A Grave Matter

Today is me Grandpa Joe's birthday. He would have been 120. Sure, that would not be a likely age for him to have made. But I can imagine the hell he would have raised if he had.

He passed away August 27, 1991, just shy of 86, so we buried him pretty close to his birthday. He smoked heavy from his teens (his doctor at the end remarked that his lungs were probably like leather). No doubt some tobacco farmer lived the high life because of Joe. 

I remember him smoking Carltons. It's a silly thing to be sentimental over but I can still see clearly those red packages they came in, and him opening a fresh one on his front porch, tearing the cellophane off with a carpet knife because that's what he did when something didn't open readily enough. Which, for his purposes, they typically would not. 

He went home in style. Me Pops rented a large black Chevy Suburban and drove Joe back to Jacksonville, Illinois for internment. Joe always promised himself he was going to buy one new car before he died. He never did, but his last trip was in one. I wonder if perhaps that was me Pops' salute to his old man.

Down at the funeral home in Jacksonville I remember me and me cousin Art were standing by the casket. One or the other of us said, "This ain't right."

"What?" the other asked.

"He can't leave this world without a pack of cigarettes."

"I'll get the smokes, you get the lighter," I said. Off we were to find a store. I bought a pack of Carltons for the first and only time in my life. Art got the lighter, a real nice one as befit the moment. The undertaker solemnly placed both in the vest pocket of Joe's suit.

A little while later we were talking to an uncle, telling him what we'd done. "I don't know that that was a good idea," Uncle remarked. "What if that butane mixes with the gases of the body decomposing? It might cause an explosion."

Hell, Joe would have loved that! The sight of dirt spraying up as the headstone fell over backward would be an absolute classic for him. And I can't help imagining me Grandma Cosgriff lying next to him, shaking her head and tsk tsking. She had to do that often enough in life, and now two of her grandkids go and give Joe one more reason to annoy her. Everyone else in the cemetery would be thinking, 'That's just Joe'. Grandpa would simply be cackling in the way he always did when he found something funny, a gutteral haw haw haw laugh as if it were being forced out of his body.

Happy Birthday Joe. I know you're still rooting for that explosion.

65

It's really an arbitrary thing, no less so than, say, a Fiftieth Anniversary. Why is that such a milestone compared to the 49th or the 51st? Be that as it may, here I am turning 65. Technically, at 4:30 this afternoon, the more or less exact time I was born. It was a Friday. The world rejoiced.

65. Intellectually you know (or at least assume) that by the grace of God you'll make it. Then you actually do. 

I indeed feel different this morning, although I'm sure that's psychological. A milestone has been achieved, such as it is. The first hint was my Medicare card coming in the mail at the end of March. Oh, this is actually happening, that 65 thing, I thought, even though my joints and muscles have been proclaiming its approach for a few years now. 

Yet here it really is. I took my walk this morning; I puttered in the old barn. Outwardly things seem the same. But, 65. Might as well embrace it with all the gusto those joints and muscles will allow.

It's All in the Timing.

Today is me brother Phil's birthday.

The thing about his birthday which can never be forgiven is that it was in May. Specifically, of course, the 31st. The last day of the month. He could have held out.

Why, you ask (you did ask, didn't you?), is it such a big deal? Well, Bill and Ella Cosgriff had eight kids, so (check my math) there were 10 of us. And the birthdays were spread out quite evenly. Dad was born in January, Mom February 16, me older brother Bill in March, me in April, etcetera. We already had a birthday in May through me brother Patrick, and in July due to me sister Susan and brother Ed. This left June to fill the gap. And Phil was due June 13, which was interestingly me Grandpaw Hutchins (me Mom's dad) birthday. It would have been serendipity all the way around, family birthdays every month of the year through July and a shared birthdate with our beloved Grandpaw.

Then Phil skunks it all up.

Happy Birthday ya lout.

Mom's Birthday

Mom would have been 89 today. Not that long ago I had every expectation she would make it, and beyond. For some reason 93 had always been in my mind. Ah well. She went quickly and she went at home, for both of which I am sure she's grateful. 

