Dear Uncle,

I sat down tonight to write you this letter after weeks of staring at the phone, dialing your number and then hanging up. I wanted to say some things but knew that the temperament of a phone call could be too harsh, words said and exchanged that could be misconstrued and twisted and used against either one of us, mostly I’m sure by you.  This letter is in black and white. It is solid. It is truth. You may choose not to read it, and that is your decision. But if I know you, you’ll read it. It may take a few tries, but you will. I know we are too much alike to not read something passed between us and our curiosity rivals that of the cat who allegedly died for his passionate pursuit of such. I also know that we are of the fiery temper and this is liable to end up shredded or aflame in some random fireplace. But don’t worry, I emailed you a copy and put one on the internet where it is bound to live forever. And if you want to talk about this letter to anyone, feel free. You certainly exercise every opportunity you have to speak ill of your family to everyone you see. I’m sure you think we don’t know about all of the things you say, but never forget that small town circles run deep and are far-reaching. You used to tell me that no one can outrun a radio or a phone. Neither can you.

I have always loved you. Through all of your bullshit and drama. You have always made me laugh and you can carry on like no one else I know with your quick wit and dry humor. When Daddy died, you were the second person I called in those screamingly painful wee hours when we were seeing our worst fears realized. I first called my brother who shares the same mutual disdain for you as you do for him. And then, I called you. I wanted you there to tell us it would be ok, to take us through the awful journey that losing the most important man in all our lives took us on, to take care of us. Like you promised my Father. The promise you have broken. The promise being picked up and delivered by others in our family, strong men who say what they mean and mean what they say. Men who haven’t let the business of a dollar get in the way of what’s right.

You like to talk about people. You talk about (name omitted so as not to awaken the drama llama) like she is no better than dog poo on your shoe, about how she has forsaken the family and is no good to anyone. And now, you are no better than she is. You have forsaken your sister, who looked to you for strength and support when the main source of her’s is gone. And where are you? Sitting on your porch a few miles away, stewing because you weren’t given anything. Bitching to whoever will listen about a Jeep, a boat, a pickup truck and a boat house, as if these were the most important things in life. They are not. I have heard you have problems of your own. Who doesn’t? In the two months since you have spoken to your sister, you didn’t have a minute to pick up the phone? To say “Hi, I know you are having a tough time, but so am I, I just called to say I love you.” You can’t even do that? You can go to the hunting lease just down the road and visit friends who live a mile away but you can’t take time for your blood? You are sorrier than the people you talk ill about. And this isn’t the first time. Remember Barbara, your other sister? Who you shunned for years after Grandma died and y’all fought over her stuff? And when she died unexpectedly you told me how you wished you hadn’t done it and that it was one of your biggest regrets and you loved your sister and blah blah blah more of your lying bullshit. You had me fooled into thinking you learned something from that.

So many people have told me to forget you, to write you off. If it was just me I probably could. But to know my mother cries over you and is hurting more than she has to because you are acting like an ass leads me to this. There is time for forgiveness. There is time to make it right. She misses you,  you selfish jerk. You still have a family. Be part of it before it’s too late. Or not. It’s your loss, and I hope it hurts you as much as you’ve hurt my mother. And then some.

Your niece,

That’s what my dad used to tell me, anyway.

I’m going to spend today with my mom in Biloxi, and then she and I and some other family member’s are going to one of my parent’s favorite places, Mary Mahoney’s . We’ll toast my parents, miss my father and just be there, in one of their favorite places.

It’s hard to celebrate love when one of the ones you love is gone, but he taught us well, and we won’t let him down.

Love you Mom and Dad. Always.

P.S. – Apparently my comments are broken, but I’m trying to get them fixed!

We all have it. And if you don’t ? Count your blessings.

As you may be aware, there has been ongoing fam-dram with my relatives who shall remain nameless for some time that should have come to a head upon the death of my father. I chose the high road on all of that and decided in the best interests of my mother and my relationship with some of my family members to just not say anything more about it. It still chafes my ass to this day that I haven’t addressed it head on with the person in question, but oh well. Bygones.

This new drama is too potentially ass chafing to ignore and this time I am going to say something about it, not only here but to the person who has started the shit to begin with, face to face, like real grown-ups. I just have to wait until the time is right. Which will be soon.

I have one uncle left on my mother’s side. He is my mother’s baby brother and her only living sibling.

My uncle is an asshole.

