaving only grime and dampness. There needs to be a word for this, which isn't grief, not even for what wasn't. I'm long past wishing for a different past, or a different set of kin. I am the useful mess I am because of who they were, and what I managed to make of that.

What to call the reaction to the death of someone hated, but somehow important and entwined in one's life? It yanks, hard, on all the other memories. I thought I'd be joyful, relieved, eased in heart. Which is not how it felt. Maybe just because I have witnessed death, and although it causes me no fear, it has my respect. I know how people die, it is a solemn business. The sense of lightness, of a burden laid down has happened, but the weight was already mostly gone anyhow. The last stone, left on the grave.

Calling my brother was the right decision, no question. And I am pleased with myself that I handled that with calm detachment. I listened, asked questions, let him talk, gave away very little. I took in his story of the death of our father, and I translated it into my own version. Failed to get his email address properly, and he didn't make sure. Tried several versions, no response, which is fine. Well, can't say I didn't try. Sorta.

Soon, I will walk in the wind and rain, face into another year, another winter. They begin to blur, but I love the chill no less each time.

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.

Sense

After a meager amount of sleep, about useless at work, physical symptoms still strong - to my utter consternation. Dr. Hutch walked in on me in near-come-apart, and said "I don't know what's wrong, but this will help!" and rubbed my neck and shoulders. He was quite right. Came home, called about the arch supports I'd ordered as a kind of warm-up, then called my eldest brother.

He's still full of bullshit. Still not as smart as he thinks he is. But my training in various areas, plans over the years of utter silence, and reading of Smiley's interrogations served me well, as I let him talk and gave away very little of myself.

"So, Bill* got hold of you through D(...)'s parents." (D is on the online white pages, took me 30 seconds to find our phone number that way. His parents are unlisted. I found my brother's number in as much time there. I did not let on that I thought this utter crap.)
"No, I found the obituary online." I say, calmly.
"Oh, no." Says Brother.
"(Mass. Cousin) is in contact with me." I inform him.
"She disappeared after she retired..." (No, she didn't. She's been retired since before I fell out of contact, and has the same address, and phone, to this day.)

I found out a lot of detail. And a lot of what Brother was told, and I have translated from Comfort Language ("he wasn't in pain") into reality - he died a slow, scraping death. A whole load of unnecessary misery. There are a host of reasons that turning away from the whole , surviving clan was an attractive choice. I had to face it all, though. Tomorrow, I will call my mother. And try not to dread it. I started with the Brother first, because I knew he would be more flip and oblivious. Figured, if I can deal with that, I will move ahead to the steep section.

I think that is what I am experiencing. All in a gush, all the sewage behind the dam. The reason I could not sleep last night, despite every technique I've ever used to glide away from the logs of memory. I was birling away over icy waters, every memory of aunts and uncles, cousins and brothers played and replayed with the shitty underbelly spewing away.

All real, none of it makes a fucking bit of sense.

I've never been good at forgetfulness. Trained too early to remember everything so I could understand, and I may have overdone it. I like to think that I am as intelligent as I think I am. Just like I know exactly how drunk I am at any given time. Or how tired, or tall (5'6".) Names, dates, numbers, all lost. But I remember events as though I were standing there, with overlays of the interpretations of subsequent information adding meaning. Just how my brain works, or fails to work as the case may be.








*The second eldest brother. The Fall Guy.

End

Apparently, my father died two weeks ago. Searching online for exactly this sort of information, I came across his death notice. I feel no joy nor grief, no anger nor even relief. A huge wave of something broke over me, as though I'd bashed my head very hard, and am left stunned and shaken, but without pain. Jostled and odd.

I thought, "Well, 42 years of wishing finally worked." But I don't feel that way. I do not know what all this is that overwhelms me, leaving my hands trembling.

The next choice is if I should even bother to contact the remaining genetic kin, who made no effective effort to contact me. Cleaner, simpler, if we just all keep it polite and distant. I let my dear cousin in Massachusetts know. She may not even have been told. I expect not. I did sign the online guestbook, offered my condolences on their loss, and left my email. So they know, if they chose to look, no excuses later. The door is unlocked, that is all.

Please, do not offer me condolences. That would be completely inappropriate.

