A story without a plot

Fracking insanity

Well, we'll assume it is okay to go ahead and announce some news of a personal nature:

1. I am going to be an uncle.                                                                Yup.  It seems pretty much confirmed. A born on date is to be determined in the near future. It's difficult to wrap my brain around being an uncle. It's even more difficult knowing who the daddy is. My parents' reaction, with whom sis still lives, is less than receptive. The react is reasonable on their end to say the least. This situation is ripe with potential baby-momma-drama. I'm sad to say that about my younger sibling, but it is true.  Also, selfish or not, this is a perfect time to take a hiatus from too much interaction with the fam. I can't seem to not express my opinion when around them. Supposedly, I start "preaching." Thank God for good friends, people I can actually help, Netflix, and a constant reminder the drama is not mine. Oh, and as one friend put it, I have nine months (give or take) to prepare to be the best damn uncle in the world if the situation allows. Hrmph.

On Christmas

The evening of Christmas day found my mother and I sitting at her kitchen table playing cards. She suggested the activity. We had not done this in a few years.

Long ago (about 18 years) I remember feeling so grown up when mom showed me how to play Gin Rummy, then invited me to sit with the adults at our large Christmas gathering after the supper was ate and gifts opened. I remember some of the dirty jokes told and my embarrassment to hear them at the card table. I was also nervous. I felt warmth and love. The first year I played brought new meaning to the season after all beliefs in Santa passed. Sadly though, one-by-one, Christmas after Christmas, the relatives either passed away or moved on. Our playing table grew smaller.

The last three Christmases in particular have been rough on my family. Two years ago we held our first seasonal celebration without my mammaw. Last year my papaw was gone. Perhaps because of those losses this year's Christmas was more poignant, and thus the cards for old time sake.

Early Christmas Eve, around 2 p.m., we went to my one remaining grandmother's house where the holidays always truly began.

This year my grandmother's well being has been measured in the time between mental lapses, swollen ankles, and amounts of sleep. I arrived at her house before my parents. I greeted her and my second cousin who lives with her. When I told her what day it was she didn't believe me. She said she wanted to go home. I reminded her she was home and of the day. Grandmother forgot how to play cards a long time ago. There was a time when every time I visited the blue deck of cards and a note pad came out. Grandma recorded our scores. She kept track of my card playing progress.

During Christmas Eve dinner this year, and when opening presents, she became increasingly agitated.

"I was hoping this would be a new outfit to wear out," she said to me after I helped her arthritic hands tear the paper and open another package with a nightgown in it.

"What is today again?" she then asked in a conspiratorial tone.

I chuckled and told her. Her brow furrowed for the fourth or fifth time and she let out an, "oh no." She wondered why she hadn't gotten anyone anything. My mother swooped in and said she did. This year she was giving money and fewer gifts.

"Oh! My memory is shot. How much did I give? Was it enough?" she'd ask.

Around 6 p.m. the kitchen table was cleared and we left as grandma and my second cousin began snoozing in their respective recliners. I got the dog and went to my parents house. The weather outside was unseasonably warm and damp. We all watched A Miracle on 34th Street and A Christmas Story. Both films are classics and always move me in odd ways. I stayed the night because my mother asked me to. I always used to.

Christmas day we went to my half-cousin's house. We ate ham, sweet potatoes, green beans, and pie. We caught up with my cousin's father and second wife. My mother's half-sister passed away from cancer about 10 years ago. She and her family were always part of our Christmas celebrations. My mother's niece gracefully rekindle that tradition this year.

And then the evening ended at the card table, just my mother and I, after we went to grandma's one last time to warm the turkey and dressing fixed especially for her the day before. We didn't mention Christmas. We just teased with grandma, held her hand, and kissed her forehead. I told her I loved her.

On the way home is when mom mentioned the cards. My sister went out. My dad snoozed in his own recliner. We ate chips and homemade onion dip. We wiped our hands on our pants between deals and discards. When one of us won a hand after having lost a hand we'd say, "I get the deal back" in jest. It was a typical tease given when growing up, a polite victory cry.

