Allakazam!
The very first funeral I went to was when I was 8 years old. The body? Norman.
Norman was at least 80 years old. Chain smoker. Scotch swiller. Curmudgeon. Married to one of the most delightful, angelic women known to humankind. Audrey. Aubs! We called her that because we couldn't pronounce her name with underdeveloped palettes in our wonderful childhood.
Aubs and Norman had a big, shiny, red convertible 1960's Cadillac. They also had a double garage. Before overused camcorders, there was Super 8. Film. More expensive to process. More precious per linear foot.
My oldest friend, of 36 years, is Heathie. She and I did nearly everything together when we were kids. Shared the same playpen. Sang together in the church choir. Had crushes on the same boys, one of which she ended up marrying! Once ate too much until we puked. Drank our first alcoholic beverage of Cherry Brandy, a young Comrade busting into her parent's liquor cabinet. Digested every porn magazine George, her father, had stashed in the basement. Bore witness to watching her little brother running around naked in his house every morning while french kissing the dog. Competed.
I inherently hate competition. I'd seen what it did to my family and I hate what it does to humans. It makes them animals. It makes any man or woman the enemy. Penny, Heathie's mother, was responsible for convincing my cheap father to send me to summer camp.
Horse Lover's Day Camp. Good times. My horse was a Palomino. Bartholemew. He was lovely. I never treated him like My Little Pony, though I did have to groom him. I had awe and reverence for this creature. Like Audrey, I couldn't pronounce his name either. Sitting over on Aub's porch, I'd be eating "sangwiches" and talking about "Barfollamew". At the end of the 2 week tenure, there was a competition. There was a series of challenges each participant had to perform. Down to the wire, the last challenge was against Heathie. And I won the Blue Ribbon. I was the winner.
I hated that day.
Directly after the final competition and all the way home, Heathie oscillated between crying and not talking to me. I vowed, from that day forth, never to compete again. It was too destructive.
At 2 years old, parents sipping gin and tonics, smoking cigarettes, laughing, pointing a Super 8 camera at 2 young girls who believed in magic, we were asked to say a succession of magic words:
"Oooohhhhh Great Spirits of the Garaaaaage! Opennnnnn Sesameeeee!"
And the garage door opened!
Glee! Delight! Magic!
"Okay... Spirits... Cloooossse Sesssameeeee!"
And it closed.
This went on until the film ran out and the camera operator, Pickled George, was less steady.
Norman had just installed the very first automatic garage door opener.
Aubs would invite us inside to her parlour where she had a secret stash of Double Bubblegum. Norman would always wish a cavity hex on us. As I said, Norman was a curmudgeon. But we loved Aubs, so we suffered Norman.
When I saw him in the casket, I knew he was dead. It didn't freak me out. I didn't cry. I didn't fuss. I really never had anything to say to him, other than "hello", which I did often.
Months ago I'd met Ramón. He was from Chile. In his 50's. Beret wearer. Suited him. The first time we talked, as this often happens with me, it was of a very lovely philosophical nature. We spoke of death, dying, burials and goodbyes. He had been somewhat close to a gentleman who would frequent a neighbourhood bar he often haunted. Ramón had lent this man his bicycle, knowing this man was ill. The man expressed concern over not being able to return it with any immediacy. Ramón just asked him to keep it until he felt well enough to return it. Ramón had always expressed his friendship to this fellow.
One day, Ramón went back to the bar, after a rather extensive trip. He asked the bartender how his friend was. The bartender got a little emotional when she said, "Didn't you hear? He died 2 weeks ago."
He hadn't heard. He felt sad for the loss of his friend but he didn't have any regrets. He had said everything he had to say to him before his passing.
Last week, at the restaurant, a fellow in his 40's approached me wanting to talk about his experience at the restaurant. I no longer manage the place, a stipulation I made upon my request, upon my return after my summer's sojourn. Most people think I manage it, though. I do walk around like I own the place.
