After much debating, which may lead one to think this blog is carried by a team of writers that have meetings and strategies, I scribbled all of my “upcoming blog post” thoughts onto a white board and moved them around and reordered them to find the perfect sequence of events and have elected to forgo blogging about two extremely happy occasions until after I blog about a gaggle of downer but hopefully uplifting things because I just can’t let this year end without acknowledging these things and who wants to start a new year on a low note?
So I will withhold the beauty of Ari and Nate’s wedding day and the rip-roaring adventurers of EisenEars and Big Lu zooming around Portugal in a white mini-cooper and instead, I’ve got thoughts on this year, the most bizarre twelve months of life’s happiest and saddest offerings.
When I started the blog I hoped it would create nostalgia and giggles and I never intended to write anything personal or truly sad, though many times Mom would call me, upset that I sounded depressed in a blog post that I had intended to have more of an Andy Rooney style outraged-rant flavor to it.
This year started with the death of my wacky Uncle Bill, zesty Grandma Sadie, and spunky cousin Russell. We had the most time to get used to sending off Uncle Bill because he got sick and took a bad turn. I felt weird carrying on in South Carolina knowing he and Georgia were on their own up on a mountain in Idaho. Of this trio, I was the least close to Uncle Bill. When I was little I was afraid of him because of his facial hair but I eventually came around when I saw how much he enjoyed the delight I found in his “Bat Child” t-shirt. It was something we repeated to each other when there was nothing else to say. He was a chatty eccentric with a distinct voice and wacky theories. I found him amusing. He’d learn about something and then become fixated on it. Towards the end, he came into a fondness for the canning process and left Georgia with innumerable jars of potatoes to find a home for. Uncle Bill enjoyed this blog very much and with his somewhat sudden departure, he helped complete the mission of Awe Geez, which was to bring my Aunt Georgia home.
I couldn't find a photo Uncle Bill but here's the beloved view from his mountain.
Now let me tell you about Grandma Sadie. Like my favorite Mexican dish, Siti was zesty. That’s the word that comes to mind when I think of her, all 4ft 10” of her and the heap of enthusiasm and energy she had. I was always jealous that my Orangeburg cousins got to spend so much time with her. There are so many tiny moments that I string together to form my picture of her. I’ll shamefully admit that I don’t know too much about the life she had before her grandchildren. Dad has told me she was a lovely mother. He also told me she’d help her kids cover up bad things they had done before Zhuddi got home from work. Classic Siti.
Sometimes I would hear her tell a story so unexpected from such a tiny, put-together grandmother.
“You know, I used to go dance for the Navy Sailors. They just loved it.” she told me one time. She would drag Ellen and me through the mall and spend hours in one 12x12ft section. We’d flake out, sprawl across the sofas and complain but she didn’t care. She was shopping.
When I was twelve or so I bought my first pair of shoes with a slight heel on them. They were black and strappy and had a rhinestone on one toe. I put them on and clomped down the stairs to show Siti and she said, “Oh! Those are sexy!” and I was shocked and appalled. That word. So sharp and jarring to a young girl. Mom wouldn’t want me to have sexy shoes. Should a twelve your old wear something…sexy?
Siti’s offhanded approval of those shoes sent me into a tailspin and I hear her voice say that to this day when I try on any shoe with a heel.
Siti's dedication to shopping was only matched by her commitment to slot-machines, preferably in Las Vegas but in a pinch, any casino environment will do. She played the penny slots and here, let hours pass seated in a 3x3ft section. As she got older and it became harder to move around, she’d play up her “handicap” to avoid waiting in long lines.
She made sure all ten grandchildren had at least a dozen Christmas presents but she would not spend more than five dollars on any one thing. She shopped and hoarded and gave me the same scarf and mitten set three years in a row. She’d haggle for prices, haggle for desserts, and never skip out on her hair appointments. She had long, long fingernails that she’d use to pick things up with and when she was deep in thought, she’d wiggle her lips around in a strange way and always made me tell her when she was doing it so she would stop. She didn’t like that lip thing.
