Crying in the Chapel

I went to church yesterday, the church where I grew up. It was by special invitation from Professor Xavier.

I haven’t attended the church regularly for seven years. And each time I go back I see what I miss.

I don’t believe in atonement anymore, that Jesus died for my sins, or that the Bible is the infallible Word of God. I hate the idea of “preaching the Gospel to the lost.” But I miss the people.

Some of the people anyway.

Some people are aggravating gossipy power players who feel the need to engage in backroom politics to protect “their” church.

But some people are like Professor Xavier.

He made announcements during the service. The church is doing a lot more socially responsible things than when I was last a member: collecting clothes and food for the needy, raising money for Tsunami relief, and accepting money for poorer families in the church who need a boost. It was his job to remind people about that.

Then he wanted to share something personal.

It had been 17 (17, not seven, as I told minako last night) since the Prof. had moved to Halifax with his family. He didn’t really want to come, but being here shook him out of a funk he was in. he learned to trust God. Learned that God will work things out. Learned that trusting God to take care of the things you worry about is easier and safer than doing it yourself.

The Prof. almost lost his job. Lots of layoff, and by rights, he should have been one of the people laid off, or at least, relocated. But he wasn’t. And he attributed this to God. Not in a pompous kind of way. In a humble kind of way. He said that it must have been God. That he didn’t understand it. That He didn’t know why God would do this. But that he was very thankful.

And he read a passage from Matthew 11.

“Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

He encouraged, almost pleaded, with those who were going through a rough time to trust God.

He was crying by the end.

I don’t remember thinking, at any point, that the yoke of believing in fundamental, charismatic Christianity was easy, or that the burden of resolving the contradictions inherent in that belief system was light, but I miss being around people who do believe and really care for those around them, people who care so much that they cry about it.

Soundtrack CLICK HERE

Eight Signs of a Doomed Marriage

1. The first leg of my relationship with Wilma was long distance. After a very meaningful, intense Christmas vacation in Halifax with her, I moved back to Waterloo, and began a relationship over the phone. After a couple of months, after we decided we were “seeing each other as much as two people possibly can without physically seeing each other,” and that we weren’t seeing anybody else, a female friend of hers was over at her apartment, talking about masturbating. Wilma has always had a problem with that, and this other girl figured she just wasn’t doing it right. Discussion of technique lead to demonstration, and then interaction. She called me early the next morning to tell me, and I was in a state of shock. I told her I wanted some space to figure things out. Everybody said this was a sign, that I should get out now, and nobody would blame me. While I was figuring out what to do, she send me two mix tapes, and a bunch of little notes talking about how sorry she was, how ashamed she was, etc. And I forgave her.

2. The other day I found a letter she wrote me after I had moved back to Halifax. She was contemplating ending the relationship because I made her feel like shit. That I didn’t do what she needed to make her feel good about herself. I can’t remember exactly when that letter was written because we went through that conversation so many times, and each time I convinced her things would be ok.

3. The first time we had sex, as I was entering her, I looked at her and said “Do you know what this means?” She said “Yes.” Apparently we weren’t quite on the same page. We were virgins, and we had talked about the context in which we would have sex: when had decided to get married. We hadn’t quite decided that yet. I thought this meant that we were going to have sex anyway. She thought it was a proposal. It was a year into our actual marriage that she found out about the discrepancy.

4. Almost immediately after we starting having sex on a regular basis, Wilma developed TMJ. It was so bad at one point that, while waiting for the bus, she bit out a false tooth that had been surgically placed in her mouth.

5. While we were engaged, Wilma bought a set of shot glasses that, to me, looked like used up condoms. On each one was a word: love, friend, joy, peace. One time while I was at her apartment, I was throwing a roll of tape around, as I seem to do often, and as a joke, I tossed it to her, expecting her to catch it. Instead, she batted it away, and it flew to the table where the shot glasses were sitting. The “love” one fell over and broke.

6. We wrote our own wedding vows, together:

As your Husband/Wife,
I promise to love you and to share my life with you;
to be honest and compassionate with you;
to treat you with respect and kindness
to accept you with all of your strengths and weaknesses;
to encourage and support you
to care for you in times of need
to be patient in times of difficulty
to have faith in your integrity
and to be loyal to you
through the best and the worst of what is to come,
in all of the changes of our lives
for the rest of our days.

She stumbled on “to be loyal to you.” She said it was because it was awkward the way the rhythm went, like there was supposed to be something else there. She was probably right, but everyone joked about how I better watch out because she didn’t seem sure about that one.

