Edubabble and other Blither

Twenty-ten started off predictably for me and Tripper. My grandma, my dad's mom, died on New Year's Day after a few years of going downhill. The preacher at the funeral, more about this cocksucker later, called it "death in stages": losing some hearing, sight, then her apartment, etc. She hadn't been doing too fabulously before Dad died and never regained momentum after. People, meaning well, have said that maybe we're just getting the bad parts of the new year out of the way early, that things can only get better, but we know better.


2008 began with Carlin and Kelly breaking up; then we learned that a friend from college had drunk herself to death. Then my dad got sick and died. Then we quarreled with Vic over the house: the emptying, the cleaning, the selling. 2009 seemed to be great since Trip had a new job he loved, but he was laid off in May and isn't back yet. Now this.


Now, I don't want to dwell on past patterns. Who knows what the hell could happen? Certainly not me. All I know is that my grandmother died, and the trip back to RB Town screwed us both ways, taking twice as long each time.


Having left early, we did get to town in plenty of time for the festivities. My sister Vic decided to take Miss Gabor, my niece, to the viewing, her first. She did well. She told me she wanted to go see Grandma in her casket, so we approached. It must have been weird for Miss Gabor, being eye level with the casket, looking directly at Grandma's chipped nail polish, the profile of her face, her clip on earrings. After a moment had passed, Miss Gabor looked up at me solemnly. "How did she get dressed?" she quizzed.

After we inspected Grandma, Miss Gabor wanted to tour the grounds. The viewing and funeral both were being held at the church I grew up in. I was kind of curious myself, so I was happy to show MG around. We visited the fellowship hall, the sanctuary ("What do you do here?" MG asked. "Well, the preacher gives the lesson here," I answered, trying to relate church to something MG was familiar with, school. "What's a creature?" she demanded.)

Next, we checked out the classrooms where Sunday School was held for older kids, middle and high school. Anyone who grew up in an evangelical Christian, fundamentalist, Bible-as-the-Word-of-God, "I wouldn't want to be in a movie theater when Jesus comes back" church would share my utter shock at what awaited us: a pool table. Right here in River City. That certainly was a switch. Shouldn't teenagers' time at church be better spent learning Bible verses so that when the liberal Democrats force them to turn in the Word or not receive health care, Godly teens will still take comfort from Jesus' words? Shouldn't they practice how to witness to others? Couldn't they fashion shoeboxes of hope for heathens on other continents? (Don't ask me what forms of hope would fit in a shoebox. The church youth could grow dendrites by considering that...)

At the actual funeral service the next morning, I learned that all was not lost in the church of my childhood. This vessel of salvation would not be lost in a sea of worldly modernity. The Creature, as MG dubbed him, began the "message" portion of the program. He was eager to do this, let me tell you. We had a hymn or two, a poem one aunt had written for Grandma in the 80s, and some sharing of memories from various family members, yours truly included. Then my Missionary Aunt took the podium, along with a pile of notes and Bibles. She did a wonderful job, referencing Bible verses and Psalms, funny stories as well as sad. All The Creature had to do was say a few comforting words and toss out a few more Scriptures. Then we could have meandered to the fellowship hall for the church ladies' famous ham balls. ("I don't think these balls are famous in the way they think," mused Vic.) The Creature fidgeted and appeared agitated throughout the preliminaries. Don't you know this is my sanctuary? he seemed to be thinking. What about my remarks?

The beginning of the service was very hard for me and Vic. As soon as Dad's brothers and sisters filed into the row in front of us, my first tears came. Seeing that he wasn't with them, my grief, calm for past few weeks, stirred. The Creature made all that better, though. Let's be clear, however: no one who knows me need fret that I heeded Christ's call. I am still okay with the fact that we've lost touch and do not have a personal relationship. (If he was on Facebook, though, I'd probably be his friend.) The Creature made it all better by delivering, with great gusto, a fire-and-brimstone sermon on The One True Way to Everlasting Life. The Creature reminded me that today's society wants us to believe that there are many ways to get to heaven, that all religions are equal, that Buddha and Muhammad are Jesus' peers. This simply is not true. The Creature cautioned me that not everyone gets a room in His Mansion like my grandma who hadn't been to church in years, my grandma who played bingo, uh, religiously, my grandma who read tabloids and smutty romance novels more than her bible. My grandma who would probably be more concerned that they dyed her hair more brown than red than she was about the nonbelievers at her funeral.

My mother later remarked that she was waiting for me to call out, "Good fucking grief, let's get on with it already! The poor woman's been dead a goddam week, for chrissakes," then leave. (She, Vic, and my brother Frank all would have followed me, they told me over balls in the fellowship hall.)

"I thought about it," I admitted, contemplating the percentage of yellow food on my plate....corn casserole, cheesy potatoes, jello salad. The church ladies like ham balls and yellow food. "I just decided that this is probably the last time I'll have to listen to that cocksucker or step foot in this place, so I just kept my mouth shut."

Maybe that's the real new beginning?