A Song For Grandma

A hospital room. An old woman lies unconscious in the bed. She’s attached to a whole variety of machines that beep and chirp and whoosh and buzz. It’s just her on stage for a bit, long enough to establish the rhythm of these machines helping to keep her alive. 

The door opens and Mama walks in, followed by her two sons, Lance and Chris. They are both in their early 20’s. Lance wears military fatigues and his hair is buzzed Marine length. He carries an acoustic guitar. Chris is dressed in ill-fitting khakis and a polo shirt that bears the emblem of the shitty retail establishment where he works his shitty job. He even has a shitty little nametag. He carries a small portable stereo. Lance and Chris are both a bit emotional at the sight of the old woman in the bed. They kneel at her side. 

MAMA

Now she’s unconscious, but the doctor says she can still hear you.

Pause. Lance and Chris struggle with tears.

MAMA

Well go on, say something to her.

The boys look at each other.

LANCE

You first, dude.

CHRIS

          Works up nerve
Grandma? It’s me, your Chrissy.

Lance chuckles. Chris smacks him.

CHRIS

Me and Lance came to see you.

LANCE

I came from Iraq.

CHRIS

Shut up, dude! Damn. Always interrupting.
          Turns back to Grandma, starts to speak, but can’t. Smacks Lance again.
Damn dude, you made me forget what I was gonna say!

LANCE

I didn’t make you do nothing.

CHRIS

Dumb jarhead.

LANCE

At least I got in.

Chris smacks him hard, Lance smacks back, a smack fight ensues, a continuation of the same smack fight that they’ve had going since they were little boys.

MAMA

Boys!

They stop.

MAMA

I swear, what is the matter with you two? If y’all can’t behave for Grandma, then by God, you might as well just go on home. Honestly. Now Chris, you’ve had your chance to speak, why don’t you let your brother take a turn?

LANCE

I don’t know what to say.

MAMA

Just say whatever you would say to her normally.

LANCE

But she ain’t normal.

MAMA

Well just pretend she is. Just.....here.

Mama adjusts Grandma’s bed, her pillows, and her head so that she’s facing towards the boys. But of course, her eyes are still closed. Both boys are freaked out. 

MAMA

There now, just pretend like she’s got her eyes open and y’all are having a little visit.

Lance clearly does not like this. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He babbles for a few moments, then breaks down in tears. Chris is too freaked out to even make fun of his brother for crying. 

MAMA

Oh for heaven’s sakes! You can go halfway around the world to get shot at by a bunch of Muslims but you can’t even talk to your grandma without turning into a big baby.

LANCE

She’s not right!

Chris is also crying now.

MAMA

Well it ain't doing her a damn bit of good having you two come in here and bawl like a couple of babies. Good lord. Now pull it together, the both of you. Chris, why don’t you tell your grandma something nice that you remember about her?

CHRIS

Uh, well, uh....

LANCE

Fig newtons.

CHRIS

Fig newtons!

LANCE

In that glass cookie jar up on the counter in her kitchen.

CHRIS

Next to the T.V.

LANCE

And she kept that old step stool right there next to it.

CHRIS

So we could reach ‘em when we were little. Damn, I don’t even like Fig Newtons, but I ate a ton of ‘em every time we were over there.

LANCE

Me neither. They only tasted good at Grandma’s house.

Pause for a moment.

LANCE

I been in Iraq, Grandma. I been being careful like you told me to. Ain’t nothing bad happened yet. Not to me anyway. Dude in my company got blown up pretty bad.

CHRIS

You shoot anybody yet?

Lance shakes his head. Chris nods understanding.

CHRIS

Seen anybody get shot?

Lance nods.

CHRIS

Bad guys?

Lance nods.

CHRIS

Cool.

Pause.

MAMA

Boys, why don’t y’all tell Grandma about your music?

CHRIS

Oh yeah. Um, should I just tell her about it?

MAMA

Well of course. Go on.

LANCE

Go ahead, dude.

CHRIS

Grandma, you remember how me and Lance used to have a band with Trevor and them? We had to quit when Lance went off to the Marines.

LANCE

Y’all ain’t had to.

CHRIS

We ain’t had no guitar player, dummy.

LANCE

What about Lucy’s brother?

CHRIS

I don’t like that dude. I’m trying to talk to Grandma here.

LANCE

Then talk.

CHRIS

Damn. Um....what was I saying?