He was 88. He was a soul in torment all his life, that he blamed and spread that misery does not negate his own suffering. I sincerely hope there is nothing after death, no hell, no heaven, just a recycling into the eternity. He is, for my part, now utterly and unconditionally forgiven.

Portrait

The one way I know I was not middle class growing up was the utter lack of studio photo portraits. I had school photos, which my parents bought and gave to family, mostly wallet size ones for the aunts & uncles, and a 3X5 for each grandmother. Most of which I detested and would have preferred burned. My mother took some lovely Brownie snapshots of us as kids, in B&W. And every birthday and Christmas and vacation had photos, developed at the local drugstore and stored thereafter in old shoeboxes. I loved looking through them, with the negatives kept in the envelopes - although never used past the initial prints. Photos outside of vacations, holidays and birthdays were vanishingly rare. A few to commemorate snowmen, or new clothes, or rites of passage - communion and confirmation, the sparse weddings.

And I treasure those recordings of my early life. The spontaneous, if predictable, moments, illustrating my growth over time. No one else involved, no artificially strained smiles for a stranger in front of a bland background, instead - the reality visible on film. I've always had very clear visual memories from ridiculously early in my life, and I know that the series of photos have reinforced that. Not created the memories, but kept them alive.

I can only think that if I'd had to have professional portrait photos every year, I'd have rebelled much earlier in my life. I go stiff and awkward in front of a photographer. Only since I've had photobooth on this laptop, and have learned out to take self portraits, have I liked my own image. Digital images, allowing for feedback and mistakes, willingness to try anything, all I needed.

Thinking about family a lot, recently. My father is 88 years old. My mother 86. I wish I had a passable relationship with them, but it's really not possible. And I do feel awful about this, but not as bad as when I was in contact with them. I love living without a hole in my integrity, not having to deal with the lies and picking. But I am grateful for having been given adequate food and clothing and an excellent education, I really am. They came from a different generation, hard-core working class of the last century. I know I was the unplanned, surprize child, late and not entirely welcome. An added expense, rather than an additional resource. No anger, really not. Just the intense need for separation.

Likewise for my much older brothers, for whom I was at most, a toy, no matter that I idolized them. None of us were real people to each other. So, when they moved out, I disappeared for them. Now, in different parts of the world, we really are nothing to each other. A genetic similarity really doesn't mean anything. They are not my saviors, they are just guys with their own lives, and they have no clue about what I am, nor do they care, nor should they. And I have had to let go of my idea of them as "brothers." I have had better luck with my cousins. (Found out from cousins that no one really thought much of my father and oldest brother, and I thought them well liked, in contrast to my experience of them. Wow. )

So, here I am, happy with my aging phisog - one that echoes my aunts and mother, and completely alienated from my roots. I don't think I had worse than any misused child, better than many, but I had the personal will to say Basta! and make it stick? No money to go after, I'm sure that helps. Excessive ability to rationalize, and just decided that the logical thing was to walk away with the story of Lot's wife to remind me never to look back. "Let the dead bury the dead." Luke 9/60 bothered me immensely when I was ten, but there it is guiding me to this day. Not pretty, but appropriate triage. Probably doesn't speak well of my compassion, either. Once I decide and promise, that is it for me.

And that may have something to do with my mother's extreme irritation with anyone holding grudges, and great insistence on getting people together who held same. I felt that it was better to just leave all parties alone.

Maybe I just never felt any bond with either of them, so when the dependence was gone, there was nothing left but a non-existant nostalgia for the 'good old days.' A lack of attachment may be at the heart of my indifference, rather than level of abuse, since that was fairly moderate, all told.

This is a theme I expect will be a source of worry all my life, in varying amounts at different times, decreasing gradually over the decades.

Thickening

Dreams thicken my sleep.
Grandmother, too young, alive
And speaking English.

My father's mother only spoke French, River Canard French, rural and uneducated. Her English was rudimentary. She was mostly bedridden since before I was born, and I hardly remember her sitting up, walking only when I was very small. There were many reasons given for this, including a hip surgery in her 70s, at a time when this wasn't a safe course for someone younger. There were lots of pills, and whispers of cancer, and the surety that she would not make it through the summer, through the winter. I suspect she was sick from being in bed too much, although I never questioned it at the time. She lived to be 98, cared for by her daughter, the aunt of mine I most disliked. She died when I was 22.