I’ve been well aware of this fact for quite some time but basically never had an issue with it because it didn’t really affect me or anyone close to me. Well, it did affect my brother but they have hated each other for so long now that not only have I forgotten what the reason is behind it, I’ve also given up on trying to mend that fence. I tried once when my daddy was dying by telling them they both needed to get along, if not for each other then for my mother, and when that plan collapsed in about two minutes I gave up on that idea. He will stir stir stir shit just for the hell of it and more often than not delights in other’s misfortunes. Yet he is a certified paramedic and a volunteer firefighter that jumps at the chance to help a stranger in need. He’s a total Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I don’t get it. Despite that, my uncle and I have always gotten along fairly well despite his penchant for asshattery. When I was a kid he was always the fun uncle who took you to movies and to Six Flags, helped me learn to ski and would spend hours driving us around in the boat or pulling us on tubes while we screamed our heads off. He also has a wicked sense of humor and his wit matches and even exceeds many who do it for a living. Sometimes it turns snarky and he can be insulting and even hateful, but people would say “That’s just Kenny” and go on about their business. The only time I really had an issue is when he made some smart-ass comment about Gregory, but he and Gregory had a little talk and that stopped that mess pretty quick.  I also decided that since the man has been married six times any advice on my life and who I may be in love with should be better left to someone with an iota of sense.

But this time, the son of a bitch has gone too far.

During the summer my uncle is like an annoying rash. You can’t get rid of him. He works four days a week for ALAPOCO and the rest of the time he is at home doing his thing or at our place on the lake. He is either in the pool or off on one of the boats or jet-skiing or whatever and will always invite me along on his next adventure. He can usually be counted on to help with whatever you need be it moving something or helping with some project or whatever. I always felt like I could depend on him if I really needed him. My father who lay dying of cancer asked him to make sure to take care of my mother and I when he was gone, to look after us and be sure we were ok. My uncle looked into the eyes of my father, who had treated him like a brother all of his life, shook his hand and promised that he would indeed do just that.

He lied.

Oh at first he called my mom every day, came down a few times a week and would usually come by several times on the weekends. Then around the end of June we both noticed he wasn’t around at all, it was like he disappeared. He did have some type of surgery on his eyes so we thought that was the likely reason. When he didn’t come to the lake AT ALL for the 4th of July I knew something was seriously wrong. When I saw him at my cousin’s bash and he was standoffish even to my mother and barely civil to me it took me about 5 seconds to figure out why.

He’s jealous.

Always has been. My uncle thinks that he is my mother’s third child. Part of that is her own fault. She babied him all of his life and basically let him do what he wanted with all of our property and never told him no. When we lived in Singapore he lived in our lake house, used our boats and had a grand old time all with my mother’s blessing. When my mother bought something for my brother or me, 9 times out of 10, she bought one for Kenny too. He wants it all but just ask him for something of his and oh the drama. His philosophy is apparently what’s mine is mine and what’s yours ought to be too.

The first thing that pissed him off that I can trace this back to was the fact that my brother and I have both been using my dad’s truck. As a matter of fact it sits in my driveway now. He’s also mad that my dad gave my cousins, my brother and myself some of the many guns he had. Never mind that Kenny got some too, oh no, in his mind, he should have gotten them all. Then there’s the boathouse my brother just built. He’s convinced that my mother paid for it. I don’t think she did, but hey if so, guess what? NONE of my business. Nor is it his. But that’s just how he thinks. Jealousy. Ugliness. Feeling sorry for himself. When your own daughter tells other family members that she can’t stand being around her father because he’s acting like a shit, there’s a problem there.

And then, there’s the Jeep. Or should I say Jeeps.

Ever since I have had my Jeep, my uncle has asked me to sell it to him. Mind you, I’ve had it new off the lot since 1997. I have so far refused. My mother got one in 2001 and he has asked her the same thing. The man is not poor. He and his wife have both worked for Alabama Power for more than 30 years respectively, they live in a house paid for by his in-laws years ago on land that was given to them. They have no extravagant hobbies, do not travel and have two kids, one married and on his own, one in college on a full scholarship. I cannot even remember the last time my uncle went on a vacation that took him out of Alabama. He takes off for a month every year to hunt on land that is 3 miles from his own house. He can buy his own damn Jeep.

A few months ago, my mother told me that she would give me her Jeep if I wanted to sell mine to have some extra money since I am still in probate hell. At first I was torn because hey,  that’s my baby. It’s my first Jeep and I have crazy love for it. But I got to thinking about it and it made sense. Her’s is newer, has a lift kit I covet, the radio works all of the time (mine is possessed) and it’s nicer. And despite the fact that I had promised it to Patrick when he turned 16, I figure I won’t be seeing him ever again if his good christian mother has any say in it, so I finally made the decision to sell mine and the first person I told? My uncle. Who hemmed and hawed and said he’d have to think about even though I gave him a hell of a price and my Jeep is in damn good shape with low mileage, save for the devil radio. He never gave me an answer, so I let a friend of the family look at it, and they came over and drove it. Right before the 4th of July. Around the same time my uncle became persona non gratis. Coincidence? Whatever.

