Friday, August 15, 2008
End of Summer Musings
No word yet on if the nice family with ties to my dad are buying the house. They looked at it, appeared to like it ("Do you think we can be in it before Santa comes?" the mom asked her two-year-old.) Vic is really keeping her fingers crossed that this will be It. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Anyone will be It. I do not care if it feels like it was meant to be. It doesn't bother me that a slumlord could make a low offer because he knows two grieving daughters just want to be done with it. That is exactly the situation. Why pretend otherwise?
Miss Gabor stayed overnight this week for the first time. It wasn't the first attempt, though. We had fun. I was exhausted and wanted to change my name. It should be good practice for school next week, when surely I'll want to change it again. It appears my food is no good, though, and I don't have a lot of toys. (We really didn't seem to need toys, though, as Miss Gabor insists on playing nothing but school when she comes to my house because I have a bell and an antique student desk. Miss Gabor, as teacher, is on the phone a lot and says things like, "I don't want to talk about it." Makes me wonder what goes on at her daycare.) I do, however, have good money that bought a Hannah Montana doll. On our way to Dogpatch from the halfway-point truckstop where she was handed off to me, we started to play the alphabet game. Miss Gabor stated that she had seen a J, K, and L. I disputed this fact. After going round a few times with yesididnoyoudidnt, she said rather accusingly, "Aunt Chrissy, you're not even a mom. You're just a teacher." This true. I cannot dispute it. Miss Gabor's mother, I learned later, has told her that she knows things. "I am your mother. I know more about you than you think," Vic said once when Miss Gabor denied having committed some misdemeanor.
I sat at the Sipesville Eagles earlier this week-- two times, if I'm being honest. Next to me sat a broken-hearted man, Rex. No, his wife hadn't left him. No, his dog hadn't died. His daughter got married in Vegas, and he really wanted to walk her down the aisle. This spoke to me, having lost my dad. I am glad that he walked me down the aisle even though I could've killed him myself the night before the wedding, when he playfully? slapped Tripper's face in front of both entire families and the minister. I had totally forgotten this until right after he died, when Vic brought it up. Talk about repressed memories. He and I sat in the car that evening, both of us crying, right after I made the announcement that I didn't want him to say "her mother and I" in reponse to "Who gives this woman?" I wanted the politically correct "her family and I." (It takes a village, you know.) In reality, I'm sure this was to appease my mother and step-father. My dad stuck to his guns the next day, and gave me a letter explaining why. I wanted to get rid of it, but PG wisely said I may change my mind later. I guess this is later. I wonder if she still has it.
I listened sympathetically as Rex talked about how much he has done for his daughter, how she hasn't come to see her sick grandfather, how she's not really married in the sight of god, and that would've been nice. Mind you, this was said through tears, not with bitterness and entitlement. I tried to change the subject a couple of times, once bringing up his nephew, whom I had in class a few years ago. Very nice boy, I said. "Yeah," Rex said. "Everything about him, his misdemeanor, his intellect." Later, I changed the subject to Miss Gabor coming to spend the night. I describe some of the things I had planned. Rex agreed that it sounded like a great time. "She sounds very promiscuous." I'll let him know in about 15 years.
Earlier that evening I had gone to a nearby town for their annual Old Home Week. This year featured a first-- a battle of the bands. The local newspaper published an insert listing all the fun for the week, as well as a profile of the bands. One such profile caught my eye. Dixon Crandall has a band, and this band was among those performing in hopes of winning the fabulous showcase. I decided to go. You may remember Dixon. http://edublither.blogspot.com/2006/08/dixon.html I looked at the picture in the insert, quite sure that Dixon was very cleverly flipping off the camera, upside-down. The last I knew, Dixon was listed in SNU's Dean's List.
When I got there, I had a hard time finding him, but soon saw the face, still exactly the same minus teenaged blemishes. What had changed was the hair. It stood straight up. Was green. A mohawk. Of course. When I first approached him, he was talking to one of the town's Old Homers, a fat, smudgy, vacant-looking man. "Is it hawrd to get yer shirt on with hair like dat?" Homer asked. I winced, not sure what the answer would be. Would Dixon come back with something sarcastic that Homer would never understand? Would Dixon laugh and tell Homer to go away? Would Dixon call over his musical henchmen and beat Homer senseless? (Okay, I'm not sure that would be possible.)
"Yeah, it kinda is, really," Dixon answered Homer gravely. I think Dixon was pleased Homer asked.
"Hey, Crandall!" I yelled. "Are you trying to make it hard for me to find you?" Dixon turned around. When he saw me, he laughed. "It works for you," I pronounced.
"Hey, we're playing in just a couple minutes," Dixon said.
"Why do you think I'm here??" I smiled. I found a spot behind the crowd, near the other side of the street, and waited.
The band had described itself, in the insert, as punk meets ska, and I agreed. Musically they were good-- wrote their own music, played very well. Dixon, as front man, was in love with performing, with talking to the audience, with making political statements against the loss of free speech among the nation's university professors. He sang well, though it was hard to tell at times due to the band's sound system-- a common ailment among young bands. Between screaming lyrics and hard-core riffs, reggae bridges bloomed, and it WAS danceable. Near the end, he briefly, barely noticeably, pointed to me and grinned.
One of their last songs was inspired by a Colecovision game, where the main character is a caveman.
Give me back my mind!
I don't want to be your slave!
I'm gonna grow a beard
And live in a cave!
Next up in the lineup was a family band that had performed at a graduation party we had attended earlier this summer. I had a good time that day, dancing to classic rock, singing along, the works. At one point I glanced to the side, and who do you suppose was dancing there? Hans Fritz's mom. She didn't seem to be worried about unseemly lyrics leading her down the path to sin. http://edublither.blogspot.com/2007/01/one-boy-in-suit-coat.html Hans was absent.