This man told me it was his first visit. He talked about the food briefly, but he really concentrated on how Kissy, my sweet comrade, had delivered one of the best, most memorable service interactions he'd ever received. He was pointing at her. He said, "Her!" And she approached. He waved his hand, casting her away. He said, "Go away, I'm saying nice things about you. I don't want it to go to your head."
Go to her head?
Kissy is one of the most remarkable people I have the good fortune of not only working with, but calling friend. I always look forward to working with her. If people remotely look like animals, facially, she looks like a rabbit. Bunny! She is the embodiment of all that is good in humanity. She is just, fair, kind, gracious, loving and for some reason she looks up to me. I truly love this woman.
Why do people think that if they say a kind word, demonstrate any act of gratitude, praise someone or just be nice, that it will go to their head? People do this to me all the time. They are convinced that since I seem so strong and self-confident, I mustn't ever need to hear anything really positive. Why? Do they think it would make me stronger? Cocky? What?
I tell truths. Sometimes it's what people want to hear. Sometimes it's the last thing they want to hear. For me to keep anything inside feels like a cancer growing. I can't help myself. Harnessing feels like a seismic implosion within. The release of pressure is more relaxing. The need for expression had been mandated long ago. I spew.
Ack, the ex-husband/best friend was talking about how serotonin levels rise when one person gives another person a gift. It's the body's reward for giving. The same chemical reaction, I think, happens when a true compliment is paid. One denies the chain reaction of goodness when there is harnessing of expression. Why would people deny that?
I've never feared death. Dying. If I'm gone tomorrow, I'd be fine with it. Actually, I'd like to live long enough to wrap my arms around my new friends in Chicago, these people whom I adore. But after that, it doesn't really matter. I have simply had and continue to have a marvellous life, rich with experience, wonderful friendship, warm memories, powerful lessons and inordinate amounts of love that I give and have finally learned how to receive.
Fatty once said 2 great things about me:
1. I make him believe in people again.
2. I never want to know how he does a card trick.
I'd rather believe in magic.
Norman was at least 80 years old. Chain smoker. Scotch swiller. Curmudgeon. Married to one of the most delightful, angelic women known to humankind. Audrey. Aubs! We called her that because we couldn't pronounce her name with underdeveloped palettes in our wonderful childhood.
Aubs and Norman had a big, shiny, red convertible 1960's Cadillac. They also had a double garage. Before overused camcorders, there was Super 8. Film. More expensive to process. More precious per linear foot.
My oldest friend, of 36 years, is Heathie. She and I did nearly everything together when we were kids. Shared the same playpen. Sang together in the church choir. Had crushes on the same boys, one of which she ended up marrying! Once ate too much until we puked. Drank our first alcoholic beverage of Cherry Brandy, a young Comrade busting into her parent's liquor cabinet. Digested every porn magazine George, her father, had stashed in the basement. Bore witness to watching her little brother running around naked in his house every morning while french kissing the dog. Competed.
I inherently hate competition. I'd seen what it did to my family and I hate what it does to humans. It makes them animals. It makes any man or woman the enemy. Penny, Heathie's mother, was responsible for convincing my cheap father to send me to summer camp.
Horse Lover's Day Camp. Good times. My horse was a Palomino. Bartholemew. He was lovely. I never treated him like My Little Pony, though I did have to groom him. I had awe and reverence for this creature. Like Audrey, I couldn't pronounce his name either. Sitting over on Aub's porch, I'd be eating "sangwiches" and talking about "Barfollamew". At the end of the 2 week tenure, there was a competition. There was a series of challenges each participant had to perform. Down to the wire, the last challenge was against Heathie. And I won the Blue Ribbon. I was the winner.
I hated that day.
Directly after the final competition and all the way home, Heathie oscillated between crying and not talking to me. I vowed, from that day forth, never to compete again. It was too destructive.
