Thursday, June 29, 2006

Follow up for my uncle

The autopsy report came back; the coroner said my uncle died of "sudden death, possible arrhythmia." This has left his widow and much of the family frustrated and slightly angry. I have doubt that a real cause (such as aneurism, which has been ruled out) would make his death much more sensible. For such God-trusting people as my uncle and his wife, can an otherwise inexplicable act of god be so unacceptable? It will be a strange turn to the story if further developments occur.

~A

Saturday, June 17, 2006

In the news....

Study: Car stability could save 10,000 lives a year
The mental instability of cars is proving to be a major cause of death in the U.S. Analysts note a rise in the prevalence of bi-polar disorder, chronic depression, and even violent pathology among newer models, especially those made by the big three, leading to an increse in cars lashing out at their human owners, or at the least, showing amazing apathy at the fate of those in their care.

And these four headlines in a row just have a touch of poetry to them:

Long Island Volunteer Firefighter Electrocuted
Baby Dies After Suicidal Mom Leaps from Bridge
Boy Crushed to Death By Elevator in Newark
Man Charged With Having Crack in Sundae

It's a quatrain of crime. How beautiful

Sunday, June 11, 2006

Everything Was Tasty and Okay...

I am going to finish this narration of my trip to North Dakota today if it's the last thing I do. So I apologize in advance for any ellipses or omissions (not that you will really tell) but my memories are growing fuzzy and I want stop reviewing those moments; I want to let them pass comfortably into my real memory, instead of trying to hog tie them repeatedly to the present.

I got to sleep late from the night of drinking; I suppose it was around two am, but I was in no condition to tell exactly. I was told that my cousin Chase, who drove us back to the hotel, was weaving considerably, I am glad I was in no condition to perceive that either. I slept well, and heavily, my brother in the next bed. My family was kind enough to let us sleep until eleven or so and then roused us to get dressed and have breakfast with them. This we did though, unlike them, we didn't take the trouble of putting on our nicer togs for the occasion. We went to a "family restaurant they call the "Fryn' Pan". In New York or New Jersey it would be called a diner and have a bit more neon and be run by Greeks. Out there it was esssentially a Denny's knock-off. I am stillt trying to understand the particular placement of the apostrophe in their name. Apparently it's a chain. I ordered the biscuits and gravy, which I thought, mistakenly, would be a safe bet. The lumps of sausage rested in the gluey gravy like rabbit pellets
in mush. The coffee ( no iced coffee available, of course) was tepid and weak, and the cream and sugar were all in those little packets so after two cups of coffee the pile of trash begins to overwhelm the table. In the middle of the meal, the waitress came over to check up on things. Her line of inquiry was "So, is everything tasty and okay over here?" This was delivered in that particular Dakotan/Minnesotan nasal twang and was so gol'darn perky I had to struggle to keep from snorting up my coffee. It was also a question that seemed to invite, yet stubbornly resisted, an honest response.

My brother and I left the rest of the family to return to the hotel, finish our ablutions, tie those half-windsors, and rejoin them at the church. Once there we were still rather early, so there was plenty of standing around with nothing to do. Like the previous evening, but more strongly now, an incredibly acrid smell of manure filled the air and even made it's way into church. This was only appropriate, I suppose. I notice I forgot to mention that it was pouring. In Britain they would say it was tipping down rain and it continued to tip all day long. it was cold, fifty degrees or worse, with an unrelenting wind driving the rain in front of it and into our faces. Finally we took our places for the beginning of the serv ice. My brother Mike and I were chosen as active pallbearers (in contrast to a handful of honorary ones) which meant we were to sit in front away from the rest of the decedent's family. All of these arrangements were being directed by the )appropriately named) funeral director. But noone told us then that our family would be participating in a moment of close family prayer and together, a last viewing of the open casket before it was closed for the service. I was disappointed in missing it. The service was substantially similar to the wake service of the previous day; mainly it lacked the humor. The music was the same except that my uncle had at some moment requested that his funeral should open with the Adaggio for Strings and close with the Hallelujah Chorus. The latter I am overly familiar with, the former was new to me and is the saddest song I have ever heard; I need to buy it on CD. His son sang again, his daughter as well; those songs still come to me at odd moments. The service ended.