My mom kept score. We quietly and comfortably shared a moment of familiarity, love, and kinship.

Blue Christmas

The tree is up. The tabletop decorations are out. My hall closet holds gifts for my father that my mother bought

The parents collectively claimed decorating rights to my front yard. My house is the most brightly lit on the street. Lights trim the support pillars and railing on my porch. Two strands of white mini-lights decorate the front shrubs and a classic plastic Santa (actually my idea) stands waving in statuesque grace on the front porch. Also, and this is so not me, there is an inflatable Santa popping out of a chimney with the assist from Rudolph.

Inflatable lawn decorations – bhaw! They tickle my parents though. They bought it, so what the hello.

With the decorations up and everything prepped for “the most wonderful time of the year” though I still don’t feel, you know, that holiday magic. Perhaps it is because of the freakishly warm weather recently.

The non-holiday, non-cheer though runs deeper I believe. An indication came on Thanksgiving. My immediate family gathered, went down to my grandmother’s, ate, and then went back to our prospective homes. During the dinner my grandmother constantly had to be reminded what day it was and my second cousin nodded off in his p-j’s. My mother complained how all she ever did was cook and serve meals.

Basically what she meant to say was the day really wasn’t any different from any other.

Everything in my family is a given right now. We all are regularly involved in each other’s life. Holidays suggest there should be something more, like a crazy Uncle Earl we only see on special occasions who gives us all a laugh with his antics. My family used to have an Uncle Earl, but his name was Stanley  and he was a great uncle. He died in 1997.

 

I could go on discussing how my family used to be huge, but now isn’t. That would not be the truth. I still have a lot of relatives out there and a lot of people who attended family functions, like the post-post-post Thanksgiving card game with cold turkey and ham sandwiches and coffee when I was a kid. Or the monumental Christmas day gift exchange (in which I got tube socks for 4 consecutive years) and dinner with my dad’s brothers, and my cousins who all are still alive.

What are missing though are key relatives, the first generation, the grandparents and great aunts and uncles who worked like glue to hold us all together.

My father’s parents are gone. My mother’s aunts and uncles are no more. Many younger relatives and cousins have their own families. Everyone is twice removed. The dead have separated the living. We are all like tree branches without a trunk.

I saw an uncle and his wife the other day in a store when I was with my parents. The uncle barely waved to us. His wife, for some reason, began distaining us around my grandfather’s funeral two Augusts ago. My other two uncles pretty much keep the same distance from one another. I haven’t seen my cousins since our grandfather’s funeral. I might get invited over when some of their children graduate from high school and need money for college supplies.

Of course that last part touches on another issue entirely: The holidays bring up a tenacious reminder from my mother that I need to marry and have children so, perhaps, our holidays may improve. Maybe she can also stop buying “me” things like inflatable lawn decorations and Peanuts collectables. They’d be for the grandkids instead.

This year there is a glimmer of hope for our family, and particularly my parents. A step-niece invited mom and dad out to her house Christmas day for Christmas dinner. My mother’s tentative about going though. She feels invasive by accepting the invitation, whereas my step-cousin feels perfectly fine with it since her own mother died some years ago and adopted my mother, in part, as her own. I suggested she and my father go.

Therein lays the key to my and my family’s holiday woes. We need to get creative. We need to reach out and expand our little familial circle, even if it stretches outside of our own blood. Our thoughts on family, if not holidays, must be redefined.

Some of the best memories of the holidays I have in adulthood involve spending it with others who banded together to commemorate the occassion. I remember more than a couple of Thanksgivings spent with fellow graduate students who chose to stay in town over the long holiday weekend.

I remember almost being driven to tears the first year I spent away from home for Christmas. They were not tears of sorrow, but of joy. I participated in one fo the best holiday meals I ever had with friends who welcomed me into their house for companionship and celebration. I appreciated the value of the people who were in my life poignantly that day.

Too often my family, and I,  morn those no longer here. We've grown detached from the living instead of inclusive in spirit. There are many wonderful people in their lives who may not be seen everyday, but deserve to be celebrated by a dinner and some laughter this holiday season.