7. On our honeymoon, her vagina started to feel sore, mostly around the opening. At first we thought it was chaffing due to a lack of, or poor quality lubricant. Unfortunately this was not the case. As our marriage progressed, she got more and more sore till, some days, it was difficult for her to walk in tight pants. She was diagnosed with Vulvar Vestibulitis, and later with Fibromyalgia (the two were connected apparently).

8. Just after she raised the possibility of us separating, we went out for supper, what turned out to be our last “date.” She spent half the time talking about which of her friends would make a good match for me. She was practically setting me up with her fucking friends and we hadn’t even decided to separate yet.

The Six Virtues of Wilma

1. She was very driven. I know this is related to some of her vices, but it was a positive thing sometimes. When she decided to do something, she did it, and got it done. And she decided to do a lot of things, and so she got a lot done. Everything from a film, to a dance show, to home improvement, to a Soiree. If she faltered along the way to her goal, it was only part of the process. She always got it done.

2. She was resourceful. Her projects couldn’t always be realized with what she had, so she tweaked her projects until they fit the material she had. And as often as that happened, she just started off with a little of this and a little of that, and somehow found a way to bring it all together into some amazing works of art.

3. She tried to be honest. I have to qualify it with “tried” because I think she lied to herself often, and then passed those lies onto other people, convincing herself it was the truth. But she rarely, consciously lied to people. Even if it would be detrimental to her in some way, or cause a fuss, in my mind, unnecessarily, she would tell the truth and be forthcoming with it. She only lied to me once that I can remember. It was a biggy, and it was near the end, but up to that point, she always tried to tell the truth as she saw it.

4. She could talk to anybody about anything. She wasn’t afraid of people. Or rather, she wasn’t afraid of approaching people and talking to them, introducing herself and making friends. She continually amazed me with her ability to make somebody intrigued and interested by simply talking to them. No subtle games to pique their interest. Just openness.

5. She really cared about her family. She constantly worried about her brother, who was often reckless and injured himself more than once; who seemed emotionally stifled and unable to relate to people; who had somehow fallen in with a bunch of guys she thought were below him. She desperately wanted to connect with her Dad and made an effort to ask him about things she didn’t care about so much just to talk to him. She went to her grandparents house and listened to them talk, even though the stench of smoke hanging in the air choked her up, and the conversation was fairly dull. She took her nieces out to do fun things every chance she could.. etc.

6. She had faith. It was a mangled, partly neglected faith, but it was strong. She tried to get rid of it, apparently, to please me. She tried not to believe in atonement, tried to imagine a world where there was no cosmic punishment for sin, but couldn’t do it. So finally, she just accepted that she believed Jesus died to pay the price for the sins of humanity. She thought I was disappointed or looked down on her for that. If she only realized how much I respected her for it. I tried to tell her, but she didn’t believe me.

The Seven Vices of Wilma

1. She expected too much of everybody, including herself. She needed to be the best, needed to feel special, and needed things to be perfect, but they never were, so she was constantly disappointed with herself and the people around her.

2. She pushed herself too hard. She had several medical conditions which were made worse by stress and insufficient sleep, but despite that, she stayed up all hours of the night to do this project or that project, constantly wearing herself out. I tried to counsel her to slow down, to stop it, and when she wouldn’t listen, I got angry. So I became the controlling husband.

3. She was messy and didn’t see it. I’m messy too, but at least I see it and recognize it as my mess. She seemed to think it either wasn’t her mess, or what was hers wasn’t messy. When I cleaned out the apartment, I found tons of her mess and dirt she had left behind, and I cleaned it up so we could get the damage deposit back.

4. She over-reacts. I do too, but when she over-reacts, she also acts. She always wants to call somebody up and confront them, or whip off a yelly e-mail when she’s upset. I was constantly advising her to give it time, to wait, to be less confrontational in her language. Which, of course, added to the sense I was controlling.

5. She had no sense of planning for the future. Not in money, not in time, not in resources, nothing. That left the burden of constructing how we were going to pay for things and organize things (not physically, I mean) squarely on my shoulders. Not fair at all. I was always the bad guy, as a result. No, we can’t afford that now, no, we can’t use that for that, it has to be used for this, no we don’t have money to get that, and do this too, no, we don’t have time to go here, and go here, and do this, and get this done.

