Cake, anyone? Part 1

I left Indiana some time after 4pm last Friday - after packing up my hotel room, taking a shower, and having a quick bite to eat to finish up the little food I had left in my tiny refrigerator - and I arrived back home some time after 8pm. My original plan was to just go home and relax, but that's not what happened. I knew some of my family was visiting from Georgia and I figured my sister would probably be sleeping before work (if she had to work, I wasn't sure), so I decided to keep on driving a few more miles and pay the family a quick visit. It would be a very quick visit. I didn't want to stay more than hour. I think I did, anyway, but it was a good try on my part.

The visitors weren't around. Actually, no one was around at first except for the grandparents. I talked to my grandmother for awhile and then she tried to get me to watch Burn Notice. Fuck Burn Notice. As I was about to leave, my local aunt and uncle showed up. So, I talked to them for awhile and met my new cousin.

"Do you remember your braces?" My aunt asked me as I looked at the little gnome in his car seat.
"Braces? They come with teeth?" Is what I almost said until I noticed the little boots and straps covering his tiny legs. I had completely overlooked those. No one had said anything was wrong with the child. I just knew there had been some tension because some of the visitors had made some remarks that had pissed my local aunt off and it had gotten to the point where if one more person made fun of her child... Fill in the blank. I honestly hadn't even noticed. I guess I don't really care about babies enough to distinguish much between them or even look to try. But all of this was overshadowed by a new thought in my head. "I had braces?"
"Oh god, yes. Full body cast and braces all over you. You don't remember that?"
"No, I don't. I don't remember most of surgeries either. I remember the last two only." I remember the second to the last most of all since I actually woke up during the surgery. The anesthetic wore off or something. I came out of unconsciousness and freaked right out because I awoke to find myself strapped to a table with masked people surrounding me with horrifying looking surgical tools and this strange futuristic brightness that didn't quite form a room around us. It was shocking and horrifying. I seriously thought I had been abducted by aliens or something. I remember one of the men telling me that I needed to calm down. He told me to take deep breaths and relax. I remember someone else saying that they were going to lose me. That really scared me, because I believed it. Instead of continuing to panic, I took long deep breaths and surrendered to whatever was about to happen. I could have very easily gone into shock and died. Luckily, I didn't. "No. I don't remember most of them. Definitely don't remember the brace. He won't either until you remind him."
"Oh, well that's a relief."
"I suppose."

I left quickly after that moment. I had gathered enough information about the visitors to know not to come back the next day like everyone kept asking me to. The visitors were loading up a rental truck with all sorts of antique (meaning heavy as all hell) furniture and boxes of random fragile bullshit. Not something I really want to be a part of, so I waited until Sunday to return to visit them. I was mostly successful in my attempt to avoid being recruited as free labor. When I arrived, I had a brief conversation with my visiting aunt and uncle. My visiting aunt took her daughter somewhere shortly after that to visit whoever and my visiting uncle recruited my local uncle to assist him in continuing to load the rental truck. My grandmother decided she needed to go grocery shopping since there were plenty of people around to look after my grandfather while she did so. She asked me to go and I did. I didn't even think about it. There's something genuinely unsettling about that house these days. It's mutating into something strange. I can see the very core of it is still the same as I remember, but everything else is different now. Anyway, I definitely wanted to get away from that house.

Shopping with grandmother was sort of fun. She did her shtick where she was to have funny little awkward conversations with everyone that only she understands or finds humorous. These people look to me for guidance or assistance and I just smirk and shrug. I can't help you. Deal with it. Finding the things on the list was entertaining enough because there is a reason for every brand that she chooses and a story behind it. Fascinating stuff. The last item was a cake for grandpa - actually it was more for everyone else, but it was in his honor being Father's Day and all - and she wanted an ice cream cake. Unfortunately, the grocer only had these tiny cheesecakes left. I would have suggested going over to the other town grocer practically across the street, but we don't speak of that place in any close proximity to my grandmother. Not after the great turkey incident of 2005, anyway. So, the cheesecakes were our only option, unless...