Perhaps my larger blood-family may never mend. One one hand it is sad, but on the other we are offered a wonderful opportunity to define our own holiday joy by picking and choosing those we care about into our homes and lives to share. We have a chance this year to shake those blues.

Lay your head here and rest

The hour is late. I should be in bed. I will be shortly. My belly is full of a late night dinner -- a wonderful chicken salad from a very local restaurant.

I began writing a post full of frothy emotion and poetic license. I stopped. Something bad happened. Or should I say my sister did something very bad? The latter would be true. On Halloween night I ran damage control with my parents.

"Don't talk to them as a son. Talk to them as an expert. You are. It may be the best thing for your sis and them," I was advised.

I took the advice half way. I reminded the folks about things about me. I reminded them of powerlessness over people. They didn't like what they heard. It hurt demanding my sister give my house key back. I didn't realize how much it meant to me to be able to trust her with it.

In the past 24 hours I was mad at her.

My mother is going in for prepping and then a battery of tests next week. She doesn't need this but she can't let go either. Then I remembered that what my sister has is a disease. Doesn't make it easier to accept, but the anger went away.

I spoke with others. I prayed that God make me as strong as a rock.

I stood on the porch smoking a cigarette and watching the rainfall. I started talking to myself, in my head of course.

“You are crazy, You know that?”

“Yeah,” I replied to the dialogue in my head.

I exhaled some smoke.

“It is just, well, every once in a while I need to be reminded,” I thought.

I then physically shrugged. When things go bad they seem to go bad all at once. It is the peculiar mental twist my mind takes whenever one frightening and overwhelming situation takes place. Everything gets clouded in turd colored glasses.

I started complaining about work lately. It really has been busy – so much so, I usually find myself working 10 to 12 hour days and taking some of it home over weekends in the hope I get caught up. The thing is I do get caught up and this current workload is a limited time experience. This too shall pass.

Then of course I get irritable with other people. If they’d just do what they are supposed to do or behave how they should life would be easier for everyone, especially me. Immediately I usually remember my own limitations, shortcomings, character ticks, and selfishness. I’m humbled before I cause too much harm by making verbal attacks. And yeah, sometimes the a-holes are at fault, but I just got to let it go for the same reasons others let go of my ignorant mistakes.

And then of course my pup died. That sucked for a short time. Then the feelings were replaced with the love of a new pup, which I almost feel guilty adding, that is much calmer and more easily trainable.

I think the one traumatic experience that bothers me still is waiting to find out what is wrong with my mother. Waiting on tests and results, and seeing her under a tremendous amount of fear, pain, and stress lingers. She has a biopsy on Wednesday and there will be more waiting.

Of course the good with the bad in this situation is just getting to be there with her and my family and holding on to the hope that what may be wrong is only minor.

Tested

    My plans for Friday were simple. I awoke early, went to work, then went to a coffee shop at noon and wrote for work. At approximately 1:30 p.m. while I sat in the coffee shop those plans changed dramatically with a phone call.
    My father was on the other end crying.
    "I've got bad news . . ."
    My heart stopped. Recently my mother experienced particular "female" health problems that she went and had tests for. We were still awaiting results.
    ". . . Shadow is dead and it is my fault," he said.
    I didn't know what to say.
    Dad was off work and I asked him to let my dog out. Instead he picked the pup up, took it to his house, and placed it on a chain in the backyard as he cut the grass. The neighbors have two rather aggressive Weimaraners, which they let run freely in the front yard when they are home. They got a hold of Shadow. I'm sure it was just rough play on their part but through that play they crushed her wind pipe and killed her almost instantly. My dad, God bless him, even tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
    Dad was sorry and guilt ridden. I repeated told him it was not his fault.
    I got off the phone, went ahead with my eye exam appointment, and then to the parents' house. Dad had already buried Shadow in the backyard. The neighbors offered to put their dogs down, or at least get me a new pup. My mom, dad, and sister were all in tears. I waited until later that night when I got home. The house felt empty.