6. She couldn’t take criticism. Terrible combination with me, who doles it out too readily. Example: she was playing an REM song on her guitar, and it didn’t sound quite like the original. I asked her if she did that on purpose. She said that’s how it sounded. I wanted to go out and get the cd and show her. I’m sure I said that if she did that way on purpose, that was fine, but it wasn’t like the original. She cites that as one of the lasting scars. She says she couldn’t play the guitar in front of me after that. I swear I wasn’t aggressive, wasn’t condemning, just trying to make conversation.

7. She wanted specific, but contradictory things. She wanted me to be loving, caring, husband, who did special things for her constantly, like run her a bath with candles, bring her supper, hang out with her while she did her work, come to her to hug her instead of asking her to come to me (even if the distance was less than a foot, and where I was would have been less awkward for everyone), the husband who is very concerned about his wife’s safety when she travels around at night, who financially and emotionally supports his wife in her decision to quit her job and focus on her art work. At the same time, I couldn’t make any demands on her time, especially in the middle of a project (she was always in the middle of a project), I couldn’t ask for anything in return (cause then it would feel like the only reason I did anything for her was to get something back) I couldn’t talk about financial restraint, or ask that we discuss our major expenditures, I couldn’t try to do something special and fuck it up, or, do something special that wasn’t the kind of special she had in mind, I couldn’t get upset when she traveled through dangerous parts of town, by herself, walking, late at night.

Next Time: The Virtues of WIlma

The End of the Trixie Story

(As a made for tv movie after the series was cut short due to viewer outrage)

Maybe I over think things.

In the beginning of December, I went out to lunch with Trixie and Speed. Trixie was ribbing Speed about whether or not he was seeing anybody, and when he last went out on a date. Then she turned to me.

But I said, you first.

She declined at first, but later, when we were on the desk together, she let a few details slip. She was still seeing the guy she was seeing before, although now the possibility of it developing into something serious/exclusive had dissipated, so she also had others on the table. Or at least that’s what she lead me to believe. She’s very good at saying just enough to make you wonder, but not enough to make you sure of anything.

Then it was my turn, so I told her I had a date just the night before. I wasn’t too forth coming on details (she, of course, wanted locker room talk, and I didn’t give her any).

See, I wanted to tell someone about Minako. I wasn’t talking to very many people. Speed wasn’t really an option, although he knew. I dragged my feet telling my brother, and Optimus Prime is always fighting the Decepticons or looking after his kids, and Pooh Bear was far away (EDIT: or maybe I was afraid of what she would think about me seeing someone new so soon). And I wanted to tell someone. I thought things were going well. I was happy. So when Trixie displayed some indication of being friendly again, I let little bits and pieces out.

Later in the month, at the work Christmas party, I took Trixie out for a smoke. She asked me if I thought Rabbit was attractive. It was the third time Trixie had asked me about this girl, about whether I thought she was attractive or whatever, so I asked her if there was some reason she was asking me about Rabbit. She said no, no, and then said, if she knew something she would let me know right away, if it was 4:00 am, she would call me up and let me know.

And that was my chance.

I said, I wasn’t sure if she would. I wasn’t sure if she would do that kind of thing anymore, or even call me at all.

I hope it sounded less guilt trippy than that.

Anyway, she said that I wasn’t the first person to feel that way with her lately. She explained that she’d been going through a lot lately, turning 30 and all, plus some other shit she didn’t want to get into, and she didn’t want to burden anybody with it. I assured her it wouldn’t be a burden, but she said she wanted to leave it at home, she didn’t want to come to work and have somebody there who knew about it.

We hugged and made up.

Still not as close. I think that is over. I think she wants to leave me as the work friend she hangs out with occasionally, and I’m fine with that. At least I feel like there’s not this open ended “what-the-fuck?” hanging between us now.

I Forget

My Grandfather also developed Alzheimer’s.

Apparently I was the last one to know. Everybody thought I knew, so no one said anything. Then again, I have never been very good at listening to my parents or grandparents talk about their health issues. Have to try harder now because there are more of them, and instead of being a kid, I am someone who can actually lend support.

My Grandfather got worse and worse after his stroke. One night he cried because his mother died, even though his mother had been dead for more than twenty years. More than once he demanded that someone take him home. He insisted that my Grandparent’s house was not his home, and that he had no idea who my Grandmother was. One time he even giggled about how bad they were being, sleeping in the same bed, and that if his mom ever came in and found them, they’d be in trouble.

