Friday the Thirteenth, 5 a.m.... I was awoken by my mobile ringing from across the room. It was my father, wanting to let me know... my grandfather had just passed away.
Shelley saw me off on Saturday morning, picking me up at 5:30 and taking me to Whorelando International Airport. From there, I took a flight to Denver, Colorado, where I was picked up by my sister Mary. You see, my parents thought Mary could use some help getting her children up to North Dakota for the funeral. However, Mary didn't want to bring her twin two year old girls, so instead her, I, and my nephew piled into her minivan, and spent the day driving north.
On Sunday morning, I was awoken in my favorite way- by my niece of newphew running around upstairs in my parents' house. The day was "nice" by North Dakota standards- about 50 degrees.
My younger sister Abby had made some breakfast, and everyone was waking up and eating. It was the first time all four of my sisters and I have been home together in four years (at least). We all slowly got ready, and headed off for a 1 hour, 40 minute drive to my grandmother's house.
Grandma's large living room was now somewhat of a shrine to Grandpa's living memory. Pictures of him were up, and photo albums were on display, ready to be perused.
Grandma was doing her best to stay strong, and I tried to stay perky and upbeat for her (as well as my sisters and father). My cousins Ella and Ralph, as well as my aunt and uncle met us there, and we all spewed unimportant chatter until it was time to drive 40 more minutes to the funeral home.
The funeral home was like any funeral home- feeling of death and depression. We endured the family service as best we could. When my father stood up to talk, his voice cracked, and I lost it. There's something about hearing your own parent start to cry that rips up your entire emotional foundation. Shitty.
That night, I had a few drinks.
On Monday, I was awoken by a horrible phone call from Florida asking questions of Geography Club. Of all the things Mr. Collins has done, this has absolutely got to be the lowest. I cut the phone call short (and rude).
We left to the funeral. I rode with my mother, which was somewhat unnerving for me since this was the first time I'd seen her since I told her I was gay via voice mail. The ride went well, and the conversation was light and humerous. We were back to our old way of joking.
The funeral was what I expected. In an tiny old country church, on a hill overlooking the sloping fields around it- is where we said our final goodbyes to Grandpa. While the wasps and other bugs buzzed around the ceiling fans, a minister droned on, while I focused on the stained glass windows, trying not to take anything seriously (in fear of crying). I sat next to Abby (typical), and walked next to Abby (typical) and talked to Abby during the service a few times (very typical).
Outside, the pallbearers (my sisters and I, and two cousins) had to stand next to the casket and hold the flag as they gave Grandpa the 21 gun salute, and played taps. I tried to concentrate hard on Faith, for she would surely be the sister who wouldn't cry. But, as she cringed her face, and tears came down, I let myself go again, before we loaded Grandpa into his hearst. He was to be transported about 300 miles away to a medical school for observation.
As the people began filing back into the tiny church for a bit of a potluck lunch downstairs (five different versions of macaroni hotdish brought), my mom started shouting for us kids to come on- we'd be first through the line.
DeeAnn (oldest sister) looked at me. "Do you want to go for a walk with me?" she asked (probably wanting to sneak a much needed smoke."
"Yeah."
I motioned for my mom to stop yelling for us, and we started down the hill, away from the church. I was suprised to see my other sisters following.
So all together, under the crisp blue dakota sky, we crunched over the dead grass towards the graveyard- DeeAnn, Mary, Faith, Abby, and I... We ended up at my other grandfather's grave (Yes, my other grandfather.... my grandparents are neighbors). He was put six feet under while I was in Australia (if my calculations are correct... at his time of death I had just gotten out of a gay club, and was laughing it up, walking to the house of a cute Australian who playfully enjoyed calling me "Chip").
We commented on Grandpa's tombstone, which also had my grandmother's name on it (she's still alive).
"Um..... why is her name on it?" I asked.
"I don't know," laughed DeeAnn. "I think it's sick."
We laughed, as I pointed out that if Grandma gets remarried, we'll have to get an adjoining headstone for her other side, so the three of them can share one.
After the laughter, we turned and walked down the hill some more, to where many "McManson" tombstones were sticking out of the ground. We saw my dead aunt's tombstone, and were shown where my grandfather was to be buried. From his view.... he could see for miles and miles (at least 10), all the way down the sloping fields to the lake.
As we walked back through the graveyard towards the church on the hill, an important, yet messy sense of life and death hung in the air around us.
I think the time in the graveyard with my sisters was probably one of the most surreal experiences I've had.... and I don't know why... perhaps it's probably where I'll be shoved in the ground one day.
That night, as we got drunk and I clicked away on my laptop, filling out my report cards for the facist Collins, we had birthday parties for my niece and nephew. We were all trying to forget what had happened, I'm sure. Mary had a hard time with this, and ended up down in her room for a while. I continued to drink. To each his own.
Tuesday morning a snow storm hit. The temperature was in the twenties, and Mary was impatient to leave. So her, I, and her son got into her van, and we made a 16 hour journey back to Colorado, stopping off to visit our grandmothers, before continuing on. We arrived at 3:30 in the morning at her house, to go to bed for two hours.
Wednesday morning, I bundled back up (compared to Florida weather, it's unliveable), and got back into the van, to drive an hour to the airport.
When I arrived back in Whorelando, Sunflower, Shelley's metrohippie aunt picked me up, and I was greeted by 85 degree weather.
Today, as I go to bed, I reflect on the past week. I think about Grandpa stealing vans, graveyards, seeing my breath in the air, drinks with my brother-in-law, dead leaves on the ground, shovel-fulls of dirt, and funeral homes.
I don't know how else to say this.... but it all makes most of my problems seem a little less important.
And that's all I have to say about this fine week.
