although "Hallelujah I'm a Bum" is also critically underappreciated
Hooray home.
(Although I did notice you guys warmed the place up for us while we were gone. You shouldn't have. No, really, you shouldn't have.)
Just got back from Texas and my grandmother (Ruth's) memorial, plus the associated Grand Gathering of the Clan. It was good, in that way that things are good even while you sortof wish they weren't happening. You know, nourishing rather than fun. Not unlike Ruth's cooking.
(Oh, I'm getting haunted for that one.)
Obituaries: Ruth's; Wally's.
We sang a lot. As a rule most of the individual members of my family would rather eat hot pokers than sing in public, but my grandparents were big believers in the family singalong, so we sang. Mostly labor songs, but some Girl Scout standards: If I Had a Hammer, Dona Nobis Pacem, Bicycle Built for Two. My favorite: Oh How Lovely. We sang that one at the service. Not bad for a song where no one can hit the high note.
Maybe the secret of singalongs is that if you get enough people together, the law of averages guarantees that you will sound pretty good. Not unlike socialism, in fact.
(When we went back to the house after the service I turned around at one point to find my mother and my cousin Jim holding up a scarlet tablecloth while singing The Workers' Flag is Deepest Red. That was . . . That was a thing.)
So yeah. I was pretty proud of my family. Not that we all weren't as neurotic and infuriating as usual, but just for, you know, caring.
(True story about my grandmother: Miller -- as some of you may know -- is a good union beer. Coors is not. Once when Ruth was greeting guests at the door for my aunt Christy's wedding, some well meaning innocents dropped a case of Coors in her arms. She thanked them graciously, waited until they were safely into the house, and then calmly threw the case into the driveway bushes before turning to greet the next guests in line.)
My uncle Hunter also dug out several file boxes full of old family photographs, which we dumped out on the dining room table for folks to sort through. That was great, although the greatest common denominator appeared to be "naked unsupervised children". Can someone who paid more attention in school than I did help me translate that into Latin? I think it needs to be the family crest.
(My brother and I won the "unsupervised children" category, him for a photo where he's about three years old and wearing one slipper and a woman's cloche hat, and me for one at about the same age, stark naked in the driveway while waving the Texas flag. Mom had no explanation.)
(I will post some photos soon. Not those two, though.)
Surprisingly, even though I do miss them already, the hardest part wasn't so much giving up the people as giving up the house. The house was the epicenter of the family, and probably the only place I ever sang a round or entirely finished a Sunday crossword puzzle. It was an article of faith with us as children that if you looked hard enough you could find Easter Eggs in the backyard year-round. But the longer they're gone the more it will become just a house.
Another true story: my grandmother had sworn that the only way she would leave the house was feet-first. So when they carried her body out, my aunt Dana made sure they had turned her around feet-first. I can't decide if that's creepy or perfect. Hello, mortality: creepy and perfect.
(Although I did notice you guys warmed the place up for us while we were gone. You shouldn't have. No, really, you shouldn't have.)
Just got back from Texas and my grandmother (Ruth's) memorial, plus the associated Grand Gathering of the Clan. It was good, in that way that things are good even while you sortof wish they weren't happening. You know, nourishing rather than fun. Not unlike Ruth's cooking.
(Oh, I'm getting haunted for that one.)
Obituaries: Ruth's; Wally's.
We sang a lot. As a rule most of the individual members of my family would rather eat hot pokers than sing in public, but my grandparents were big believers in the family singalong, so we sang. Mostly labor songs, but some Girl Scout standards: If I Had a Hammer, Dona Nobis Pacem, Bicycle Built for Two. My favorite: Oh How Lovely. We sang that one at the service. Not bad for a song where no one can hit the high note.
Maybe the secret of singalongs is that if you get enough people together, the law of averages guarantees that you will sound pretty good. Not unlike socialism, in fact.
(When we went back to the house after the service I turned around at one point to find my mother and my cousin Jim holding up a scarlet tablecloth while singing The Workers' Flag is Deepest Red. That was . . . That was a thing.)
So yeah. I was pretty proud of my family. Not that we all weren't as neurotic and infuriating as usual, but just for, you know, caring.
(True story about my grandmother: Miller -- as some of you may know -- is a good union beer. Coors is not. Once when Ruth was greeting guests at the door for my aunt Christy's wedding, some well meaning innocents dropped a case of Coors in her arms. She thanked them graciously, waited until they were safely into the house, and then calmly threw the case into the driveway bushes before turning to greet the next guests in line.)
My uncle Hunter also dug out several file boxes full of old family photographs, which we dumped out on the dining room table for folks to sort through. That was great, although the greatest common denominator appeared to be "naked unsupervised children". Can someone who paid more attention in school than I did help me translate that into Latin? I think it needs to be the family crest.
(My brother and I won the "unsupervised children" category, him for a photo where he's about three years old and wearing one slipper and a woman's cloche hat, and me for one at about the same age, stark naked in the driveway while waving the Texas flag. Mom had no explanation.)
(I will post some photos soon. Not those two, though.)
Surprisingly, even though I do miss them already, the hardest part wasn't so much giving up the people as giving up the house. The house was the epicenter of the family, and probably the only place I ever sang a round or entirely finished a Sunday crossword puzzle. It was an article of faith with us as children that if you looked hard enough you could find Easter Eggs in the backyard year-round. But the longer they're gone the more it will become just a house.
Another true story: my grandmother had sworn that the only way she would leave the house was feet-first. So when they carried her body out, my aunt Dana made sure they had turned her around feet-first. I can't decide if that's creepy or perfect. Hello, mortality: creepy and perfect.