Spent some time on the phone with my mom last night.
My mom has the same sense of humor that I do, except hers is darker and meaner. I am pretty sure she would say that her sense of humor is more mature than mine. Meaning that she has gotten to a point in her life where she truly just doesn’t give a shit about anyone else’s feelings.
If it’s funny? She is going to tell the story, name the names, and then laugh uproariously.
My mom has been reading this blog and she loves Pretty All True! She is full of suggestions for stories that I could tell. Unfortunately, many of her stories involve people who I have been trying to protect. People who I think would get their feelings hurt if I wrote about them. People whose stories don’t feel as though they are my stories to tell. People who have not acknowledged I am writing this blog, much less given me permission to write about them.
My mom’s suggestion? Throw them under the fucking bus.
She makes me laugh so much.
So people? If you are one of the people I have not been naming in this blog?
And you fucking know who you are.
Live in fear, people . . . because if my mom ever guest posts? You are all going down.
My mom makes me laugh so much.
As she was talking to me, she was searching for something in her garage and bitching about the various members of our family who have filled her garage with shit they will probably never retrieve. Shit she cannot bring herself to throw away.
“Hey, Mom . . . are Dad’s ashes still in the garage somewhere?”
She snorts, “Yeah, somewhere around here.”
“We were supposed to do something with those, remember?”
“Yeah, well I could never figure out the best thing to do with them. And there was no one to whom I could give the ashes who would do anything appropriate with them. The garage seems as good a place as any for him to sit.”
“I know I don’t want him.”
“You and me both . . . you know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“OK, so I am getting a little older and sometimes I forget stuff. Not big stuff, but little stuff sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
“Sometimes I will walk into the garage and I will come upon the box that holds your father’s ashes? And I will be all . . . Hey! What’s that? What’s in that box?”
I laugh.
She goes on, “Hey, what’s in that box? Like maybe it’s a little box of treasure that I have forgotten. Left unpacked all this time. Or a present that someone has bought for me that they have hidden in the garage.”
I am laughing so hard I can barely hear her, “And so you reach for the box, like what excellent thing is in this box that you have completely forgotten?”
She is laughing too, “Yes! I am thinking to myself, what lovely little treasure or gift is in that box? And then I reach for it, all happy and excited. Of course, as I reach for it, I remember that it is not a treasure or a gift. Augh! It is instead the exact opposite.”
The exact opposite.
We both laugh at the idea of my father being a treasure . . . a gift.
My mom makes me laugh so hard.
The memory of my dad? Not so much.
I hang up the phone as the girls swirl around me with bedtime preparations. Why are they always so noisy at bedtime? Annoying.
And then there is quiet again, and for some reason, I am remembering my grandmother. My father’s mother. She died when I was very young, but when I knew her? She was my favorite person in the world.
She had long gray hair that she braided in thick plaits and then pinned against her head. She was beautiful. She loved me more than anything, and even all these years later? The memory of her love brings me to tears.
Fucking tears.
She got very sick when I was very young, and she was gone for a while. We lived with her at the time, and I remember that I was too young to visit her where she had gone. And then she came home to die. I didn’t know that at the time, but that was the truth of it. There was nothing more the doctors could do, and she came home to die with her family.
She lay in her bed, her long beautiful gray hair spread against the pillow. She had a special mirror and brush, and I would climb up into bed with her and carefully brush her hair as she held the mirror. I believe I was 5 at the time.
My father? I remember him going nuts in the kitchen downstairs. My grandmother couldn’t eat anything, but he kept trying . . . bringing her plate after plate of food. Food that she didn’t and couldn’t eat.
“You father thinks he can fix this,” she whispered in my ear one day, “he can’t let go.”
I brushed her hair and held her mirror up for her to see.
“You father is like a little boy. I meant for him to be a man, but he is a little boy. I am so sorry about that.”
“That’s OK, Grandma.”
“Thank you. I did the best I could. Life doesn’t always turn out the way you think it will.”
And then my dad arrived with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, and I climbed off of my grandma’s bed and ran out to play.
I may have seen her after that conversation. May have spoken to her, may have brushed her hair and held her mirror. May have held her hand.
I don’t remember.
She was gone soon after that.
And my dad? He never did grow into a man.
Instead? Kind of?
The exact opposite.
And now he sits, unclaimed, in a garage.
Sigh.
From what I have read in your blog, your Dad belongs just where he is. I don’t know which posts of yours I like the most, the hilarious ones, or the heartwrenching ones. You have so much courage to write as you do. love to you as always. molly xo
Maybe there will come a day when my siblings and I can come to some sort of an agreement about my father’s ashes.
But for now, I am happy to leave them in the garage. With the rest of the stuff we will deal with . . . later.
You are one of few people who can make me nearly pee my pants with laughter one day, and then make me cry and be overcome with the strong desire to hug you the next.
Hugs? ACK! No hugging!
Personal space! Personal space!
But I like pee.
And I will take the tears as well.