LANCE

The new song.

Lance grabs his guitar and starts tuning it.

CHRIS

Oh right. Um, Grandma, we been writing this new song since Lance got back a couple of days ago. We were gonna play it for you, if you want us to.

MAMA

I think she’d like that.

LANCE

You sure the doctors and them ain’t gonna mind?

MAMA

We’re paying for a private room, ain’t we?

CHRIS

You sure she can hear us?

MAMA

I don't see why not. Go on. Play your song.

Chris queues up the portable stereo. Lance is seated, guitar in his lap, ready to play.

CHRIS

Ready?

Lance nods. Chris presses play on the stereo which bursts forth with a southern-style hip-hop beat. Chris dances accordingly, Lance bobs his head and taps his foot, but he does not, I repeat, he does NOT play a note on his guitar. Mama sits and watches, seemingly pleased. 

Finally it’s lyrics time. Lance and Chris trade off back and forth.

Bitch!

    Take them panties off!

    Take them panties off!

Bitch!

    Take them panties off!

    Take them panties off!

                Take em off!

    Take them panties off!

    Take them panties off!

Bitch!

    Take them panties off!

    Take them panties off!

Bitch!

    Take them panties off!

    Take them panties off!

                Take em off!

    Take them panties off!

    Take them panties off!

This repeats for as long as necessary in order for it to go from ridiculous to just plain stupid. Somewhere during the song a nurse enters to check some vitals. She pays them absolutely no mind while she goes about her business, then exits.

The song finally ends with boy boys yelling:

    Beeeyotch!

Lance strums an A-minor chord.

CHRIS

Dumbass! E-minor!

LANCE

I like A-minor better.

CHRIS

I don't care what you like. It’s supposed to be an E.

LANCE

Says you.

CHRIS

That’s right, says me.

LANCE

I’m the guitar player.

CHRIS

You’re the dipshit.

Lance stands, chest puffed out all fighting rooster-style.

MAMA

Boys! That’s enough. It sounded very nice, whatever chord it was.

LANCE

A-minor.

MAMA

Okay, that’s probably enough for today. We should get going. We’re meeting your Aunt Louise at the Golden Corral in 30 minutes and I need to swing by the Wal-Mart for some pantyhose. Y’all kiss Grandma goodbye now.

The boys take turns kissing Grandma goodbye and telling her they love her. They exit, followed by Mama.

Grandma is once again alone on stage, and I find myself with a choice to make. Part of me wants to do something fucked up like have her heart stop, as indicated by having her heartbeat monitor go flat line, with the little beeps suddenly turning into a long continuous beep. Nurses rushing in and all that. But that seems so cliche. On the other hand, I want to do something kind of sweet like have her give a sign of life, maybe a twitch of her hand, or maybe even open her eyes, maybe even say something. But that seems cliche too. 

I seem to run into this question a lot in my writing: do the fucked up thing or the sort of sweet thing? 

In the end, what I would probably go with is to have nothing change. Just leave Grandma on stage, just as she was at the beginning, as the lights fade out. Visiting hours are over.

What'chall think?

May my funeral descend into a brawl

I got the weirdest thing in the mail the other day.

Wait. Back up.

So a couple of weeks ago, I had a lot of death going on in my life. I had two funerals to attend in one week, and yet another that I would have attended were it possible for me to be at two funerals in two different cities at the same time. I wrote about one of those funerals already. The funeral I missed was for a coworker of mine, a good man, not exactly a close friend, but a guy I liked a lot, somebody you could share an easy laugh with, and clearly a person who meant a great deal to a lot of folks.

The other funeral I attended that week was for my grandmother. My mom's mom.

This thing I got in the mail the other day, it starts off like this:

Yes, because that's exactly what I need to hear in a form letter from some faceless entity whose name I don't recognize. But that's not the weird part.

But wait, before I get to that, yes, it was my grandmother's funeral the other week. I sort of zipped past that, didn't I? The thing is, well, heh...fuck. I'm not really quite sure how to put this other than to be straightforward and honest about it, so, here goes: I wasn't really all that broken up about it. I feel like a real shit typing that, as if there's some piece of my soul missing, the part that allows you to feel sorrow and grief over the loss of beloved family members who cared for you and loved you since you were a small child, but, well, it's not that simple. Is it ever that simple? It is? I'd like to think that it is, sometimes, in some places, perhaps in indigenous cultures that have managed to remain untouched and unaware and innocent.