The pallbearers were called to lead the recession out of the sanctuary (all these wonderful church terms; like "narthex," it feels good to put them to use.) Once in the narthex (hey, how about that), near the front doors, the pallbearers seized the coffin, which had been wheeld out on its bier (now maybe that's not the right word for it) and lifted it three feet to the rear of the hearse. I had feared it's weight, but it was lighter than I expected, though four of the people lifting were my uncle's sons, and very young. The funeral director offered mu brother and I a ride in his car, so we could be near the hearse when it reached the cemetery. We accepted, got in, and drove to the front of the parking lot while we waited for the congregants (see? those neat words again) to get in their cars and prepare to process to the internment site. The funeral director was something of a jolly old soul; while waiting he traded remarks with the head of the Breckenridge police, who would be leading us away from the church. I guess they have had ample time to get acquainted. The director mentioned that, unlike in most towns and cities, the police here don't charge for these funeral processions; they do them for free. Maybe it's a welcome bit of activity. We pulled out of the lot at a creeping speed with four or five police cars blocking traffic with their sirens and flashing lights breaking the dullness and gloom. The director regaled my brother and I with old tales of himself and Wahpeton, his formation of a deer-hunting club, his life in small town. I think he would be fun to down some whiskey with; I will have to imagine it. Near the church, the Breckenridge cops retired and were replaced by the Wahpeton cops as we crossed into their jurisdiction. They led us into the cemetery where we stopped as near we could to the burial plot.

We stayed in the car until everyone else had arrived behind us. Then the pallbearers assembled, clapped on to the casket and drew it out onto it's moveable bier. Because the ground was soft from rain, we took it very slowly, and carried it as much as we rolled it, over the graves and plaques, and between the headstones, to the hole witht the tent over it where the last words would be spoke. There we slid it onto that machinery of straps and rollers built to lower it effortlessly into the ground, carpeted around with astroturf and all shielded so the family may gain no glimpse of actual dirt, or darkness, or void. The tent could only shelter ten or so people yet more than twenty crowded in. My cousin Dierdre was barefoot as she had given her shoes to her mother, whose own shoes were apparently completely unfit for the weather.

The last words were said; I can't remember them. In the following silence my aunt sang the benediction familiar to most protestants and we all joined in. People separated slowly, and we left.

The first reception was at a nearby church with a larger reception hall. It was nice to be able to sit at the table reserved for family. The repast was meager; the tables were all set with pitchers of lemonade and carafes of weak, weak, coffee, and with no cream or sugar in sight. This didn't diminish its popularity. The spread of eats included buns with cold cuts and sweets (more desert bars of all shapes). All the buns and bread were pre-spread with cheese (probably better spelled as cheeze, since that is what it tasted like). Humorously, this included the cinnamon raisin bread. All my cousins and sibling are cultured enough we found this humorous. Conversation was lively, banal, typical of family gatherings. I was introduced to distant second cousins I will never meet again; half the crowd were townspeople. The reception was prepared by my uncle's coworkers at the town health clinic. They had all worn blue; the entire clinic had shut down for the day (to hell with the ill!) and over fifty of the staff turned out to the funeral. Before that reception broke up we took family photographs:

The Grandchildren

The elders

The remaining siblings and parent

And my immediate family

That reception ended and we proceeded to the second reception. Between the two my brother returned to the hotel to change back into civvies; I also took the opportunity to pick up some more cigarettes at $3.50 a pack. The second reception was at the original church and was for immediate family only. They cooked hamburgers on an outdoor grill, had potato salad (prepared by a person who had attended cooking school I was told); there was more coffee, lemonade, and leftower desert bars. We sang a prayer of thanksgiving, ate and talked, and passed the evening. When that ended, us cousins went back to my aunt's house. We were somewhat guilted back, as most of us were exhausted and wanted to have a beer. But it was a good thing. We sat around and played board games with our cousins, the children. We spoke of movies and their plans for their summer. We unwound. We left by eleven; beer was then out of the question as we were all exhausted.

The rain had ceased finally, the clouds were blowing away and I think I could see the moon. I packed up and made ready so I could throw on my clothes the next day and leave in a split second. I woke at 4; my brother Mike and sister and I got out and on the road in the peaceful dark and made our way to the airport. There we waited with others in the only cafe open, waiting for the first flight of the day. My sister decided to give me relationship advice and explain that, whatever the faults of my ex-wife, her complaints about me were not unjustified or inexplciable. This was sensible talk, but yet a conversation I prefer to avoid. We were all on the same flight but sat apart, and didn't talk for the return. Landing in Chicago we separated and I returned to New York by 1 pm, in plenty of time to rest and catch up on sleep before returning to work the next day.