I laughed, then I cried, then I thought about my mother in the back of my closet in her box.
It’s hard . . . there are so many feelings and no resolution to be had.
The garage is probably as good a place as any. Very little trouble-causing to be done from a box in the garage.
There are people you are trying to protect? You don’t seem the type. How do you deal with that? Do you really ask everyone for permission first? I just started a blog and am trying to deal with these issues. What does your husband think and do you run your posts by him first to see how he might react? You seem so bitingly honest (in a wonderful way).
Do I ask EVERYONE for permission first? No.
Daniel Baldwin and I have never spoken.
But the people about whom I write passionately? Yes, I have their permission.
They love and trust me.
I have just started a blog and am already having people take issue with whether or not I mentioned them or I represented them properly. You are so open (or at least it seems like you are). Have you asked everyone in your life for permission to mention them? And when you do, do you have to run it by them first? How does your husband feel about it? I’d love your take on it because you seem like you wouldn’t give a shit (no offense).
I run nothing by anyone first. Not even my husband.
But I do not share everything here on this blog. I have clearly defined limits, and there are topics I will not be discussing. I am not writing here to eviscerate myself for an audience. I know what I want to share and how.
I do ask for permission. Happily, my mom has granted me permission to write whatever the fuck I remember about anything at all. That has been enormously helpful, and I appreciate her generosity more than I can say.
But there are a lot of other people in my life who are unlikely to grant that permission. And so I walk carefully, trying to tell only my stories and not theirs. It is a tricky business.
And people in my everyday real life who I know only casually? They are not going to appear here, as they would only get their feelings hurt.
I would be happy to email you if you have more specific questions. Because I do “give a shit,” as you put it.
I care deeply.
Wow! I had so many emotions running through me while reading that. You really are a great story teller! I am sorry that you don’t have better memories of your dad.
Thank you for the compliments!
Love compliments.
If Betty White can get a guest host gig on SNL, I think your mom definitely deserves a guest post or two because that sounds like a whole lot of fun.
I didn’t think I could like you more than I do, but now I like your extended family too.
My mother would rip apart the carefully constructed fabric of Pretty All True.
But guess what? If she were to post? She is an amazing writer.
Just awesome.
I’m looking at some of these comments and I feel like such an ass because I totally missed the part where your relationship with your dad was strained so I want to ammend my original comment. It sounded like a conversation I would have with my own mother who hasn’t liked any of her husbands though I got along with them just fine.
The women in your family sound remarkable, I thoroughly enjoyed your post.
No apologies necessary here on Pretty All True.
None.
And thank you.
Funny, touching, sad, and simply brilliant. You such an amazing writer. When you write humorous, I find myself smiliing like a goon and laughing aloud. When you write deeper, darker things, I feel the emotion emanating from the post. I relate, I laugh, I almost cry.
Thank you for always being real and writing the ups along with the downs.
This post made me cry.
I miss my grandmother.
And I love my mom . . . so very much.
This post makes me think of my mother’s (and mine and my brother’s) conflicted relationship with my dad. He was a wonderful father to us as children, but not so much as teenagers and young adults. He has turned into an awful husband to my mother. We all love him so greatly (well, except for maybe my brother), but it’s like he just takes our love and puts it in the garbage by the way he acts sometimes. My mother goes to the ends of the earth for him, only to be yelled at for not keeping as tidy a house as he’d like (not that he ever helps or picks up after himself, mind you). So now I wonder what will become of our ‘relationship’, if you will, with him after he passes. Will we think about him with fondness or with anger and hurt? Will we visit his grave? Tell stories to our children about what a great man he was? I just can’t answer that question right now.
I talk to my girls of their grandfather (who they never met) as a man who was only able to make bad decisions. And that his inability to ever make a good decision cost him the opportunity to ever be a part of their lives. I speak of him in terms of illness and sickness and choices. He died when they were very young. He never met Maj and Kallan.
And honestly? I am thankful for that.
Thankful for never having had to work out a relationship with him as grandfather to my girls.
Because I did not love him. Although there was a time that I did.
Life is complicated.
Like another person who commented, I laughed and then I cried. I didn’t cry for your dad, but for you.
Please don’t ever stop blogging.
Awwwww . . . thank you!
And I am just getting started.
You? Are amazing. Your mom? Also amazing. I LOVE her nearly as much as I love you!
And I? Once had a relative who had a deceased husband. In a box. In a basement. My child at age 6? Nicknamed him “Basement Bob.”
(Bob was not his real name; but my kid thought it ‘flowed.’)
Ha! Basement Bob cracks me up. I just imagine a 6-year old down there conversing with a Box o’ Basement Bob.
Kris – I don’t normally read all the comments on others’ posts but I always make time for yours. You’ve got great readers attracted to a lovely writer.
I do have the best readers and commenters ever.
I have missed you guys while I was out at the art museum with the in-laws today!
I love you guys.
Thanks! Had my child been down there at the time; perhaps he might have talked to “Box O’Basement Bob!” I’ll pass that along to him; as he will love it!