I don't feel as though it's really hit me yet. We're coming on five months now. Sundays have reverted to plain old Sundays. The pair of us no longer tool around, doing minor shopping and having all those lunchtime cheeseburgers. Most of the rest of the week feels like usual: work, write, travel a bit, have an occasional dinner out. When I do stop by her house, I always say hi to her front porch chair as I enter.

There's granola bars left in the console of my new old van, remnants of having them on hand for when she got the munchies. She probably ate more granola bars in the last five years of her life than most of us eat, ever. But she ate. That was the main thing. 

What is, is, I suppose. I just don't feel more than vaguely numb even now, and that worries me. 

A rather melancholy way to say Happy Birthday, ain't it? But, Happy Birthday, Mom. No doubt it's a good one. 

Googley goo

I had a birthday last week, which was cool, because, you know, when you're still having birthdays you're still alive. I am thankful for that.

Perhaps the biggest surprise that day was that when I logged onto my computer, up popped a notice from Google Assistant telling me Happy Birthday! I didn't even know I had a Google Assistant!

Google, you think of everything.

Rene's birthday

Everybody has a birthday, right? Why, even the most profound philosophers have birthdays. Rene Descartes, the great French philosopher, was born on this day in 1596. He was the one famous for declaring, "I think, therefore I am," as proof that he existed.

Poor Rene fell victim to his own beliefs, sadly. As Rene was sitting at the bar one evening, the barkeep noticed his patron's drink had gone empty. "Would you like another one?" the man innocently asked.

Rising to leave Rene answered, "I think not."  And he disappeared.

Poor Rene.

On handkerchiefs

I miss me Pops. He was truly my hero. And that makes me feel bad about saying anything which might even faintly cast doubt upon that. Believe me, though, I find what I am about to say rather humorous. And in no way incongruent to my feelings.

There are few ways in which I never wanted to emulate me Pops. Well, actually only one. As a kid, I remember him always carrying a handkerchief. He routinely would take it out of his pocket, blow his nose, crumple the thing up and put it right back in his pocket. I vowed quite often, quite emphatically, that I would never do that.

I think you can guess what has actually happened. The short, quick answer is: I carry a handkerchief in my pocket.

You're still my hero, Pops. Happy 83rd Birthday.

Dating Patrick

"Hey Marty, do remember how cold it was on October 2, 1974, that we had snow flurries?"

"Well, no, I can't say that I do."

"Oh. It was warm enough four days later that we were wearing shorts again."

"No kidding?" This is a typical quick conversation with my brother Patrick. He has always had a fascination with dates and can remember things far out of my memory. You tell him the exact date of your birth and he will immediately tell you the day of the week it was. He has the calendar ingrained in his mind for 800 years: 400 years forward and 400 years back. There's a cycle to it he tells me, but I can't fathom it. It's all pretty amazing. And as demonstrated, he can recall things I never would.

We all remember birthdays. Pat would tell me when my kids were 1,000, 2,000, and 3,000 days old. The anniversaries of auto accidents, or the day the family got a dog or cat, when he first ate pizza, he remembers like yesterday. And then there's the odd factoid like the cold on 10/2/74, or the record warmth on April 12, 1977.

It was 89. I know because he told me so. And you can look it up.

Wednesday wailing

My oldest son turns 35 today. I've found myself asking myself several times, 'When did I get old enough to have a 35 year old kid?' Then I remember me Pops asking himself the same thing when I turned 35. In 1995. 22 years ago. When my oldest turned then 13, and I wondered how that happened so fast.

Have I beaten the point to death yet?

On another front: first world problems. At the start of my lunch hour today, I went to my fridge to get a glass of Faygo Rock and Rye soda. If you've never had Faygo Rock and Rye, let alone any Faygo (60/40 grapefruit soda is another good one) yours is a sad, deprived existence. Anyway, on opening the fridge I saw that the bottle was packed away in the back. Aw man, I gotta move the milk, some eggs, a quart of egg nog, a cake and a box of feta cheese and what-all else just to get me a glass of pop? But I made myself do it, because, well, it is Faygo Rock and Rye.

Oh, I grumbled under my breath as I, ah, worked towards my goal. And I made sure to leave it front and center for next time too. I mean, needing 10 seconds to get a glass of pop...even if it is Faygo Rock and Rye.