Stupid that I haven’t been writing. I got only positive feedback from writing my skewed remembrance of my uncle Ron. For those who knew him and know me, I think I got a teeny bit of truth in my meager typing. For those who didn’t know him, I think they got a flavor of a man who no doubt influenced the woman I have become. Is there anything more that you can say about someone than they touched your life?
Meanwhile, back at the mundane of my life, it goes on as lives do. And as lives crank out in our modern days, my text messages yesterday crossed different folks in different places and circumstances, but they hit my phone and came together.
Text number one came from a friend who last summer lost her mom, as they say even though it always sounds the same as what happens to kids in supermarkets and is solved with an overhead page. Yesterday would have been her mom’s 90th birthday, so she did what we all should do — headed to the casino to see Englebert Humperdinck. (Nota bene: my Mac correctly spellchecked Humperdinck.)
Text number two came from my cousin, son of Ron. In addition to one month from Ron’s death, it’s 28 years from what I’ve always thought was an unbelievable burden for a little kid to carry around. My cousin’s brother died at the age of 10; this month he would have been 38.
For me, pile those unhappy anniversaries onto the one Hallmark occasion above all others that I’ve ignored for most all of my life — Father’s Day. I almost never remember when it even is if no one reminds me. One blessing about the holiday as a kid was that only sometimes did the school year favor a Friday afternoon in a balmy June where kids were told to make cards, draw pictures and celebrate their dads. Some years school let out for the year, and the holiday was completely forgotten. For me, making cards and that day were a creative and emotional void and always will be.
That void haunted me for a long time, like maybe I was rocking the soul of a serial killer, unable to generate love and emotion for a man who helped bring me to life. Thanks to Psych 101 type classes and reading, I eventually forgave myself the developmental reality that four-year-olds just don’t grok death. And, I guess, four years of life wasn’t enough to forge the kind of relationship that I could now remember 43 years later.
So, yeah, it’s hard not to think about death. Harder for my cousin who’s steeped in it with the painful disconnect of celebrating Father’s Day with and for his own kids, while saying goodbye to his own. Kind of a cosmic dick kick all around.
And all I have is weak sauce reminders to take it easy on himself and focus on all the good in his life, his wife, his kids and the future and other nebulous and useless words. The shitty part is not only is it all I got, wisdom from a Reader’s Digest essay suitable for a dentist’s waiting room, but I fucking mean it. Deeply, soulfully, well except for the shallow and weak part.
Like where do you put the fun truth that my cuz was alive in 1972, and now the Bruins brought the Stanley Cup home again? Simple things.
I’m typing this entry on a sunny day with a lemon tree outside my window dive-bombed by at least five different kinds of birds and at least one hummingbird literally hovering just outside the glass. My immediate future is likely friends, bowling, of all fucking things, at the kickass 50s-looking beachside bowling emporium in town and a crab dinner. (M. is fucking OBSESSED with crabs this year. A couple of years into living by the ocean he realized edible creatures live in it.)
My more distant future is unknown, but judging by my healthy, un-chewed fingernails there ain’t any observable or immediate storm clouds. In fact, for the first fucking time in a checkered work history, I do believe a reorganization is bringing the likelihood of my doing alright. Maybe even better. My favorite note to the whole episode so far is the ultimate head honcho of the salt mines where I work sitting me down to ask whether I was happy. I couldn’t help but begin my reply with this disclaimer — I was born in New England, Boston Irish through and through, happiness is outside of my vocabulary.
Who’d a thunk Pat’s baby daughter might still turn out OK?
A friend also just did a bootstrap project and created a book and my words are included inside. I find that crazy to believe, even if it’s a small, homegrown project.
I guess this all is what is meant by a happy life. Marred by the inevitable pain, of course. Death, relationships good and bad, confusion, setbacks. I can’t help but consider them, dwell on them even. But like everyone else on the planet, I muddle through, soldier on, walk it out. Nothing else to do.
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Denise, thanks you for being there for me. I actually had about the best father’s day I could have had despite wanting to “Paint It Black”. Also, stop thinking my Dad is the only person that wanted/encourged you to write. You do it very well. Thanks so much for the suppport, and if you don’t cut the crap and put pen to paper or Dragon to iPod, maybe I’ll beat you to it (not a chance after law school and the Socrptractic method). You know the one thing my dad probably deep down wishes he never did but regrets – he “deemed” whatever he did as “suppar”; perhaps to Hemingway, Keroukac or what ever other writer he unfairly compared himself to. On the other hand, I was NEVER allowed to let any fear I ever had (plausible or not) get in my way – if I thought I could/should do it, then let it be done (the Big Giy’s rule). That was the great, unfortunate, hypocricy of my Dad – never thought he was good enough, probably was, but never, ever tried. Wish to hell he did. I have no desire to write a book, but I did well in school, did damn well at every sport I ever played (and continue to play) and tried my best at whatever I do/did. That is what made him proud. Living for 2 was never easy but it does get your ass in gear, especially when you have it in you. Just get to writing