I, on the other hand? Felt it would be inappropriate to start a conversation; at least at time and place, for obvious reasons. Looking back? Maybe I should have?
Basement Bob? Oh hahaha that is so messed up!
Kris – your mom should totally guest post with commentary by Maj. Make that happen.
I’m sorry you lost your grandmother. I love that you find such hope for your future in your memories.
I don’t remember everything, but as I write this blog?
I am surprised at what I do remember. At the detail and emotional depth of what I do remember.
And while there is pain in those memories, there is also . . . much hope for the future.
My dad died for me a long long time ago, and when he actually died?
It was sort of anti-climactic.
The garage is good.
Grandmas are very special people. Women are so very strong; and I’d think Kris’ grandma is quite proud of her grand-daughter, as her mom.
Thanks, Sadie for your comments, too; and I’ll pass it along to my child, as he has the same warped sense of humor as do I!
Kris, I’m sure when you and/or your mom are ready? You’ll know when the time is right to do what you wish with “Garage Father.”
Love you lots! Hubby home… nothing on table for dinner. CRAP!!
Or maybe I have already done all there is to do.
Maybe that shit in the garage is not my shit at all.
Perhaps you did; my friend. Much love to you, your girls, and your mom.
Not Mark, though. Between that fact that he simply won’t listen to your motherly wisdom on windows; and simply ‘Let IT BE!’
Coupled with the “toure de hell” the other day; barely missing the opportunity to see knife wieldy carnage?
Mark! Mark! Bad Mark! :)
Awwww… long-distance hug?
You do know, someday, you will have to deal with garage and it’s contents. If not today, then another day. But today is yesterday’s tomorrow and you can’t keep putting it aside. Someday?
Love ya.
You know what?
I don’t feel that connected to the ashes.
I honestly would be OK if the ashes were someday accidentally donated to Goodwill as “treasure.”
Seriously.
What an excellent idea! Perhaps hidden inside some other treasures in said garage.
Wanna hear a funny?
So, as you know (from my little melt down) – my mom died when I was little. I don’t remember a lot about her memorial service – but she, like your father, was cremated.
The day of her service was all sad and mopey and full of tears… But I distinctly remember one moment where I made everyone giggle. While sitting there at the back of the church waiting for everyone to be seated and quiet down, it occurred to me that something – or rather someone – was missing.
My mom. Her remains were nowhere to be found! I went to my dad, my grandma, and everyone else in the room to find out where she was… I was informed that UPS hadn’t delivered her yet. Yep… That’s right – They were shipping her via UPS in a cardboard box from Nebraska… And she was LATE!
Late for her own funeral! And that is exactly what I told them. My ten-year-old self made a funny at my mother’s funeral!
That realization brought us all a few chuckles that day!
We never had a memorial service of any kind for my father . . . we were all coming from different places and different degrees of brokenness. There was just no way to agree on anything, and so we never even really talked about it. He just arrived at my mom’s house and stayed. In the garage.
My family is very good at pretending that things don’t exist.
But your story? I love your story.
So much.
Well… I had hoped you would also get a chuckle out of it! Sounded like you might need it.
I am a person who believes that sometimes, a lack of action is action in itself. In this case – for now at least, the garage is the perfect place to store him. It sounds to me like leaving things “undone” where is passing is concerned is just the action that needed to occur. People need time to deal… There is no shame in taking it. You will all decide what to do with his remains, both the physical and emotional, when you are ready. I don’t know that it means you’re ignoring it or pretending it doesn’t exist – just the opposite in my line of thinking. You are still dealing with being unable to. Make sense? Hope so.
Besides – you can take all the time in the world. Lord knows he won’t mind in his condition!
Thank you!
For your words and for your understanding.
Thank you.
I admire you.
Thanks, you.
I loved reading the story about you brushing your grandma’s hair. As you know, I’m a big fan of grandma stories and this is a beautiful one. It must have been a huge comfort to her to know that, while her son grew up to be not a man but a little boy, her granddaughter was already showing signs of the strong, compassionate woman she would grow up to be.
My feelings about my family are incredibly complex and all the seeming contradictions…I know you wouldn’t see them that way. Your dad’s cremains are in the garage, not in the house or a grave, but they’re not at the landfill. Somebody had to go over to the funeral home and pick them up. It’s never simple.
The women in my family? They are made of strong and powerful stuff.
But the women in my family? Hand themselves over to men made of much flimsier material.
What’s up with that?
And while I might not have minded if my dad’s cremains had disappeared forever? Not all of my family feels the same way. And while no one seems to be able to come up with a plan? Not everyone is ready to just close the book and walk away, either.
My mom is waiting for us to come pick up our shit. It’s all in the garage.
Along with some of hers.
And it’s never simple. Not ever.
And we begin to see more clearly the forces that shaped you. What a wonderful mother, what a wonderful grandmother.
The women in my family are fabulous.
But filled with contradictions.