Don't get me wrong, I was sad about it. But it wasn't exactly a surprise. The only surprise to me was the fact that she lasted as long as she did. I figured that once my grandfather died, she would follow pretty shortly on his heels, but she managed to stay with us for several more years. And looking through the pictures of her life, there were a fair many of her with me at various ages. Birthday parties, holidays, graduations, moments forgotten, their significance not immediately clear, but still valuable and worth holding onto.

All the same, I can't say that I was particularly close to the woman who was my grandmother. Maybe I was as a little boy, but as I grew older, those bonds thinned. And her funeral was perhaps the strangest service I have ever attended, and it inspired me to demand a promise out of those of you reading this who may one day attend my funeral. And I hope that I don't cause any offense to any family members reading this who may have been there, but the fact of the matter is that there were many moments during her funeral when people were describing their encounters with this woman, my grandmother, and I was sitting there wondering, "who the hell are they talking about?" It was as if these people were describing a completely different humanoid entity whose time had just passed. This preacher person who gave a eulogy, who supposedly had spent a fair amount of time around my grandparents, he wove this narrative that at times made me think, "okay, that sounds sort of like the Mimmie and Papa that I knew," but at other times veered off in other directions and had me wondering things like "um, did you ever even meet these people you're sermonizing about?" or "were my grandparents double agents?" The only part that really rang true was a poem read by two of my cousins, people who, also being my grandmother's grandchildren, saw her in a light similar to the one in which I saw her.

Oh, and then there's the fact that one of the great big happy family photos propped up by the open casket up front for all to see, taken at some holiday years and years past, pictured me standing next to my EX-wife. Awkward?

But back to the strangeness, the letter I received, a letter which came from a company called Algordanza and was signed, apparently by hand, by a person named Christina. This letter goes on to say....

"...one thing that does soothe the pain and bring closure is witnessing your loved one properly memorialized."

"We are the creators of the cremation or "Memorial Diamond" the world's most beautiful memorial."

"...not available to families in the United States until now....now it is available to you."

"...state of the art...treats your loved ones with the utmost respect..."

"Unlike imitation diamonds, the Algordanaza Diamond will be 100% created from the remains of the person you want to memorialize."

I stood in the kitchen staring at that sentence for several moments trying to make sure that I was properly comprehending the familiar yet strange shapes on the paper before me, checking and doublechecking that my brain was accurately piecing the words into sentences, the sentences into ideas. But there was no mistake. This company wanted me to pay them to make a diamond from a dead person's ashes.

My grandmother was not cremated, and nowhere in this letter does it actually say who the hell they are talking about. My wife's aunt was cremated, so I can only assume that these Algordanza people were referring to her, though how they got my contact info or why the letter is addressed to me, I haven't the slightest idea.

So I have to ask a couple of things of you, good people. First off, if you are ever unfortunate enough to find yourself at my funeral, and should you hear a person eulogizing over me, and should this person seem unfamiliar, as if they were not a person that actually knew me in life, and should their description of the man that I was in life ring untrue in your ears and in your heart, I ask, nay, I demand that you stand up in the middle of the service and shout something to the effect of "NOW HOLD ON JUST A FUCKING SECOND!" And when you've got everyone's attention, proceed to describe who I was to you. Give your own eulogy for me. Because dear God, let my eulogy not be left to those who did not know me. And should it descend into a brawl, all the better.

The other request is simpler: don't let my ashes get pounded into a diamond. Because that's some tacky ass commemorative plate infomercial roadside attraction bullshit.

Boyos

Littlest dude is just under a month and 11.5 pounds. The way he's gaining the poundage, he'll be asking to borrow my clothes in a couple of weeks.

This morning I woke up, as I have many recent mornings, to the sound of Henry calling to me over the baby monitor. I went into his room, picked him up, along with his favorite blanket and his stuffed animals, and brought him back into our bed to snooze off the rest of the morning. It used to be only one stuffed animal, a nice little Elmo doll that, God bless it, doesn't sing or dance or say a single solitary thing. Sidenote: It's shocking how hard it is to find a quiet Elmo, they all seem to have shit to say. As I was saying, Elmo now has a friend, a bear, who is also as silent as a made man under interrogation. Who knows how many of Henry's stuffed little friends I'll have to carry with me in another month. This is developing into something of a ritual, one which I won't complain about too much since it typically affords about another hour in the sack.