Death is tiresome and unpleasant; the rituals surrounding it are necessary, valuable, and must be endured and enjoyed as much as one can. I am glad I have written it down.

New York moments

I got together today with my friend Dylan to go to MoCCA, the annual small press, independent comics expo (I won't bother with my reaction to it here) and strolling around it took about an hour or so. Afterwards, Dylan went home and I went to catch a matinee of the Pixar movie Cars at 2nd Ave and 12th street, a theater that used to show first runs, then turned into a second run theater, and is now back to showing new releases. (in fact I was outside there waiting to see an 11am Sunday showing of a Disney movie ten years ago when a prostitute tried to pick me up, apparently for one last trick before turning in). Anyhow today in the theater I ended up sitting across from Vincent D'onofrio and his family. I wasn't close enough to hear which jokes he laughed at, I was laughing too hard to pay attention to such things.

As to Cars, while it is not quite at the level of some previous Pixar films, it is created with such consumate skill, such palpable joy, so much visual wit and craft, that it is a pure joy to see. Crap on the NY Times, I think they just wanted to be the lone, high-minded, critic of dissent. We can always critique the originality of the characters and story, but it is also fair to say that some stories are worth revisiting if one can bring a higher level of execution to them (that's not a defense of the story, by the way, just a possible and legitimate defense).

So that was my latest New York Moment.

~A

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Give me land, lots of land......

There were no starry skies that night, nor blue skies the next day. In fact, the day of the funeral it poured solidly and consistently the entire day. I believe the weather cleared finally around nine pm and by eleven we could see the moon. By that time there was little solace it could offer.

I will take a break here from narrating events and describe my kin in detail. I have posted the photographs previously, please refer to them if interested. My mother, 64, was the eldest of three sisters, separated in age by around eight years. She was twelve years older than her sudden;y deceased brother. That means when I gathered the earliest memories of my uncle, thirty years ago, when I was around five years old, he was only twenty-two. My grandmother (my mother's mother) is in her mid-eighties. Her husband, my grandfather,was older than she by eight or so years He died in 1982, when he was seventy-two or so. My grandmother is younger than my father by about 4 years.

My mother's next younger sister is known as Jo, Aunt Jo, though her full first name is something else. She was the unattractive sister, the middle child, the wild one. She once turned a car over in the ditch while drag racing. Apparently my grandmother never favored her. Like the youngest sister, Jo went and studied nursing, but somewhere met a truck driver and married him. She was the first to wed. Her husband, a gruff, apparently humorless man, is named Dave. As the family in nearest proximity to us as kids, we saw them most frequently. They lived and raised their kids in kansas, about an hour's drive from the town of Manhattan.

Jo and her husband made their living in a variety of ways. During the fall and winter, Jo drove a school bus while Dave toured the country in the cab of an eighteen-wheeler. During the summer, they and their children were migrant harvesters. They leased trucks, combines and other vehicles and took them around to farmers who didn't have such motorized tools themselves. They would reap and thresh and bail field after field year after year. I was slightly jealous of this. Though it meant my cousins had less relaxing summers than I, it also meant they got driver permits when they were thirteen or fourteen so they could help in the work. My mother, in a similar fashion, can still back up a twenty-ton truck in a perfectly straight line, as one is required to do to follow behind the combine while it spits out its threshed grain into the truckbed. I always looked down and felt distinctly apart from my aunt and uncle and cousins. On one hand, they seemed like hicks with thick country accents. On the other hand, we seemed to them to be living in a scary, exotic urban habitat (we had gay people, for instance.)

Upon reflection, I never gave Jo and Dave enough credit for their now obvious intelligence, and for the closeness of their family. Their children, my cousins, are very smart, independent minded and world-wise. The youngest daughter, Travis, is my age within a month. She married at the age of nineteen, which I thought was a sure sign of the path her life would take. Her husband was in the military then and she moved to Germany with him. Now he is a policeman in a small town in Kansas while she sells insurance. But she is well aware of the limitations of small towns and understands just where she is. She loves big cities regardless of where she prefers to settle down. I know it was her husband who was not comfortable living in Houston and preferred a return to Kansas. She has a son who is nearly twelve or thirteen.