Siti thought everything was “gaw-gous” and would be just as happy eating a gas station hot-dog as a healthy, home-cooked feast. She may have even preferred the hot dog. She liked sugary white bread, bubbly sodas that she would grasp with both hands, and anything I ever baked for her. She’d circle a parking lot for ten minutes until a spot in the front opened up. We could jump out and run the errand before she’d ever park the car.
And she was always upbeat. Even when she felt badly, she’d tell you with a smile and then encourage you to give her just a pinch of pity too. She literally wore rose-colored glasses, the same giant pair since I was born.
If you ask me, she had the worst taste in history and it only made her more endearing. She loved busy patterns, old-lady floral prints, and ceramic figurines of angles and babies. She had busy wallpaper, wore loud costume jewelry, and had plastic on her dining room chairs. She’d pick out things she liked and I would hate them but the things I picked out, she thought were boring and plain.
She’d stay up late watching movies on full blast, snoring through the gunshots and explosions that would wake us up three rooms over. Siti just really enjoyed everything and I worry that the world doesn’t make people like that anymore.
The most disturbing death was cousin Russell. Dad called me one morning with a shaky voice and told me that Russell had passed away and I didn't believe him. I thought Dad must be confused. Because young people don't just die.
Certainly there's a misunderstanding. Russell is fine, I'm sure of it.
Russell was twenty-four, physically fit, and irresponsibly happy.
Young people don't just die. I kept saying this to myself.
Young people don't just not wake up. They don't pop or stop breathing or disintegrate.
I was honored and confused to be chosen to write his obituary. Honored, that of his three siblings, nine cousins, six uncles and aunts, and nearly hundreds of friends, they wanted me to do it. Why on earth me? Confused, because he's my little cousin (perpetually twelve or so and about 5'3" in my mind) and writing a formal document about his life in the past tense was wrong.
Russell's life was hilarious. He was accidentally hilarious and there was no ounce of formality or seriousness in there anywhere. Death felt too serious and a funeral, much too formal.
But there are a lot of perfect Russell tidbits in all of this seriousness because he surely did not fit in to the new, untimely scenario.
Before I get to those though, you need to know that Russell was a local celebrity at The College. He was a highly sought after boyfriend, best friend, and unintentional party promoter. Where Russell went there was a party ... and a gaggle of drunken trollops there to greet him. He was awfully handsome.
But he was also a sweetheart and he deeply loved just about everyone. I think of him as a Labrador Retriever, genuinely elated to see anyone, anywhere, anytime and he'd come bounding over for a hug. He insisted on good, real hugs.
He was always up to the best kind of no good and I secretly enjoyed it for him. I'd roll my eyes and smile when I thought about him. I still do really.
The great Russell tidbits about associating him with such a serious and formal scenario are this:
Russell got to live through the fun, party part of life and totally ducked out before the boring, hard, responsibility parts. He was along for the party and then Irish Goodbyed before desk jobs and taxes and broken hearts. That's got Russell written all over it.
The second great tidbit was his funeral.
So many people showed up that they couldn't all fit into the church. There was a lot of family and friends of family... and then there were Russell's friends; college kids young enough to disregard funeral decorum and still focus most on their fashions on this occasion to be seen. I saw more girls in mini-skirts and high heels at his funeral than I have seen clomping around King Street on a Friday night. They did at least choose black skirts and stilettos. It was January and I'm certain they were cold.
Guys arrived in skin tight suits with shirts unbuttoned to their sternum. Some wore sunglasses inside and a few girls would visit the bathroom to touch up their makeup. Ellen and I sat on the sofa reserved for family and watched the girls shift their weight from one pointed leg to the other while the guys huddled together talking about so and so from that one party a few weeks ago. They'd all look over at a girl and then discuss. The girls did the same. One girl showed up drunk and had to be escorted around because her shoes were too tall and she was teetering around too much. Somehow Russell's funeral was a social event for his friends; happy chatter and story telling and checking out other people.
This made me smile... and roll my eyes.
I couldn't go see Russell in his casket. I didn't want to see him that way and watching six of his closest friends carrying him, quietly carrying their brother to his grave, is a visual that sometimes pops into my head and makes me cry. I think about Russell all the time now and I never really did before. I always knew he was Downtown somewhere kicking up some trouble and that if I called him he'd answer with, "Cuzzo! What's up!"
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