The Ash drove me to work this morning so that she could have the car for the day. Something about going places, doing things, running things over, or some such. It is astounding how long it takes to get two little people ready to go anywhere, even if one of them is immobile. I can only imagine what it will be like when they can both run off and hide.

After work, the whole family arrived to rescue me. Driving along, Ash was telling me about her day, and she mentioned something about "the boys." I laughed and pointed out how our life was now such that we would be referring to "the boys" regularly in sentences. The boys this, the boys that, the boys, the boys, the boys. Little things are awesome sometimes.

We stopped by the store on the way home to pick up some stuff for dinner, Ash and Simon waited in the car while Henry and I went inside. We've been trying to do little things like that to reenforce Henry's big bro status and remind him of all the cool stuff he can do that the baby can't just yet. I'm getting the feeling that Henry's looking forward to the day that Simon gets his legs under him.

On the way home from the store, we passed by some kid who was running around with a toy lightsaber, which inspired the following bit of "Return of the Jedi" chit-chat.

HOLMES: Hey, that kid's practicing to be a Jedi.

HENRY: Jedi!

HOLMES (ala Jabba the Hutt): Ho ho ho. Jedi.

HENRY: Ho ho ho.

HOLMES (ala Bib Fortuna): Ay-wonna-wonga.

HENRY: Wonga-wonga!

HOLMES: Jabba-no-bodda.

HENRY: No BODDA!

Strong in the force is this one.

Gee, do they still make wooden Christmas trees?

Last Sunday, Ash informed me that she had just an inkling of a feeling that the baby was going to come that day or the next. The feeling turned out to be nothing, perhaps just a bit of undigested beef or a blot of mustard. Whatever it was, it served the most welcome purpose of nudging us into action to make a push towards getting our recently moved-into house look like a place where civilized members of the human race reside. Of course, we couldn't bring a December baby home to a bare Christmas tree, so part of the day's labor included decorating the tree while our VCR performed its single solitary annual duty of playing my VHS copy of A Charlie Brown Christmas. I decorated while Henry tried to stick himself with hooks. Afterwards, we managed to unpack a fair amount of boxes and put some stuff away. The place is downright cozy and livable, not to mention Christmasy.

I've gone to work every day this week, always halfway expecting to get the call. I forgot my cell phone one day, so I was just absolutely certain that labor would begin while I was in a meeting. It probably goes without saying that my brain is halfway checked out of the workplace. I'm still getting things done and checking things off of my list (hi boss!). I've even managed to wrap a few things up before I take the rest of my vacation days that I have saved up for the year (I refuse to use the term "paternity leave" since that would imply that I'm talking about some special kind of leave that is set aside just for new parents and which is actually possible for people who rely on a paycheck). But in reality, my brain is mostly elsewhere. This isn't so unusual in the holiday season, but with a new biscuit on the way, it's amazing I remember my work PC's password.

It seems that when I'm in this "checked out" mode, my randomness factor increases a bit. Case in point: I was sitting in a meeting room waiting for, what else, a meeting to start. And out of nowhere, I just started singing. Exactly what did I sing, you ask? Well, the purpose of the meeting was to review software requirements documentation written by one of my coworkers whose name is Julius, so naturally I sang:

Half of what we'll say in this meeting will be meaningless
But we'll say it just to make your documentation better Juuuuuuuliuuuus.

This, of course, was met with stone silence. As it should have been.

Tonight, we spent another evening at Ashley's folks' place. With family coming in for the holidays and rallying around their dying relative, their place has been pretty packed lately. Henry loves all of this. He, for one, would be totally down with everybody going over to Grandma's house every single night of the week. One of the many beautiful things about this little boy is just how much he loves His People. That includes his family, his friends, his parents' friends, just everybody who's around. He just talks about all of them all of the time. If he knows you, he loves you. It gives me some hope for the future, that the feelings he'll have for the baby that will be his little brother will be warm ones.

One of those wholesome family days

So even though it was like a bazillion degrees here in lovely Austin, Texas today, los Holmeses managed to get out to Zilker Park early and catch the Zilker Zephyr. Catching the train isn't really that impressive of an accomplishment since it runs every half hour or so, but the fact that we made it down there several hours before noon is really quite amazing.