I googled Dairy Queen on my phone. The DQ in town had lost its franchise rights due to inability to upgrade equipment and then had been converted into a burger place after no one would return to the newly christened "Dairy Oasis" which still carried all of the same products but with the DQ logos removed. Anyway, the next closest DQ was near the airport and it was only a walk-up concession booth type deal. I didn't think they would even sell cakes, but I decided to try. We were in luck. Not only did they sell cakes, but they had someone cancel an order that had already been completed just a few moments ago and we could have it at a discounted price. Freaking brilliant, I am. The cake was three times the size of the mini-cheesecakes we were looking at and about the same price with the discount. It was perfect.

That was the last perfect moment of that day, of course.

Cake, anyone? Part 2

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself at that point. It was going to be a great day and I was partly responsible. Hurray for me. We returned to the house and unloaded all our groceries including the awesome discounted ice cream cake. As a reward for helping grandma do her shopping, she gave me something out of her refrigerator to eat for lunch. I was in such a great mood that I ate it after only mild inspection. I did cook the crap out of it in the microwave though - just in case. I obviously wasn't thinking clearly, because I should have realized that by assisting in obtaining the ice cream cake I was silently agreeing to stay for dinner as well.

"Are you staying for dinner?" my local aunt asked me.
"Um. Yes, sure. I guess I am."
"Then can you help your uncle load the rental truck so I can take my husband shopping for what we need for dinner tonight?"
"Um. Yes, sure. I can do that."

Damn. It wasn't so terrible, though. Most of the furniture had already been loaded and I had assisted on a few of the larger items already. Nothing that was left to load was all that heavy. The remaining pieces were just large and awkward. We also took alot of breaks, like when it started raining and after I climbed over everything to secure straps and ropes. I talked to my visiting uncle quite a bit. I can't remember ever having an actual conversation with him, which might explain why I became hysterical when he asked:

"So, what's new with you?"
"Since when?" I asked. "Since the last time we talked? I'm not sure we have time for all that."

We talked about the things I had been learning in truck driving school and we exchanged war stories from our lives as middle management in the wonderful world of retail. It was shocking and surprisingly enjoyable being able to relate and discover this common ground between us. Grandma joined us at one point after receiving a phone call updating her on the status of one of our senior relatives. She was in the hospital my sister worked at.

"What floor does your sister work on?"
"The shittiest one according to the stories she tells me when she comes home every morning."
"Oh, come on. Gut en Haben. What number?"
"I don't know. It's the shittiest floor, whatever number that is."
"Well... So-and-so was on the ninth floor but they moved her to the second floor. You think that's good? Does that mean she's getting better?"
"I don't know. Why don't you ask one of the many functioning nurses in this family? I guess that sounds right. I mean, the closer they put you to God, the closer you probably are to meeting him. Right? So, lower floor probably means she's getting closer to the lobby and she's closer to getting the hell out of there. I have no idea, though. Maybe."

Actually, no. My sister later informed me that the closer you are to the lobby, the worse off you are. In case of an emergency like a fire, they want all of the most critical patients closer to the ground floor to make evacuation easier. The healthier patients are all put on the top floor and left to fend for themselves during the catastrophe. Which makes more sense than my "closer to God" theory, but we didn't have that information at the time and everyone seemed pretty content to believe mine.

When my local aunt and uncle returned, I could tell my aunt was already pissed off. She was very short with everyone and she was talking to herself. I immediately regretted agreeing to stay for dinner. They unloaded their groceries and my local uncle fired up the grill to begin making kielbasa and porkchops. My aunt and cousin began making side dishes in the kitchen. My grandmother had been talking about getting grandpa out of the basement and outside for hours previous to that point. I would have helped make that happen, but I'm not entirely sure how the pieces of the impromptu ramp fit and stay together. I'm also not entirely comfortable using a winch on living things, especially people I happen to be related to. So, now that the creators of the transportation system had returned, my grandmother began working on them.

