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Because I can't bear to eulogize Doug - 2008-08-19
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8:46 p.m. - 2005-05-24
Today is (was?) my mother's birthday. She would have been sixty-two. That seems incredibly old to me. For her, I mean. In my mind's eye she remains static in time. Like a TV rerun. She wasn't much older than I am now the last time we spoke in person. Years of heavy sun tanning and heedless facecloth scrubbing had left her face a mess. Eye bags and creases and the blotchy pigment of the career sun worshipper. Her hands were crone-like too, wrinkly, bony and veiny. But still and all she was only in her early 40's, hardly a candidate for senior citizenship. If she were still alive today, seeing her would be a shock. The same nasty surprise as seeing the endlessly 30-something Lucy Ricardo become the latter-day 60-ish Lucille Carter on Here's Lucy with just a flick of the remote. The transition is too sudden and all you can do is helplessly compare the 'then' Lucy with the 'now' Lucy and wonder what the hell happened. It was a shock too when I passed the age she had been when I left home. She was 37 when I packed and left scant hours after turning 18. When I got to 37 it didn't seem very old. Nor very wise. I thought to myself, she'd done all that damage in the same span it had taken me just to feel in charge of myself. Did her youth excuse any of it? It was tempting to believe and give her an out. Believe that perhaps if she'd had more of a life before becoming my mother she might not have been so selfishly evil. But then I thought on it more and remembered my own kid was mostly grown. Alex was 16 when I was 37. I'd been a very young mother too, yet somehow I had managed to pull my head out of my juvenile ass and become the adult parent my son deserved. So no, age excuses nothing. While we're on the subject of birthdays and death, the cemetery down the road from the old house must have changed its rules. It's been an active cemetery for over 100 years. I used to go to the oldest part and read the headstones. Right by the gate there was a sign that had all the rules for what could and could not be placed on graves. The cemetery had been very specific about the kinds of plantings and what kind of other stuff could be left. The rules were pretty stringent, but I thought they were fair. When you have a cemetery that spans so much history and time you kind of want there to be a homogeny from section to section. Makes sense. I'm thinking the place must have changed ownership because several of the newest graves are sporting 'décor' which clearly violates the rules I was familiar with. One of the most recent family plots (which is right up near the road) has so much junk parked around the headstones it's ridiculous and totally tacky. There's wind chimes on short poles. There's always a bunch of sorry deflated mylar balloons. There's a plastic birdbath between two of the graves. But the worst is the collection of garden whirligigs spiked right into the graves themselves. Little pinwheels and those paddle things of guys rowing boats and a bobbing woodpecker. It's just gross. I half expect to go past and see a Grim Reaper granny fanny. Death himself limned on plywood bent over exposing his bony shanks. Ugh. Makes me glad I'm going to be burnt and scattered. Imagine the horror of being stuck next to the Tacky McTackerson clan for all of eternity. Ewwww, ~LA
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