Eventually, he was starting to get violent. Threatened to hit my Grandmother one time if she didn’t let him out. That was when she called the cops. My Grandfather was walking down the road, headed “home” while my Uncle Foghorn walked behind him, trying to reason with him. My Grandfather threatened several times to beat up my Uncle, even swung his cane at him once, but eventually, he realized he had to go back.

The cops were waiting for him, and they took him away.

My Grandmother tells me stories about how he is doing now. Sometimes he is angry and violent, and it takes several nurses to calm him. He is drugged up most of the time. He has to be fed, because he can’t do it himself. And when he gets angry, he’ll spit his food out over my Grandmother, or my Aunt, or whoever is feeding him.

My Mother, his daughter, won’t visit him. She says it’s because she has a weak stomach, and she would throw up if he spit his food out on her. But I think it’s because she doesn’t want to see her father like that, doesn’t want to be faced with her father as someone she doesn’t recognize, or worse, herself as someone who isn’t recognized by her own father.

I went to visit him once. He could barely stay awake. At one point, he took off his glasses and wiped a tear away from his eye as he stared out the window. He stared a long time, until my Grandmother asked him something, and as quick as that, whatever was making him sad was gone, lost somewhere in the mess of memories that are jumbled up in his head.

Keys

For a moment, the key was a glowing white hole in the darkness. It reflected the light drifting in from the small window just above the garage door. Then the key turned and disappeared into the ignition, into the blackness.

There was a click, then a slow growling and grunting that came and went like the squeaking of an old rocking chair, then another click, and the noises were gone, except for the echo which hung in the air a little longer. Then the noises started again.

There was also the sound of shuffling in the passenger seat. Slowly the light traced a line around a pair of glasses, a thick nose, a hat, a face, then an arm and a shoulder, finally a neck.

The growling and grunting switched to a deep rumbling accompanied by the sound of a little girl straining to get one last taste of pop through a straw, only a little more mechanical, a little more powerful.

"Do you hear that Charlie?" asked the driver.

"Eh?" responded the older man, turning his head away from the light so that his voice seemed to come from a patch of darkness.

"I said, do you hear that?" said the driver speaking a little louder.

"Hear what?" said Charlie.

"That sucking noise," answered the driver. His voice lowered again. "It sounds like somebody trying to suck up water from the bottom of a bucket with a vacuum cleaner."

There was a pause. Charlie leaned forward, back into the light, and opened his mouth to say something, but all he said was "Hmmm." He inhaled loudly as if he were about to try again, but stooped, distracted by the glare on the windshield as they pulled out of the garage. It blocked out everything outside the van. Charlie tried to cover his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt

"Sun's bright today, what?" he said, peeking over the top of his arm.

"I can hardly see where I'm going," said the driver. "Almost enough to blind you."

The van came to a stop sign, and the driver leaned forward, tugging at his thin, blond mustache. He looked left, than right, than left again, but the van didn't move. Charlie pulled up the sleeves of his tan coloured shirt and began to look left and right too. He lifted his hand, motioning for the driver to go, but stopped when he saw a car drive in front of the van. Charlie looked left and right again, this time a little longer, adjusted his thick rimmed glasses, and began to raise his hand again. Before he finished his motion, another car drove in front of the van. Charlie rubbed his pants and stared at the dashboard until the van finally started to move.

"How's your great granddaughter doing?" asked the driver. He glanced over to make sure Charlie was listening. "I didn't see her in church Sunday."

"They were away," said Charlie.

"So you had some peace and quiet this weekend, eh?" said the driver. He reached for a cup of coffee on the dash. "No little feet running all round above you."

"Eh?" said Charlie. "Don't notice them up there much at all." He reached over and hit the drivers arm, almost spilling his coffee. "If I do, I just turn down my hearing aid and I don't hear a thing." He started to laugh, looking up to the roof of the van and opening his mouth wide. The driver , who had just taken a mouthful of coffee, swallowed it quickly and starting coughing.

He was still coughing when they reached a traffic light. He put his coffee back on the dash, and reached into the back pocket of his dark jeans, finally pulling out a cassette tape. He slipped the tape into the van’s stereo, then looked up at the traffic light which had just turned green. The van started to move again, and without looking back down, he turned the stereo on.

"Pastor Phil!" said Charlie.

"What?" said the driver with a smirk that distorted the shape of his mustache.

"What's this?" ask Charlie.

"It's music," said Pastor Phil. "Don't you like it?"