I hereby decree that all cities should have a park with a train that the kids can ride. It really should be recognized for the urban necessity that it is, like utilities and public transit. Henry had a good time watching the park go by, and waving at all the folks big and small, even the guitar-harmonica dude that apparently just stands at a particular bend in the track waiting for the train to pass so he can play a quick tune for the passengers as they go by. With every group of human beings that we passed, Henry pointed and excitedly informed me that they were, in fact, "People! People!"

After the train, we let little dude chase a few pigeons around, then run wild on the playground for a bit to burn off some of that crazy baby energy. I'm one of those dads who would often like to be right there on the playground equipment with the kiddos, but they're usually so crowded with, you know, other people's kids that I'm paranoid about barreling one of them over with my clumsy self while running for the monkey bars. Today though, even though there were a lot of kids at the park, there were surprisingly few actually on the playground, which I took as license to get up on it.

On the way out, I just had to get a picture of Henry on Philosopher's Rock. Three old dudes sitting around hashing out the meaning of existence. If I have my way, that's exactly the kind of old dude I'll grow into.

When that evening sun's setting low

The cosmos must have fallen into some bizarre celestial alignment because Ash was in the mood for Mexican food when she and The GooGoo picked me up from work today. She's never in the mood for Mexican food, so I took advantage and we dropped into a place down the street that we haven't tried yet. We're still having fun learning about all the places that our new-to-us area of town has to offer.

When the waiter took our order, he asked us if we wanted an extra little plate for Henry. Ash said yeah, but then asked if they were breakable, to which the waiter says, "yeah, they're breakable, but so are our hearts, and we still give those out." Maybe some other time I wouldn't have been in the mood to hear such a romantic notion in such an unexpected setting, or had his tone of voice been different I might have rolled my eyes or scowled, but it's one of those cool spring evenings that we get so few of right before summer comes a'raging down o'er our heads, so it made me smile and I tipped him extra, even if I was peeved at the restaurant for making me have to dig through six high chairs before I found one that didn't have a broken buckle.

After dinner and ice cream, we went for a family walk. We even brought the dog along with us to make it an official family trip. We took The GooGoo to the nearby playground to let him burn off some energy. It's been fun to watch him grow gradually more confident with climbing up and down on the playground equipment, though he hasn't quite mastered the concept of the slide. On the way back, we waved hi to one of our neighbors who was standing out on her front porch enjoying the evening. "Now that is a happy family" she said. Yeah, I have to admit, I think we are.

I got all emotional and shit today

See how I did that? See how I mixed a cuss word in there with that confession in my title? As if to let you know, "Yeah, I might be vulnerable sometimes, but I can use profanity so I'm obviously still tough." Wasn't that sneaky of me? See how now I'm pointing out what I did, as if to let you know that I'm perfectly aware of the subtle ways in which I manipulate you, and that I've got tons of these cheap little writer tricks I can just whip out at any time? See how I'm stopping now before it becomes unbearable?

Man, I am good.

See, after dragging my ass outta bed, through a shower, into some clothes, out to the car, and onto the road to work, I heard that Everclear song "Father of Mine" on the radio. I've never been a fan of these Everclear guys. Their music's just never done much for me, and plus when they came out, the riffage just wasn't enough to satisfy the guitar snob that I was back then...and I guess still sorta am today. But this song always stuck with me since I could so easily relate to it. I know this song is an honest piece of work because I am that kid, and every bit of it rings true. The only difference between me and this guy is that I don't remember the time when my dad was around because he was gone by the time I started forging what is now my conscious memory. I didn't have a kid of my own when I first heard this song, but I could always understand the part at the end where he sings about swearing that he'll never abandon his child. From as far back as I can remember, from the first time I ever considered what it would be like to have kids, I've always known that being a good dad was going to be a high priority for me.

So this song is playing on the radio, and I'm pretty sure it's the first time I've heard it since Henry was born, and I start thinking about how many guys out there have walked away from being parents, and the idea of even thinking about doing something like that, of leaving Henry and his mom, it just made me feel ill. I have my theories about why my dad left, and I've long since forgiven him, but still, I can't even imaging doing that. I can't imagine living with it, what that does to you, to your soul. I thought about how sometimes Henry cries when I walk out the door, and how he always lights up when I get home. I thought about how many kids have lost their dads in Iraq. I just thought about all this sad shit and it made me feel like goddamn bawling. Plus I was going to work, so that was sad.

I made it into work and did my time and now I'm home again and the little dude is asleep. This family thing...sometimes it makes me crazy, but I don't want to be without it.