mrs-roboto's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I Had Leg of Lamb On Thanksgiving I haven't written a damn thing about the funeral. Part of me feels sacrilegious for even thinking about transcribing the details of such an event, not to mention the parts of the funeral that seem humorous but I think we all know me well enough to accept that I am hurting and mourning and that I deal with pain in the best way I know how - I look for something funny to focus on. So I'll begin with the funeral home which is suspended in 1956. The furniture, a combination of colorful vinyl and foe velvet accentuated by gold plated chandeliers and crosses. The place was so darn tacky I almost wanted to move in and live there. There were these wonderful brass mass card holders. The clips for the cards were these tiny praying hands and all I could think of was what a great hat stand they would make. My uncle, a wonderful man whom I really haven't spent much time with since my dark and somber teen years( AKA "the black period"), was nice enough to convince the funeral director to take me on a tour of the room where the caskets were kept. The director took great pride in his collection and encouraged me to take extra time to view a model he referred to as the John Gotti Special. It had bullet proof glass covering the upper part of the casket so one could view the body but couldn't "harm" it. Welcome to Brooklyn. What remains of the older generation (my grandfather's sisters and brothers) showed up in full force. Not a one of these individuals stood over 5' 4". No wonder my sister is considered a giant. My grandmothers neighbors turned out as did all our close family friends. I was lucky enough to have some of my old homegirls there too (thanks Erin, Karen, Kelly, and Marybeth). I think it was just as my grandmother would have wanted it. There were photos on display and a beautiful picture quilt my aunt had made two Christmas' ago. A good friend of my parents showed up and spent ten minutes harassing me about when I was going to start pumping out babies. My favorite part of the conversation was when she told me I only had a "few good years left." Her son has two illegitimate kids which he can't support and the mother has run off so I found it interesting that she was so hell bent on my breeding. I also thought this was a kind of inappropriate time to get on my case. Whatever. The real moment of Zen occurred when the limo drivers showed up to drive the family to the church. They were the biggest Gumbahs I'd ever seen. Seriously, we're talking straight out of the Godfather. Our driver, lets say his name was Vito, had tattoos all over his hands and a neck that was bigger than his head. Pete was a good guy and hopped in the front, someone had to ride with the mobster. Rather than try to make small talk with Vito he decided to pull a church bulletin out of a pocket on the side of the car door and make like he was reading. Imagine his surprise when a bunch of pot spilled out on to his lap. Yes, not only was Vito frightening in appearance but he was high as a kite to boot. Pete made a smart move in scooping the stuff up and putting it back where it came from before Vito could take notice. Needless to say everything else was pretty much as you'd expect. A lot of crying, a lot of feeling lost, a lot of talk of my grandmothers peers and their medical status. Introspection on dying, me repeating over and over to Pete "please don't let them do anything like this to me, have a party - remember me as I was in life." And the days pass slowly now. I have good and bad moments. I get this urge to call my grandmother and then I know I can't. I was writing out my holiday cards and made the mistake of addressing an envelope to her. It's a different world without her and it's hard to imagine what it will be like the next time I head to New York. Who will tell me stories about all the dresses I'd worn as a child (my grandmother made every one) and how the nuns would just fawn over them? Who will tell me what Harlem was like in the 1920's? Or what it was like to live through the Great Depression? I remember these stories now and I am trying to commit them to paper so I can always remember and so I can tell my nieces and nephews. I'd like to say thanks to everyone who extended sympathies. It means so much, more than you can imagine. 7:27 p.m. - 2003-11-28 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||