"Your father would love it if he could sit outside and see everything that's going on."
"Do you want me to do that or make dinner? Because I could just go home."
"Oh, well. I just thought..."
"I have no problem leaving and someone else can do all this. You wanted this dinner!"

My grandmother, having been confronted, retreated in her typical fashion and began the process of shunning everyone. Since I had been stuck in the kitchen and had witnessed the event, my aunt turned to me.

"What do you think?"
"I... honestly don't care either way. I can leave, too. I can eat at home. It doesn't matter to me at all."
"I can't do everything."
"I know. She's been talking about it the entire time you were gone though."
"Well, tough shit. I can only do so much."

I also decided to retreat to a quiet place outside to smoke and text my sister who was missing the eventful day.

"She's probably going to poison the food." she replied when I caught her up to the most current event.

I returned to the house and kitchen to find most of the preparations for dinner were complete. Everything just had to finish cooking. My local uncle bounced between the grill outside and the oven inside. My local aunt had relinquished all cooking responsibilities to him. She sat angrily nursing her newborn. I wanted to do something to help out, but I didn't want to step on any toes. I decided I would clear off and set the table, but no one would give me a definitive answer as to where we would be eating. Both the dining table and the picnic table on the front porch were piled high with boxes of random bullshit. It would be quite an ordeal to clear off either and there was no way to tell if the shit belonged here or if it was supposed to be packed up in the rental truck. It was exhausting to even think about it, so I gave up. My local aunt had been muttering and then she finally spoke out loud and to me.

"I'm not going to eat tonight. Is that weird? I made all the food, but I won't eat it. Is that weird?"

I immediately recognized the tone. My mother uses that tone when she's insane about something. It's not really a question. It's a test which is worse. If you answer in the manner that she wants you to, you are given immunity to the current emotional shit storm and recognized as an ally. If you answer in any other way, you are immediately added to the ranks of the enemy in the current raging battle. I am quite familiar with how to play these games, but I haven't actively engaged in them in quite some time. I believed I could still manage it, so I made my best effort.

"No, it's not weird. When I used to work in the food service industry, I used to spend the better part of nine hours making food for other people. By the end of the day, I was so sick of seeing, smelling, and touching food that eating any of it was the very last thing I wanted to do. So, no. It's not weird. I totally understand." Most of which is a lie, because I'd still be hungry and I would eat after that every day. But, I can be fairly persuasive and cunning. So, whatever. The ends justify the means, I suppose.

"Good. I didn't think so." After a brief pause and a look around she added, "I didn't poison any of the food. I'm going to eat it tomorrow. I'm just not hungry tonight." Then she went upstairs to hide out for the rest of the night. I sat there not entirely sure what to believe at that point. Why did she have to say that? Now I had serious doubts about whether she did poison something or not. I did eat when dinner was ready, though. I guess I'm reckless like that. The children and grandparents also ate. None of my aunts and uncles did. My visiting uncle was still loading the rental truck. My local uncle had disappeared somewhere. My local aunt was hiding upstairs. My visiting aunt hadn't returned from her visit yet. My grandmother and I were alone in the kitchen. She was making a plate for grandpa and I was making a take home plate for my sister.

"What is that sound? Is the farmer working the field next door?"
"Sounds like it. That's definitely a tractor, but it sounds a little closer than it should be."

I also made myself a second plate and sat down at the cluttered kitchen table to eat it. Then I saw him. My local uncle was riding the lawn mower around the yard. He wasn't eating because he was now mowing the lawn. My visiting aunt returned and instead of getting her husband to stop and join her for dinner, she joined him with loading up the rental truck. That's when I realized every single one of these people was completely insane. I honestly didn't even care about the damn ice cream cake at that point. I was ready to leave. But, my grandmother insisted we serve it even though only half of the people there had eaten dinner. We brought the cake outside to the picnic table. She had gathered tiny plates, spoons, and a butter knife for me to cut the frozen solid cake with. Of course she would, why not? Why bring me an actual knife that was the appropriate size and suitably sharp and thick enough for the act at hand? I shouldn't expect that on this day.

"So... who wants cake, then?"