Over the weekend my mother and I took a ride in her Jeep to go see some lake property my cousin is working on. When we left, I said “Let’s go by Kenny’s and see if he’s alive!” Turns out my dear old uncle isn’t the only one who can stir shit. Dale blood runs deep.

Upon pulling into the driveway we see my uncle, alive and well sitting on the front porch with his kids and my aunt. I blew the horn and said that we were looking for a long lost relative. He walked over to the Jeep with a look on his face like he smelled dog shit and said “Oh is this yours now?” I told him no, mine was at home. He responded that he’d heard I was trying to sell it and it would have been nice if I’d let him know. My mom and I, along with his own daughter, both reminded him that I had indeed given him first chance. His selective memory had kicked in by this point and he refuted our statements and continued to have the constipated face of a man in need of a good enema or one runny fart. My aunt then walked by with a plate of apple pie that she was taking to her mother next door. Turns out they had a nice lunch, with pie, for my uncles birthday which just happens to be today. (Happy birthday mother fucker.) My mom said that it would have been nice if we were invited for pie, but that she loved him anyway and she wished he wouldn’t be mad. He said he wasn’t mad, that everything was fine, but the tone of his voice and his sneer said otherwise. My mom then said that she couldn’t believe he had abandoned her like this after what she had lost.

(this is where I GOT MAD AS HELL)

My uncle’s response? “What do you mean? You haven’t lost nothing.”

I resisted the urge to fling open the door and knock his sorry smart ass into the dirt and stomp on his face until it was a bloody pulp, and instead gripped the wheel so hard I feared it or my knuckles would snap. Through gritted teeth I said “What the hell do you mean? She lost my daddy, and now she thinks she’s lost you.”

I then proceeded to tell him that he should remember what he told me about Barbara, his sister, my aunt. When my grandmother died back in the late 80′s, Kenny and Barbara had a falling out about who got what, as it usually happens when people die. Any notion of sibling love went straight to hell and they didn’t speak unless forced to for years. Of course my mother was stuck in the middle and agonized over it endlessly until my aunt’s death in 2007.  Last year after Gregory died, Kenny told me that his biggest regret in life was turning his back on his sister and that he was hurt every day by his actions and that if he could make it right he would. Well I’ll be damned, not even a year later and he’s doing it AGAIN. Guess that speech in the carport with the fake tears and all was his usual bullshit.

Because my mother and my cousins were there I held my tongue, but I won’t for long. I will have my say with him, because no matter what I feel about it, in the end he is hurting my mother and breaking a promise he made to my father. I cannot abide by either. I will not allow it to happen again.

I was never ashamed of anyone in my family. I’ve had cousins in prison and people who are crazy as bedbugs and people who just aren’t worth a shit, but in the end, they’re family. I was never sorry to say I was related to any of them. Until now.

Now I am ashamed. I’m sorry.

And I’m mad.

And I’m not gonna use the excuse “That’s just Kenny.”

Not this time.

I sat and cried until snot covered my face and my body was curled into a ball on the floor while both dogs snuffled around me, trying to see what was wrong. I cried until the sobbing turned into dry heaves, and then I cried some more.

I cried because I wanted it to all be new again.

I wanted me to be new again. To be whole again.

Like I was here, like I had just arrived.

I cried because I know I can’t.

I cried because I’m selfish.

I cried because I want my husband.

I cried because I want my daddy.

I cried because I want all of the people back in my life who loved me and made me feel safe.

I cried because I felt so alone.

I want the ones that are still here to be here for me, to tell me they love me and no matter what they always will, no matter the family drama or stupid arguments over a damn fig tree or who did what to who or boathouses or any of the stupid shit that doesn’t matter.

I cried because I wanted my life back.

I cried myself to sleep and woke up on the floor with two terriers on either side, watching me with their big eyes, their tails cautiously wagging to and fro, as if testing the winds of my emotions.

I hugged them until the energy from their bodies give me a reason to get off of the floor.

Then I fixed myself a drink and went and sat out on the deck.

And as I sat there and the images of my life started to run through my head, I started to cry again.

Because I was thankful.

Thankful that I was born to an amazing family.

Thankful that I was given a life and a childhood that so many only dream of.

Thankful for the lifelong friends I have from Singapore and Mississippi and from my life now.

Thankful to have had Gregory for the time that I did, and for the love and the fun and the memories we made.

Thankful that I am healthy, have a job, a home, two cars, friends and people who love me.

Thankful that somehow I gathered the strength I never knew I had to get through this, one step at a time.

Thankful to be here.

Thankful to be me.

Even through it all, I’m still me. With the same goofy grin and dark scary hair I had in that picture up there. Older, not so sure about wiser.

Bruised, scarred and hurting.

A conundrum.