A Day Well Spent

At the end of a particular Sunday recently there was no doubt that I was physically tired. Even working out three days a week muscles that never hurt ached. I spent a great portion of the day outside with my dad digging up dirt from in front of his house, putting the dirt in five gallon buckets, hauling the buckets in the back of a little tractor, and dumping the dirt in parts of the backyard. For my father this was the summer of moving dirt to landscape my mother's dream around the outside of the house.

After the earth was moved we placed and leveled out two to three inch granite slab paving stones so an antique metal park bench sat in the front yard flower bed. She, by the way, was out of town with my sister for the weekend on a shopping extravaganza in a neighboring state. My dad and I actually enjoyed the alone time together. We were men. We were sweating profusely. We were bonding. I know it might sound a bit cliche and chauvinistic, but it was true none-the-less.
   
Growing up I never learned how to do very practical things, like changing oil and oil filters in vehicles. I think I typed about that before. I just never had the time or gumption. I was lazy and many times saw my dad's knack for manual labor as less than. I had test scores and awards to prove I was smart. Smart people didn't do work with their hands.    

I think more than anything I resented my father for having to work so much, missing ball games and cub scout camping trips when I was little because he had a mortgage to pay and a family to provide for. The manual labor thing just justified my self-centeredness and resentment towards a man who loved me the best way he knew how; by supporting me and caring for me financially. Growing up, I rebuked his offer to pass on some of his knowledge because it felt like getting even against him for him not having the time to give to what I was involved with. It was a stupid and petty cycle that lasted much too long.

Through laying stones, changing oil, and shaking heads together at some of my mom's brilliant home improvement ideas this summer we've grown closer. I've learned to love and respect my dad for who he is, not who I wish he would have been. I think he's come to know and respect me a little bit more too.

Yeah, he used to retaliate to my holier than thou attitude by mocking my lack of "common sense." Our relationship wasn't entirely my fault by any means. As I've learned though only I have the opportunity to allow a change between us to occur. I began simply showing up until I finally reached a point we both enjoyed each others company.

I'm grateful we finally did.

A day well spent

    At the end of Sunday there was no doubt that I was physically tired. Even working out three days a week muscles that never hurt ached. I spent a great portion of the hot, humid day outside with my dad digging up dirt from in front of his house, putting the dirt in five gallon buckets, hauling the buckets in the back of a little tractor, and dumping the dirt in parts of the yard. For my father this is the summer of landscaping my mother's dream around the outside of the house.
    After the earth was moved we placed and leveled out two to three inch thick granite slab paving stones so my mom could have a bench in the front yard. She, by the way, was out of town with my sister on a weekend shopping extravaganza in a neighboring state. That's not there to sound bitter. My dad and I actually enjoyed the alone time together in the blistering heat. We were men. We were sweating profusely. We were bonding. I know, it might sound a bit cliche and chauvinistic, but it was true none-the-less.
    Growing up I never learned how to do very practical things, like changing oil and oil filters in vehicles. I think I typed about that before. I just never had the time or gumption. I was lazy and many times saw my dad's knack for manual labor as less than. I had test scores and awards to prove I was smart. Smart people didn't do work with their hands.
    I think more than anything I resented my father for having to work so much, missing ball games and cub scout camping trips when I was little because he had a family to care for. The manual labor thing just justified my self-centeredness and resentment towards a man who loved me the best way he knew how; by supporting me and caring for me financially. Growing up, I rebuked his offer to pass on some of his knowledge because it felt like getting even for him not having the time to give to what I was involved with. It was a stupid and petty cycle that lasted much too long.
    Through laying stones, changing oil, and shaking heads together at some of my mom's brilliant home improvement ideas this summer though we've grown close. I've learned to love and respect my dad for who he is, not who I wish he would have been. I think he's come to know and respect me a little bit more too. Yeah, he used to retaliate to my holier than thou attitude by mocking my lack of "common sense." Our relationship wasn't entirely my fault by any means. As I've learned though only I have the opportunity to allow a change between us to occur. I began doing that by simply showing up until I finally reached a point I enjoyed it.
    Today I did enjoy it and some other things occurred. I know it is not old, but I realized my dad is turning 60 soon and along with that I recognized my father's mortality. This was compounded by a moment of frustration on my dad's part when he muttered, "Damn, I'm getting too old for this," as he heaved stones and pulled a muscle in his shoulder. This is a man who never complained about long hours, miserable working conditions, or hard work when I was growing up. I tried to pick up the load for him and he laughed at one point when he said, "I guess I haven't been moving fast enough for you." And then there was the moment when I saw my dad droop slightly, tired and zapped from the heat. I choked. I guess with the tests my mother went through this past week the thought, "He won't be around forever," flashed across my mind. Luckily, after that thought came the very pleasing thought, "but we have right now. I'm grateful for that."
    Later in the evening my dad and I went out and ate some manly steaks at the steakhouse down the road. We went to Wally World after that for a few supplies he needed. He bought me a hose nozzle that I hadn't gotten yet. "You'll be needing this," he said. I smiled.
    On the way to his house, riding in his truck, he started talking about the project he and I might begin on my house after I start moving in on Thursday. He was enthused at the idea as a matter of fact. All I could do was look out the truck window and hold the lump down. I never knew that my relationship with my father could be this good.