"It's just a bunch of noise!" said Charlie. His eyes were wide and his eyebrows raised. "I could sing like that if I wanted." He closed his eyes and started howling. Pastor Phil laughed again and Charlie began to smile.

"Sounds like you're yodeling to me," said Pastor Phil. He turned off the stereo.

"It's a bunch of confusion," said Charlie. His eyes widened again and his smile started to fade. "God's not the author of confusion, says in the Bible. That leaves the devil." Charlie noticed his shiny brown pants that had become infested with wrinkles. He tried to wipe away the wrinkles as he spoke. "The devil's the author of it."
"Bible also says to become all things to all men," said Pastor Phil. His voice seemed to push against the windows of the van, looking for a bigger audience. "Go home and read first Corinthians chapter nine. We have to do all we can do to save souls, and if that means putting the Gospel in rock, that's fine with me."

"Hmmm," said Charlie, his head still bowed toward his pants. Charlie had not been able to read his Bible since his stroke four years ago. The words would switch places in his head, or he would forget what the beginning of a sentence said by the time he got to the end of it. His granddaughter had bought him some Bible tapes a few years ago, but Charlie couldn't use the tape player very well and he didn't like the voice of the man who read. Too high and mighty, he complained.

Charlie was still rubbing his pants, but the wrinkles wouldn’t go away. He stopped and stared at the wrinkles on his pants, then the ones on his hand, before speaking again.

"Marla says music makes things make sense, even when they don't normally." He looked back to Pastor Phil. "And when it don't, it ain't music. It's just noise."

"She used to play, didn't she Charlie?" Pastor Phil’s voice was a little softer than before. He had come to the city a year ago, just after the funeral for Charlie’s wife. When he first arrived he heard stories of all the wonderful things Charlie and Marla had done for the church, and how sad it was that she had died and left Charlie alone. He had wanted to visit Charlie ever since, but there was just so much he had to do. It was his secretary who suggested he bring Charlie along on this errand.

"She used to play the piano for me all the time," answered Charlie. "We've a big piano in the living room, and she used to sit down every night and play. Almost always sat and listened, except when I had to work outside. Then I could hear it coming through the windows. Always played classical music. Beethoven and Bach, people like that."

"My wife just plays cds," said Pastor Phil, reaching for his coffee again. "Old Hymns and Gospel songs. But I'd even miss that if she died."

"Hmmm," said Charlie. He turned his head and began chewing on his bottom lip.

They had reached the highway now, and Charlie looked out the window. He tried to watch the trees on the side of the highway. He wanted to pick a tree and follow it, but he couldn't decide which tree. They all looked the same. Every time he picked one, another would catch his eye and he would change his mind. After a while, he decided to just stare straight ahead. All he saw was a blur of green and black. He didn't like that either and decided to look at the dashboard again.

His eyelids began to droop by the time the van pulled off the highway and into a driveway. Charlie looked up to see a building with several large garage doors. Pastor Phil turned off the motor and opened the door.
"I'll be right back," he said. "You'll wait here?"

"Hmmm," said Charlie.

Pastor Phil slipped the key into his pocket as he walked into the building. After a few minutes, he came back out with a woman in overalls. She was muscular, and had dirt smeared on her forehead. They talked, and Charlie could see their lips moving, but he couldn't hear what they were saying. As they got closer to the van, Charlie could hear their voices, but he couldn't make out the words.

By the time they got to the hood of the van they had stopped talking anyway. The woman stood there shielding her eyes from the sun while Pastor Phil climbed back into the van. He pulled a leaver and the hood opened. Then he put the key into the ignition and turned it. As before, the van whined a little. Pastor Phil tried again, and the same thing happened. When the van finally started, he got out and spoke with the woman again. Charlie turned up his hearing aid, trying to hear what they were saying, but all he could hear was the rumbling of the motor.

Pastor Phil shut the hood and shook hands with the woman. She smiled, waved, then walked back to the building.

"Well that's that then," said Pastor Phil as he shut the van door.

"What'd she say?" asked Charlie.

"Well, one of the parts inside is broken, and the van needs that part to start. This van is so old that they don't make that part for it any more. None of the new parts will fit. Guess we'll have to get a new van."

"Hmmm," said Charlie.

"Yeah, we'll have to get a new van," said Pastor Phil.

****
Later that evening, Charlie sat at home, watching television. He squinted as if he were trying to see something. He looked past the man and woman, past the parking lot behind them, past the window in the apartment in the background, but before he found what he was looking for a closeup of the woman's face appeared on the screen.