I have very little feeling for her, good or bad. She was a non-entity, who called me June. Given that I was the only granddaughter, and only one of three grandchildren, it probably says a lot about how children were seen on that side of the family. I have no rancor about this, a matter of no real consequence to me. So, why was I dreaming of her, as a middle aged woman speaking to me kindly and in good English?

Milk

My young adulthood featured becoming vegetarian. Nothing simple about it, as I had been exposed to nothing but canned vegetables, and hated them. But I never liked meat, although it was a mandatory part of most meals. As was the absolutely mandatory glass of (detested) milk. I had to eat the meat and whatever else I put on my plate, with baked dessert as the reward. I had a lot of gut irritation, and no one could figure out why. A lot of white bread, fried food, cheap meat, sugary baked desserts.

Aunt Alma was so surprized when she made me spinach, and I could not get enough, thought it the best flavor in the world. My body craved it, so it tasted amazing. Summertime, I ate the rhubarb from the back yard, snitching it as it sprouted. I ate sweet clover from the lawn, cherry tomatoes from my mother's garden, and unripe grapes from Mrs. Rizzardi's arbor, through the fence. Any fruit, although my mother would only buy a small amount, because of the expense. Which is part of why I loved visiting Aunt Alma, she would buy me enough peaches and plums to gorge myself.

So, when I cooked for my own meals, on so little income, I subsisted on quick breads, ramen noodles, free candy bars from my job at the theater, fried eggs, and out of a strange habit, milk. Which I still hated, but considered nutritious. I never really felt well, despite lots of dance classes, walking everywhere. Broccoli was my first foray into greenery, along with lettuce. It was a long, slow process. I don't remember when I started steaming frozen vegetables, but that did seem to help quite a lot. That may have been years later, after the army chow halls, when being vegetarian was just not possible. When I ate whatever was put on my tray, and swallowed it without much ado. Some of which may have been - technically - vegetables.

Going to restaurants is what most changed my diet. Eating well cooked and seasoned vegetation opened my eyes to possibilities. Lamb and green beans at the International, a Greek place in Detroit. Having only tried canned green beans, to taste them cooked lovingly was a revelation. Today, I'll go for about anything green and leafy. I never drink milk. I occasionally have a dream about having to drink the stuff again, and it's gagging.


These days, I try to eat more vegetation than not, but I've left it as an exclusive ideal. I like the green stuff. I rarely eat dessert. I have wheatgerm every morning in my hot cereal, meat not every day - more as a side than a main, good eggs from a friend with chickens, never white bread, always some vegetables, a bit more balance. My gut has been pretty stable for a while. Although it has it's moments. Cheese in small amounts, no damn milk. Mostly, no one shouting as I eat, and no one forcing me to ingest what I don't want.

I really enjoy spinach, treated kindly.

Have I mentioned how much I hate milk*?






*The first word I learned to spell was "Bar." My earliest friend boasted spelling the word "Milk." My parents were impressed. I knew it was a better word, if only for having more letters, and being less seedy, but I hated milk too much to bother to learn how to spell it.

Bit

Question over at mentalfloss about earliest memories. I suspect they are only interested in happy ones. I have a clear, confirmed memory, from when I was 10 moths old. Documentable, because it was Aunt Madeline*'s wedding. My mother only spoke about it in a negative, I knew something had happened, but had no idea when the wedding happened. It was Not To Be Spoken Of. She never connected this memory with that event, for me, or perhaps in her own mind.

I remember being wrapped up, the air very cold, put in a crib-like contraption between my brothers, who seemed to be acting strangely. Something was wrong with my father, and my mother was very upset. My brother was able to confirm these images, when we were both adults. He and the other brother had been draining unsupervised glasses at the reception, and our father was smashed. Father insisted on driving, as usual if he were drunk - which thankfully didn't happen often. And our mother came unhinged when he did.

Today, I had a happy moment. A rep introduced himself, I took in his name, then realized it was the ex's name. And I did not react inside. It was like an old sore spot, then someone pokes it, and you realize, it does not hurt anymore. Better than the first time this year when I bit into an apple, and my teeth felt fine, all healed and well.

*Our father's sister, one year younger. He was held back starting school, so she wouldn't be alone. THAT kind of fucked up family. He insisted on a birthday cake for her birthday the next day, at his wedding. Mom told me about that story. Aunt Madeline was damaged in different ways.