   

The Big Day

    To be honest with you I didn't think I would be that worried today. As selfish as it may sound I know my mother can be a bit, let's say, dramatic. But here I am, a few hours before my mom goes in for her "tests" and I'm actually a bit nervous and afraid for her. The health problems she's been having have been going on for a while now. She refused to go to the doctor sooner, until the sporadic pain became nearly unbearable and frightening. I just hope we don't hear the "c" word. The "c" word is very bad in my family. Here's hoping she just has irritable bowel syndrome or some such thing. I mean with all of her responsibilities and dealing with crazy-80-year-old second cousin she's already got the irritable part down.

The letter

My mother and I went through a nine-by-15 storage unit packed with the accumulated stuff I gathered over the past decade living away from her home. The apartment where I live right now is mostly filled with my sister’s stuff – dishes, furniture, and decorations. The situation is a result of last year’s, “my sister is moving back in with my parents and I need to move the hell out.”

So, I went from living with my parents to living at my sister’s apartment mid lease. Since then the lease lapsed, I pay month by month, and now I’m going to move into my own house. In that time, nearly two years now, my Oklahoma accumulated stuff gathered dust. Some if it also garnered a fair amount of rust.

Going through the boxes stacked upon boxes was like taking a trip into the way back machine. Yes, sadly my time in Oklahoma now seems like a lifetime ago. I looked at certain little trinkets and bits that I kept when I moved out of the ramshackle rental house in Enid with bemusement. Why, for example, did I decide to keep old copies of lease agreements or photos of my ex-wife and I? It just made no sense.

Mostly my organizing and not-discarding policy had to trump one vital question: if I haven’t used it or missed it in two years why keep hold of it now? A lot of stuff, four large black garbage bags full, did not make the cut. Growing from here to there, slipping out of old skin, and change was measured in those bags that were placed into a dumpster. This, I believe was cathartic and good.

There were some items though that I kept. One was a letter written on yellowing paper from a friend. The letter was one of hope, a reminder to hold on. The writer was the wife of a buddy of mine from Stillwater. She wrote the letter on the same day my buddy picked me up on a street corner with my belongings in a paper bag. Let me say this, it is never good when your essential belongings are all in a paper bag and you have no ride home.

The letter was a lifesaver. Written nearly five years ago it came at a time when my life was spiraling. I wouldn’t admit it then but I was still experiencing the blunt trauma of separation from my soon-to-be ex-wife and being generally powerless in all aspects of my increasingly unmanageable life.

As my stomach somewhat churned as I stood in that storage unit (I still can’t believe I’m getting a house with all the added responsibility and demarcations of settling down and growing up) the letter acted as a reminder that all that really matters could be found on something as simple as an old piece of paper. What matters of course is hope and the intangible belief that everything will be okay if only I hold on and let it.

So, for a moment, before I threw away the heaps of garbage and separated out the plates and silverware to keep, I sighed. I wondered about the new dwelling and foundation that I have to build upon and store things in.

No matter what, for another moment in my life I was reminded that everything was alright.