Her sister, Tonya, is the eldest in the family being the same age as my sister, Jodi, who is thirty-eight this year. Tonya married right after finishing college. Her husband, Dave, was a school teacher and a skilled cabinetmaker. Apparently he is also a bit of an entrepeneur and has started up a number of reasonably successful businesses. Tonya teaches history in high school, but is moving more towards counseling full-time. She takes annual trips with students to Europe and parts of the U.S. and seemed most frustrated with living in a small town. But she gets out enough and recognizes the good points of raising her own son in such a situation.

The middle sibling is Tyler. He is my brother's age, thirty-seven or so, and the two are closer than I have been with any of them. He always seemed to me to be a stern, bossy, an relatively unknowable person. To some extent he remains so now. He studied mortuary science in college. My deceased uncle, in typical humorous fashion, gave him a shovel as a graduation present. Tyler moved to Houston to work in a funeral home. There, he came out of the closet as gay. This was a shock to the family, though my Mom, as usual, said something like "I always wondered..." I never wondered, it was a complete surprise. He met a man, Jerry, who worked in that gigantic funeral corporation. If you ever watched Six Feet Under it is that corporation that is being parodied as evil. Tyler essentially retired for awhile. He and Jerry (a vice-president or some such thing), live a jet set lifestyle. They came to my wedding mainly because it was a convenient excuse to visit New York. Tyler told me on Tuesday that his favorite restaurants in New York are 21 and Le Cirque and that he has a friend who just bought a condo in Trump Tower (overlooking Central Park, those apartments are known to sell for three million or more dollars). For hi sisters' birthdays, he flies them to Houston and gives them his credit card. For his birthday, Jerry flew his sisters out to meet him in San Francisco as a surprise. It is a lifestyle I cannot comprehend. Tyler is now getting into the home construction business. He has had a variety of illnesses and physical ailments in his life, so I worry about his health. But he will be well taken care of.

My mother's youngest sister is Sheri. She was always the pretty one, and very cute for a very long time. Now, as she is reaches her late fifties, her looks are suffering in many estimations. She is stick thin due to a rigorous diet. She is also an avid nudist and has sent postcards from various resorts urging my mother to join her. The tan she has is no doubt responsibe for her poorly aging skin. Smoking doesn't help. But it wasn't so long ago when all nurses smoked. Sheri was never good at relationships and has been in and out of marriage. Now she seems reasonably happy and settled though I know her sisters grumble in quiet corners about her current partner. Her children followed her on a wayward path. The oldest one, Trevor, is my brother Tom's age. He really meant to come to the funeral, which many didn't expect, but he missed his flight. So he is the only one not shown in the photos. He has had his own trouble with drugs and alcohol but I guess he has more or less solved them. He doesn't talk with his Mom and he seems to be running a micro-brewery in Seattle. I haven't seen him in twenty-two years or so. His sister, Dierdre, is the bombshell of the family. She actually had breast-reduction surgery though there is no way you could tell. She also is the live-wire party girl. She it was who was sharing in the shots of Red Bull and Jagermeister. She has also done time in a federal penitentiary for carrying drugs across a state line. She claims a certain innocence in this affair. The pen she was pent in was the same as the one Martha Stewart inhabited. Unfortunately for storytelling, their terms were not concurrent. I meant to get her to tell us about it but missed the opportunity.

There is yet more to come.....

Rain

As anyone who know me should be able to attest to, I have a fondness for powerful, earth-shaking thunderstorms, hail, wind, and any weather that might be called violent. I trace this to a childhood spent in Chicago and further west. I have what must be an annoying habit of complaining that the whether in the northeast, due mostly to the moderating influence of the ocean, is far too mild and cannot be considered "bad" weather, just like New York doesn't get very cold and rarely gets very hot. Humidity is slightly a different issue.

Therefore, I must say I have been perfectly satisfied with the last two days of rain. On Thursday I was actually at a co-worker's roof party and was able to witness the slow approach of the lifghtning-filled storm. On Friday, as I stod outside work, I was amazed at a strange orange-brown tint in the storm clouds; truly an unusual sight.

Good times.

~A

Thursday, June 01, 2006

What my coworker just said...

Synthetic vitamin icky is just not happy.


That is a beautiful utterance

This was painted on a truck...

....Liberty Controls, Inc.

I wish I could say it had government plates.