Clawing my way out of bed one day, bounding out and ready to take on the world the next.

But never giving up. Never.

I wasn’t made that way.

And for that, I am especially thankful.

On Friday we hit the road, headed to the lake ….. and happiness ensued …..

Traffic was light and by 1pm I was settled in ……

The weather ? Perfect …..

The company was even better ….

Amazing mornings …..

Colorful nights …..

Good food prepared by good men (and women!) …..

And lots of it …..

naps ….

Games  …

Lots of swimming ….

Boats ….

Boat drinks ….

New babies …

Of all kinds…..

Curious little girls ….

Smiles …..

A cousin home from Nashville ….

Good times to celebrate the red, white and blue ……

And family and friends ….

I can’t think of a better way to spend my time.

Hope y’all had an amazing holiday weekend too.

This year, I’m actually looking forward to it. Going to the lake, not the other part.

Like I said yesterday, roller coaster emotions. Last year I was clothed in the black veil of meh over G’s death, and though I took every chance I could to spend time with my daddy, I knew each time was once closer to the last. I think that while the agonizing wait for death propelled me to be with him it also somewhat pushed me away, because I couldn’t stand to see him suffer. It’s odd how things come full circle because he reacted the same way when my Granny was being taken away from us by dementia. This year I have to be strong not only for me, but for my mother. It will be another milestone for her without my dad. The Fourth is a big deal around our house, and anytime you live on the main drag of a huge lake, it should be. We’ll have a bit of the work taken off by my awesome cousins who are also hosting a shin-dig at their place, letting my mom relax and just enjoy time with the family. When we aren’t there she and I will cook, entertain family and friends, lay in the pool and take boat rides. We’ll smile and wave at the folks we know as they go by in the various boat parades. And I hope we’ll make more happy memories.

I’ve decided as such that I am Declaring My Independence from Dr. Lecter and any and all Grief Monsters that may try and impede on my celebration of good times and noodle salad.

Begone annoying grief bugs, no room for you in my life the next few days. I shall swat you with my electronic bug zapper and shoo you away with blasts from my always half full cup of whatever the hell I feel like drinking. I will try and be successful in having a good time and make that happen, snot filled sobs of grief and despair be damned. You may ambush me on another day, another time, but not in the next four. I refuse to give in to you. I must protect mah house. (that’s an Under Armour reference for you non-sporty folk)

And don’t go bothering anyone else either. Why don’t you take a long walk off a short pier? Stick a bottle rocket in your tailpipe and light ‘er up. Whatever you do, leave me alone. And my friends and family too.

We have memories to look back on, and more to make …….

Inside was a letter from a childhood friend of my father’s. I won’t put her name here in order to respect her privacy, but I will put the text of her letter here, and I think that explains it all…..

February 23, 2010

To her I say thank you, your letter means so very much to me and I am sure to my mother as well. It invoked memories of the town my father and I were both lucky enough to call home, and cemented another precious memory of him in my mind and heart. The pin that you included was shared by my father and grandfather, and will now be mine, and I will treasure it forever. There are no words to express what your simple act of a kindness has meant to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Mom to be  …….

Opening the aforementioned stuff …..

Noms ……

Now, yall know that I don’t know nothin’ bout birthin’ no babies …… but I do know how to throw a party. Imagine my delight when I opened the freezer to find ice for the margaritas and found this …..

Totally not my idea, but it could have been ……

Margarita anyone ?

The impact the death our loved one had on us. The impact of the illness, the dying, the finding out, the funeral,etc,etc. Everyone has a different impact, even though so many of our circumstances are the same.

I have impacts from it everyday. I call them aftershocks. Yesterday, I opened a drawer in the kitchen and the knob came off in my hand. I’ve been asking G to fix that damn knob for 6 months. That little aftershock produced a wave of grief that sent me to the kitchen floor for a good 20 minutes. Then I got up and went to work.

At work, someone told me I was strong and that I was a rock at Gregory’s funeral. I guess I was. I wasn’t medicated, I wasn’t anything. I think I was just in shock. I’m a rock alright, when you can see me. When you can’t I’m like a big blubbering grief sponge. As another blogger recently said about himself, I can grieve like a Ninja.

I think that’s why I feel so odd at this group. Some people can’t even talk without crying or just bursting into sobs. I’ll admit I did tear up a bit last night, but so far I haven’t cried or anything. And it’s not that I can’t….I do. I just do it with me. I’m scared of the day that I can’t control it anymore.

But even though my aftershocks are often and devastating now, the lasting impact that Gregory had on my life will never go away…

*Love
*Happiness
*Smiles
*great memories
*comfort
*self-confidence

Thank you baby for every second we had,even through the bad, we came back to the good. Thank you for having an everlasting impact on my life. Thank you. I love you.