Charlie turned the television off and left the room.

He came back with a record of Beethoven and a long white candle. He turned on the record player and gently lowered the needle. The sound of scratching filled the room as he fumbled with the plastic wrap around the candle. Once the candle was uncovered, he placed it in a golden candle holder. While he lit the candle, someone began playing a piano. Charlie sat in his chair and closed his eyes. He forgot everything else, the sucking sound in the van, the stop sign, the tape, the trees, the voices. The music drowned it all out. He pictured his wife's fingers pressing the keys of the piano, thin and pale, so pale they seemed to be glowing. Her hands floated away from the piano, still pressing invisible keys as they drifted around the room, easing closer and closer to Charlie's head until they opened it up and went inside, and he felt her music in his belly.

Soundtrack CLICK HERE

1998

Cerebrovascular Accident

My Grandfather was stubborn, and not just when it came to arguments. When he had some work to do, whether it be in his garden, or fixing up the shed, he would work at it until it was done. If there was something he couldn't do, he would just try harder and harder until it worked.

This didn't work so well after he had a stroke.

My Grandfather didn't lose any motor function or physical ability, didn't even slur his words. But his mental capacity was severely diminished. He could figure things out the way he used to. He would forget things and get confused. And because he was stubborn, he would plough ahead anyway.

My Grandmother tried to reason with him, tried yelling at him, tried pleading with him, but when my Grandfather decided it was time to mow the lawn (even though he had done it three days in a row) there was no convincing him otherwise. When he decided he needed to remove a tree from the yard, no one could talk him out of it.

The result was that my grandparents garden started to deteriorate, their lawn and hedges became a mess, and their yard a disaster area.

After a few more strokes, and people badgering him about how hard he was pushing himself physically, my Grandfather finally scaled back on the yard work. But instead, he took up house work. He vacuumed the house everyday, sometimes twice a day. There was never a dirty dish, because he would wash and dry it right away. He would make up things to work at sometimes, and wouldn't listen to my Grandmother, even though she had done the house work for almost 50 years prior to that.

It was both sad and scary. This was my prime example of male aging.

And the worst part, was one time, after school, when I was prepared to play the chicken game with my Grandfather over the television, I came in the room to find him down on all four, scratching at the carpet like a dog. He looked up at me when I came in with the strangest look of bewilderment and fear that I have ever seen on an old man's face.

So I left the room and got my Grandmother, who promptly told him to get up off the floor. She treated him like a child, and part of it made me uncomfortable, but I certainly didn’t have any alternative suggestions on how to treat a stubborn, confused, self-destructive old man.

I wrote a story based on my Grandfather not long after his second stroke. I'll post it tomorrow.

... Without You

Soundtrack CLICK HERE

This was my first Christmas without Wilma.

It was also my first Christmas without my Grandfather.

People were pretty good about both parts though. At my extended family's Christmas Eve get together, my Uncle Foghorn Leghorn asked me how I was holding up, but that was as close as anyone came to bringing it up at Christmas. It never occured to me that the evening would be problematic until I was in the car, on the way there, with my parents. I was sure Sylvester’s kids (Foghorn's grandkids) were going to say something about Wilma not being there, but they didn't, and I was thankful. On Boxing Day my cousin Babs (another of Foghorn's daughters) asked me about why Wilma left, what reason she gave. Babs was concerned because her husband had broken up with her for crazy reasons, but they ended up getting back together. That's not going to happen with WIlma and me. Which is what I told her.

I feel humiliated when I talk about it now. Like a cuckold.

I tried to stay beside my Grandmother on Christmas Eve, so we could have some sort of unspoken "being without people this year" bond. It only partly worked. She was rushing downstairs to the bathroom every few minutes because she was suffering from diarea. And everybody else was clamouring for her attention too. She’s very good at trying to spread it around so no one feels left out.

Foghorn almost stepped on toes about my Grandfather not being there too. On Christmas Eve, Foghorn is always Santa. He hands out presents from my Grandparents, and inter-family presents (immediate family stuff gets put off until Christmas morning). On all the presents from my Grandparents, my Grandmother had left the from spot blank. When Foghorn asked, rather discretely, I might add, everybody who was in the know hissed at him to ignore it, because my Grandmother had intentionally left it blank.

She wasn’t sure if my Grandfather would still be alive by Christmas Eve.