No one answered. I sighed. I was getting to my own personal breaking point now. The novelty of my dysfunctional and extended family had worn off. I started cutting pieces of cake. I probably cut 10 to 12 pieces of it. I arranged them on the table and selected one for myself. No one else did. I was beyond caring. I ate the cake too fast and gave myself a delightful ice cream headache which only added to the migraine they had given me already. I then selected a piece for my sister and started toward the house to wrap it in tinfoil and deposit it in the freezer until I was ready to leave - which would be not soon enough, honestly. But, I didn't make it that far. The phone rang. It was my mother. Grandmother allowed me to complete my current objective before handing me the cordless. Naturally, at this point everyone suddenly decided they were on board with the whole dinner and celebratory ice cream cake scenario. They also became very loud. I tried to find a quiet place to use the phone, but every time I almost found one it began to roar with static and threatened to cut out. It was obnoxious even trying to have a conversation at that point, so we gave up. My mother was very tired anyway and I was aggravated.

After the phone call, I gathered up all the food for my sister - I took alot more than I had originally intended since no one was eating anything and I decided it was their own damn fault and it was just too fucking bad for them because they had ample opportunity and I no longer gave shit if they ate anything at all - and said my hasty goodbyes. I was never happier to leave anywhere than I was then.

Context Clues and Shotguns.

[This is a repost since I missed the mini reunion my family had this past holiday... and I'm feeling a little nostalgic. Not too nostalgic, though. I have enough stories for the time being.]

I called home today. Very big deal. I was secretly trying to determine who received the letter about the land tax being past due and how pissed everyone was about it. My cousin answered.

"Hello?"
"Hello."
"Who is this?"
"Who is THIS?!?!?"

Sometimes I have impulse control problems and I can't help myself. I scared her so she gave the phone to someone else. My aunt. A woman so elusive when it comes to telephone conversations with her family members that she will instead opt to have someone else take the call and relay both parts of the conversation to each side of it. But, not for me. I am the exception. There's a reason why but I don't know it.

Maybe I do. I gave her something once. It wasn't something I wanted to part with but at the time she needed it more than I did. It was the night she decided to divorce Soup and I tipped her scales in the right direction. It cost me a little more than I intended but it was worth it. She was terrified of the family judging her for it. She feared total banishment - which, isn't that unlikely considering my uncle. Anyway, I assured her there were worse things to fear. I didn't want to but there wasn't much else for me to work with. It worked. I knew it would. Now, we have this bond. This unspoken understanding. I didn't expect her to remember any of it the next day but she most certainly did. I will never tell her that I share that same secret bond with select other members of the family. It'll be a secret that our secret isn't really one at all. More of an inside joke, really. I laugh about it all the time. Anyway...

"Hello?"
"Hello."
"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey. So you are still alive."

I almost hung up the phone. I have two very specific rules regarding telephone conversations.

1. If the first comment upon identifying me as the caller or upon my answering if you happen to be the caller is something to the effect of 'I can't believe you answered.' or 'Oh my god! You're still alive!' or 'Did you answer the phone by accident?' ... my immediate impulse is to remedy the problem promptly and without warning by hanging up and not calling back and not answering when you call back.

2. If at any time I become aware of the fact that you are using the toilet in any capacity, I will end the call and throw my phone at the wall.

But, I was on a mission and could not react in my typical fashion. I let it slide and even produced a semi-realistic chuckle.

"Yeah. It seems that way, doesn't it."
"So... How's it going down there?"
"Great. It's going very well."
"Is your store open yet?"
"Soon. Our grand opening will be the thirtieth."

I chatted with my aunt for a few minutes. It was very informative. I learned things I hadn't expected and those things were actually about my job. My old store, anyway. I later confirmed those things with someone on the inside. The intell was accurate. I was even more amazed. Things do eventually change, apparently. Good for them. Things have been changing for me since last year. I look back and can't believe the progress I've made. Then I look ahead and can't believe how very, very far I have yet to go. It's a little intimidating. My grandmother, who had been at the doctor's for our entire conversation, pulled into the driveway and my aunt went out to meet her. I listened to them talking to each other.