At 2 years old, parents sipping gin and tonics, smoking cigarettes, laughing, pointing a Super 8 camera at 2 young girls who believed in magic, we were asked to say a succession of magic words:
"Oooohhhhh Great Spirits of the Garaaaaage! Opennnnnn Sesameeeee!"
And the garage door opened!
Glee! Delight! Magic!
"Okay... Spirits... Cloooossse Sesssameeeee!"
And it closed.
This went on until the film ran out and the camera operator, Pickled George, was less steady.
Norman had just installed the very first automatic garage door opener.
Aubs would invite us inside to her parlour where she had a secret stash of Double Bubblegum. Norman would always wish a cavity hex on us. As I said, Norman was a curmudgeon. But we loved Aubs, so we suffered Norman.
When I saw him in the casket, I knew he was dead. It didn't freak me out. I didn't cry. I didn't fuss. I really never had anything to say to him, other than "hello", which I did often.
Months ago I'd met Ramón. He was from Chile. In his 50's. Beret wearer. Suited him. The first time we talked, as this often happens with me, it was of a very lovely philosophical nature. We spoke of death, dying, burials and goodbyes. He had been somewhat close to a gentleman who would frequent a neighbourhood bar he often haunted. Ramón had lent this man his bicycle, knowing this man was ill. The man expressed concern over not being able to return it with any immediacy. Ramón just asked him to keep it until he felt well enough to return it. Ramón had always expressed his friendship to this fellow.
One day, Ramón went back to the bar, after a rather extensive trip. He asked the bartender how his friend was. The bartender got a little emotional when she said, "Didn't you hear? He died 2 weeks ago."
He hadn't heard. He felt sad for the loss of his friend but he didn't have any regrets. He had said everything he had to say to him before his passing.
Last week, at the restaurant, a fellow in his 40's approached me wanting to talk about his experience at the restaurant. I no longer manage the place, a stipulation I made upon my request, upon my return after my summer's sojourn. Most people think I manage it, though. I do walk around like I own the place.
This man told me it was his first visit. He talked about the food briefly, but he really concentrated on how Kissy, my sweet comrade, had delivered one of the best, most memorable service interactions he'd ever received. He was pointing at her. He said, "Her!" And she approached. He waved his hand, casting her away. He said, "Go away, I'm saying nice things about you. I don't want it to go to your head."
Go to her head?
Kissy is one of the most remarkable people I have the good fortune of not only working with, but calling friend. I always look forward to working with her. If people remotely look like animals, facially, she looks like a rabbit. Bunny! She is the embodiment of all that is good in humanity. She is just, fair, kind, gracious, loving and for some reason she looks up to me. I truly love this woman.
Why do people think that if they say a kind word, demonstrate any act of gratitude, praise someone or just be nice, that it will go to their head? People do this to me all the time. They are convinced that since I seem so strong and self-confident, I mustn't ever need to hear anything really positive. Why? Do they think it would make me stronger? Cocky? What?
I tell truths. Sometimes it's what people want to hear. Sometimes it's the last thing they want to hear. For me to keep anything inside feels like a cancer growing. I can't help myself. Harnessing feels like a seismic implosion within. The release of pressure is more relaxing. The need for expression had been mandated long ago. I spew.
Ack, the ex-husband/best friend was talking about how serotonin levels rise when one person gives another person a gift. It's the body's reward for giving. The same chemical reaction, I think, happens when a true compliment is paid. One denies the chain reaction of goodness when there is harnessing of expression. Why would people deny that?
I've never feared death. Dying. If I'm gone tomorrow, I'd be fine with it. Actually, I'd like to live long enough to wrap my arms around my new friends in Chicago, these people whom I adore. But after that, it doesn't really matter. I have simply had and continue to have a marvellous life, rich with experience, wonderful friendship, warm memories, powerful lessons and inordinate amounts of love that I give and have finally learned how to receive.
Fatty once said 2 great things about me:
1. I make him believe in people again.
2. I never want to know how he does a card trick.
I'd rather believe in magic.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
2:44 p.m.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home