Gramma Bunnie, the ironically nicknamed ex-wife of the aforementioned Grampa Harm and mother to my mother, had a little brother named Uncle Lydell. He's our family's encyclopaedic entry for Asshole.
We'd spend nearly every Sunday of my young life in their mother's home, Gramma Emma, in a tiny town 18 miles away. There were two kinds of Sundays at Gramma Emma's house: Drunk and Angry or Happy and Peaceful; the happy/peaceful version usually included homemade cake and scoops of icecream from the deep freeze in it's own dedicated room. It's easy to guess my favorite kind of day. The positive food reinforcement didn't work though. Uncle Lydell still showed up. He was still angry. He was still medicating his pain with a lot of alcohol. And he didn't much care who knew he was upset, he needed to GET IT OUT!!! So he did.
On those days, I don't remember what it was that got the man so freaking upset, though I was glad to know it wasn't me (one less pissed-at-you-adult was a freaking sacred gift in my world). I'd just sit under Great-Gramma's sideboard and play with the molded plastic train piggy bank, discolored and smelly coloring books, broken crayon chunks, and a few other ancient toys we kept stashed there, just for these moments.
Lots of crying on those days, always the women; the men didn't step in and stop anything until the end, when they convinced him to go have a smoke and calm down.
It still wouldn't be safe to come out for a while, the weeping women would sometimes grab you up into their suffocating busoms, smelling like tears and misery, and it was just plain confusing; so unless I really needed to pee (and I could dart from my vantage point) I stayed put.
For hours.
Then Uncle Lydell met Karma. Though I bet if he described the situation for you himself, it's more like he met Karma-as-Kali, farm-style.
Deservedly so, my then 8-year-old-self decided and at 40, I still concur.
My inner child's version of the tale; for authenticity, I'm not verifying facts with the family, ymmv*:
Uncle Lydell was baling hay with a neighbor, when the neighbor was called away. Now, everyone knows that you're never to bale hay alone, it's way too dangerous. Lydell did it anyway. It was believed the twine meant to cinch the grass-cubes became tangled and, instead of turning off the machine to deal with it's malfunction, he reached into the running baler, the twine cinched his wrist, he was pulled into the machine and, consequently, his fat ass made the thing explode. They came to Aunt Mary with glasses-in-hand; glasses they found in the neighboring field.
I don't remember who told me, maybe I listened at the door while my mom retold the story for friends on the telephone. First thing I really remember is standing outside our green stucco house, outside the white picket fence, the sun shining on my face and I felt JOY! The next trip to Great-Gramma's was guaranteed to be a Happy and Peaceful one with Cake and Ice Cream Cones. I was getting too tall for the hidey-hole, anyway! I'd get to hear the windchimes over the voices, every.single.time. In that moment, I came to realize that Death could be a release, a happy, happy release. If not for the dead guy, for those who had to put up with him while alive.
Then I walked into the house.
Mom was crying. Gramma Bunnie was crying. People were sad. It made my skin crawl.
WHY? Feel what you really feel, for goodness sake people! We all hated the man, we're all glad he's gone, he'll never ruin another day at gramma's for us, why would that make you sad??!?!?!?!
Then I was just plain pissed. My parade was rained out by hypocritical tears and snotty nonsense. I didn't go to the funeral. I think Mom wanted to keep my giddiness at home. I kept my frustration and confusion to myself. To whom do you bring these feelings?
Again no one had anything to help me understand.
Alone, but for those niggling questions and a deep, burning desire to find different ways to do this whole death thing. There wasn't a lot to believe in, in my young life, but here I found faith, faith that I could move beyond what had been my experience, thus far. A faith that has proven unshakable.
____________________
*ymmv = your miles may vary
We'd spend nearly every Sunday of my young life in their mother's home, Gramma Emma, in a tiny town 18 miles away. There were two kinds of Sundays at Gramma Emma's house: Drunk and Angry or Happy and Peaceful; the happy/peaceful version usually included homemade cake and scoops of icecream from the deep freeze in it's own dedicated room. It's easy to guess my favorite kind of day. The positive food reinforcement didn't work though. Uncle Lydell still showed up. He was still angry. He was still medicating his pain with a lot of alcohol. And he didn't much care who knew he was upset, he needed to GET IT OUT!!! So he did.
On those days, I don't remember what it was that got the man so freaking upset, though I was glad to know it wasn't me (one less pissed-at-you-adult was a freaking sacred gift in my world). I'd just sit under Great-Gramma's sideboard and play with the molded plastic train piggy bank, discolored and smelly coloring books, broken crayon chunks, and a few other ancient toys we kept stashed there, just for these moments.
Lots of crying on those days, always the women; the men didn't step in and stop anything until the end, when they convinced him to go have a smoke and calm down.
It still wouldn't be safe to come out for a while, the weeping women would sometimes grab you up into their suffocating busoms, smelling like tears and misery, and it was just plain confusing; so unless I really needed to pee (and I could dart from my vantage point) I stayed put.
For hours.
Then Uncle Lydell met Karma. Though I bet if he described the situation for you himself, it's more like he met Karma-as-Kali, farm-style.
Deservedly so, my then 8-year-old-self decided and at 40, I still concur.
My inner child's version of the tale; for authenticity, I'm not verifying facts with the family, ymmv*:
Uncle Lydell was baling hay with a neighbor, when the neighbor was called away. Now, everyone knows that you're never to bale hay alone, it's way too dangerous. Lydell did it anyway. It was believed the twine meant to cinch the grass-cubes became tangled and, instead of turning off the machine to deal with it's malfunction, he reached into the running baler, the twine cinched his wrist, he was pulled into the machine and, consequently, his fat ass made the thing explode. They came to Aunt Mary with glasses-in-hand; glasses they found in the neighboring field.
I don't remember who told me, maybe I listened at the door while my mom retold the story for friends on the telephone. First thing I really remember is standing outside our green stucco house, outside the white picket fence, the sun shining on my face and I felt JOY! The next trip to Great-Gramma's was guaranteed to be a Happy and Peaceful one with Cake and Ice Cream Cones. I was getting too tall for the hidey-hole, anyway! I'd get to hear the windchimes over the voices, every.single.time. In that moment, I came to realize that Death could be a release, a happy, happy release. If not for the dead guy, for those who had to put up with him while alive.
Then I walked into the house.
Mom was crying. Gramma Bunnie was crying. People were sad. It made my skin crawl.
WHY? Feel what you really feel, for goodness sake people! We all hated the man, we're all glad he's gone, he'll never ruin another day at gramma's for us, why would that make you sad??!?!?!?!
Then I was just plain pissed. My parade was rained out by hypocritical tears and snotty nonsense. I didn't go to the funeral. I think Mom wanted to keep my giddiness at home. I kept my frustration and confusion to myself. To whom do you bring these feelings?
Again no one had anything to help me understand.
Alone, but for those niggling questions and a deep, burning desire to find different ways to do this whole death thing. There wasn't a lot to believe in, in my young life, but here I found faith, faith that I could move beyond what had been my experience, thus far. A faith that has proven unshakable.
____________________
*ymmv = your miles may vary
1 comment:
Fuck Diane...*I* was happy for you!
I had a similar experience with MY uncle...and I was 27 years old. Mean, hateful drunk...and I could enjoy family gatherings without worrying my children would carry the same baggage.
(hugs)
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