"Perfect timing! Guess who this is!"
(Unfortunately, I couldn't make out my grandmother's responses.)
"Yes."
(No idea.)
"Yes! It is! Really!"
(I can guess, but won't.)
"I know. That's what I said."

"Hello?"
"Hello."
"Gut en Haben! You are alive!"

I consider it, but refrain. I am still on a mission. If she were pissed off at me, she wouldn't have said anything at all, walked around my aunt, gone inside, slammed the door, and locked herself in one of the bathrooms for a few hours. That seemed like all the verification I needed, but... I like to be thorough.

"Yes, people keep telling me that."
"You're on my list, you know."

Oh shit. I'm on her list. That's crazy talk for:

I'm very upset with you and I may or may not explain after much prying why although either way it's much too late for you to do anything about it and all attempts to remedy the situation or apologize will be met with bitter, silent resentment and passive-aggressive mind games which will usually involve notes taped to things or myself because I am nothing if not theatrical and completely over the top.

Oh shit. It is possible, with very careful and seemingly random quips, to locate the source of these disturbances but it's very tricky and I'm a little rusty.

"Am I at the top or the bottom of this list?"
"The bottom and I have my cards on the table."

Hmmmmm. That's crazy talk for ..... I'm not even sure. I know that being on the bottom indicates I am her least favorite person at the moment, but as to the why... There isn't alot of context clues to work with but I take an educated guess at it. I know I haven't done anything upsetting involving furniture lately, so the keyword of that statement must be cards.

"Cards? You have your cards on the table."

She takes a deep breathe when I say the word 'cards'. I knew it and yet still... not helpful. I'm pretty sure she's not referring to Solitaire. However, why the pluralization? I'm missing something.

"Wait a minute. Are you talking about your postcard? Is your postcard on the table? Are you showing it to people?"
"I didn't get my postcard."
"You didn't get your postcard? That's impossible. You responded. I sent it out at the same time as Hedda's and the one for the post office and my mother. The last one I sent was Robin's-"
"Yes. You sent Robinsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss."

Holy shit, I just solved the puzzle. Give me an S. Cards are on the table. SSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

"You want another postcard."
"Well. It'd be nice. I got the other one a month ago! Something else must have happened since then."
"Not really. I'm really boring now. Nothing interesting ever happens to me anymore."
"You're lying. It's not nice to lie to your grandmother."
"No, it isn't."
"Oh. I wanted to ask you. How'd quitting smoking go?"
"It went great. I'll never smoke again. I can't believe I did it for all those years."
"Well, that's a relief."
"I know. One less thing for you to worry about."

I know. Horrible, right? I stopped feeling bad about lying to that woman a long, long time ago. I've actually gotten pretty good at it. I can even do it in person while looking right into her eyes. I even impress myself. Sometimes, lying is just easier. It's also quieter. I like that. I try to minimize the drama factor whenever I'm around other members of my family. Lying is useful for that sort of success.

"Well. Have you talked to your mother lately?"
"No. Why? Should I?"
"Well. I haven't heard from her. I drove by the house the other day and the grass is mowed. Is somebody living there now?"
"I have no idea. Maybe. I know they were talking about it but I don't know if they ever found anyone."
"Well, I know that one guy next door wanted his mother to live there."
"Yes, that is true and it's probably what happened. I don't have anything to do with that anymore. Also, I don't really care."
"Oh. You don't care about anything."
"I care about things that concern me directly."
"That house concerns you directly."
"No, it doesn't. Besides, I'm the only one with a key to that house now."

Also, Nurse Egg has a key. But that's not information I'm going to share with crazy people over the telephone. Some people might consider withholding information on par with lying, but I'm not one of those people. But if I were, I already explained my comfortable acceptance of that dull gray zone of moral ambiguity through lying.

"So... they couldn't rent it out unless I sent them the keys or they had the locks changed."

Which also hasn't happened because I know someone still visits the house from time to time and has done so recently to escape her crazy family the same way I escaped mine when I moved in. So, that's not what happened. I'm certain of it but do not feel any need to share the reasons why. I don't, however, know who is mowing the grass or why. I have theories but none of them seem very realistic. Then again, knowing my family, anything is possible.

"Well. You should call your mother and find out something."
"Maybe I will."
"And?"
"And send you another postcard."
"I'm so glad you called."
"Me, too."
"You should check in once in awhile, you know? Let us know you're still alive."
"Yes, I know."
"I don't want to have to hear it on the news when one of those crazies down there takes your head off with a shotgun over some silly misunderstanding."

Whoa. Even I am sometimes completely floored by the psychotic and highly specific shit that comes out of that woman's mouth. That was completely unnecessary and unprovoked.

"Well, if that were to happen... I'm not sure I'm going to be able to make any calls. I won't have a head and you can't get text messages."
"Your aunt can!"
"Right. What was I thinking? I'm gonna go. I got that postcard to write and life insurance to upgrade. I'm a busy guy."

After a conversation like that, I'm not sure I'm ever going home again. I'm safer here with the shotgun wielding crazies.

Grandpa's Hands. [for Jake] (Updated with 9 more photos.)

One of my earliest memories was being completely horrified by the ugly, bluntness of the fingers on my grandfather's large, hairy hands. They seemed so horrible, rough, and careless. I compared them to the beautiful, delicate fingers of my own thin, smooth hands. It seemed impossible that genetics could differ so greatly in just two generations. That's when I convinced myself that I was not a member of the family unit presented to me. I thought I had uncovered a terrible secret. But as I watched those hands, I discovered another secret - they weren't as careless and useless as I imagined. Those hands could do things I couldn't imagine. They built strong, towering, powerful structures from nothing but wood, blood, and sweat. Those ugly fingers took quick, swift measurements and then cut through beams of timber and slowly, expertly brought all the tiny pieces together to create something new and useful and brilliant. The first thing I remember those hands building was a deck for my aunt and uncle in California. It took days. I was bored before the end of the first. I spent my time mastering the fine art of nintendo entertainment while just outside in the heat of the desert my grandfather was building a foundation and then covering it with diagonal planks that would provide us all with a platform to stand upon. The finished product was massive. We saved the irregular remainders - strange wooden blocks that formed trapezoids, parallelograms, rhombuses - and I played with them for years trying to re-enact the grand scheme I had seen that day. I had missed the construction of it, but I wasn't completely lost on the magnificence of the transformation from absolute nothing to completion of a new presence in the world. I was in awe of the power and knowledge and ability in those ugly, ridiculous hands.

I was also terrified of them. Whenever I misbehaved at my grandparents' house, my grandmother would threaten that grandpa was going to spank me. The very thought of it scared me senseless. I had seen what those hands could do to trees and stone. What chance could something made of mere flesh and bone stand against the immense power of forces like that? I was a very well behaved little boy - most of the time.

I no longer doubted my heritage, either. I found myself wondering if perhaps one day my own hands would grow and mature into the forms I had admired and feared. While they did come to master many things with grace and precision, they did not ever physically change - except in size and hairiness. I still have the thin, delicate, beautiful fingers of an artist. Still, I can't help but imagine what it would be like to control and shape the elements of the world and to re-shape them as I chose.



My grandfather cleaning what appears to be either a chicken or turkey. I remember this photo a little differently. In my mind, it was fish he was cleaning, as I'm sure he did on several occasions - just not on this one.



My grandfather laying the brickwork border of the rear patio of the yellow house. The brickwork kept the swamp of the yard from overtaking the patio, until later tenants broke it up and let it drain back.



Grandpa and grandma renovating the shed behind the yellow house.



Grandpa sewing up the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.



Grandpa roasting the turkey on the spit, which he also made - of course.



Grandpa helping his neighbour with a massive project.



Happy Birthday, Grandpa.



Grandpa cutting and serving the turkey.



Grandpa and grandma celebrate their wedding anniversary.



Grandpa, younger than I am now.



Grandpa and the boys.