We Are Who We Are, Part 1

At the end of last November one of my uncles passed away. I briefly wrote about that death and attending his subsequent funeral in a post promising I would likely revisit the subject later. It was one of those events that I knew somehow impacted me as it happened yet one I knew I had to distance myself from before examining it deeper. That impact coincided with the Christmas holiday season and all that meant little time to really sort through it all. Now, maybe I can begin to crystallize some thoughts about the recent passing of my uncle.

I should preface whatever is to come with a statement something like this…whatever I write here is not meant to judge anyone although some of what I may write may appear critical. I’m also not trying to make fun of anyone although you may end up chuckling at some of what gets said. I’m just trying to write what I saw and experienced one afternoon when most all of us gathered together. And when something like that happens, what follows no doubt can inspire some criticism and some laughter.

I worked part of the day of the funeral, left from work and drove to my hometown. It’s about a 70 mile drive and takes about an hour and a half to drive. I had planned to drive straight to the funeral home but as I drove by my Mom and Dad’s house I saw my Dad outside. I looped around the house and pulled into the back driveway just as they were getting ready to leave. They rode with me the few miles to the funeral home.

At the funeral home, we almost immediately ran into two of my cousins whose father had just passed away. They were standing outside at the corner of the funeral home smoking cigarettes. Although it had been years since I had seen either of them, probably since our grandfather’s funeral, they recognized me. For a good twenty years some family and friends have referred to me as “Little Timmy” although I almost grace six feet tall and weigh more than I care to think about. That nickname came about from moments such as this meeting. Inevitably this comes from a family member I haven’t seen in a long time. When we see each other and they think it’s me the first thing out of their mouth is usually, “This is little Timmy?” I first recall this happening in the mid or late 1980s after a family reunion on my mother’s side. I joked about it to some friends and to some of them I became “Little Timmy.” On my Dad’s side of the family, I am the youngest grandchild even though I slipped into my forties awhile back. Now some family or friends think they gouge me or my ego by calling me “Little Timmy” but it doesn’t bother me at all. As a matter of fact if I don’t go to some family functions and I don’t get called “Little Timmy” I am a bit hurt.

After passing along our condolences to my cousins, we made our way into the funeral home and eventually to the room with my uncle lying in state. In the room were other family members I hadn’t seen in a long time…uncles, aunts, other cousins. We did briefly walk by the casket to view my uncle. It is a cliché to say this but he looked good. As a matter of fact I don’t think I ever recalled him looking that good in many years. Again, not trying to offend but what you must know is my uncle had been a hard-living man. He smoked cigarettes constantly and he downed a lot of alcohol. That combination along with genetics had left him with a slim, leathery appearance. Almost every time I saw him, he looked to me like he had just rolled out of bed, right down to his bleary eyes and disheveled hair. To me, he had looked old many years before this day. Although I didn’t see him frequently when I did see him he was often in dirty clothes…an untucked flannel shirt with unbuttoned sleeves, a pair of blue jeans that looked as if they needed washing and the final accessory, a cigarette dangling between his fingers or lips as he talked. I don’t recall ever seeing him drink but I heard enough stories to know he liked barley’s bitter brew coursing through his body.

As we stood in the parlor, my Dad began talking with some of his friends and relatives. Mom sat down with relatives and started talking with other friends and relatives. I followed suit talking with some of my cousins. It wasn’t long before more and more family began crowding into the room. Cousins known by two names smothered me with hugs. I stood there in the soft rumble of voices and tried to remove myself enough to really look around, to really soak in what was happening. I noted how my cousins look like their parents and how they often sound like them. I noted how those uncles and aunts and cousins who have already passed on from this life quietly reappear in the smile or the turn of a head or the tone of voice of a son, a daughter or a grandchild.

Into this mix, a couple of police officers walk in from the far side of the room. They escort a young man in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. I find myself caught somewhere between a grin and a grimace, so I close my eyes and slightly shake my head. I have been here before, in this same situation…and on both sides of my family. Some relative is incarcerated and has been allowed time to attend the funeral of a loved one.

So it hits me then, although deep down the feeling was there the whole time I had been here. We are who we are, and we’re never really far away from where we come from, no matter where that place is.

So, here we all are, retirees, blue-collar and white-collar professionals, at least one inmate, friends, in-laws, cousins, aunts, uncles, sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters, nieces, nephews, all bound together for a few minutes one afternoon by the man in the casket that we knew and loved.

To be continued…

Bare Feet On A Freshly Cut Lawn

It’s rained a lot lately. That rain has caused the grass to really grow. I spent some time late yesterday walking nearly every square inch of our yard behind a lawnmower.

The hour and a half to complete this task, although physically demanding, has become a bit of quality time away from the bearing down of immediate needs from things and people. Not that those things get totally erased from my mind during this time because I often find myself searching on solutions and answers for the problems and questions inhabiting my mind at the time even amid the dust and pollen and flying pieces of grass. Plug in the iPod, throw on a baseball cap and get going. A bit of sweat, some pulling and some pushing to the sounds of songs I have heard hundreds of times before and eventually the tall strands of grass and their just-as-present-companions, the weeds, are cut down to size for a few days. Follow this with a trip up and down the walkway and driveway with the leaf blower to move the clippings off the concrete and this task is complete, for now.

Of course, for my wife and our neighbors the payoff is immediate. The yard looks better, neater and cleaner. For me though, the payoff is later. After I finish cutting the yard, my needs are water, cooling off and sitting down to rest creaky bones. I try to fulfill my immediate needs knowing I have punched my ticket to be cashed in for my payoff later.

For me, the payoff from the freshly cut yard is the next morning. I make my way down the hall as the sun rises. I look out the window onto the backyard. I then walk to the living room and open the blinds to peer out at the yard there. There’s my payoff. A yard, wet with dew, so wet that the shade of green is much deeper and darker than any other time during the day. The blades of grass all stand in uniform length as the sun slides off the slippery blades. In the chill of the morning, the grass even looks like it might be a few degrees cooler than the morning’s air temperature. Then when I step onto the back deck or the front porch, a slight breeze awakens my sense of smell with the aroma of freshly cut grass. The smell is so strong, yet, so sweet, I can almost taste it.

That payoff almost always takes me back to my youth. It takes me back to when the smell of a freshly cut yard only served as backdrop to a baseball field, a football field or a volleyball court in the daytime and a place to chase June bugs and lightning bugs into the cusp of the night. Bare feet braved rocks that mysteriously found their way into the yard. Those same feet endured bee stings when they went trampling into more dangerous territory. Those same feet turned dark from the time spent traveling between the yard and the red Georgia clay.

The payoff is always short. I hear the day ahead calling my name and have to get ready for what lies ahead. I turn back and go inside to prepare for the rest of the day knowing I may very well find myself back out here at day's end as the last rays of sun slip away, standing in my bare feet waiting for a lightning bug to pass by.

Talking Just To Be Heard

This week, I found it humorous to read someone online attempt to explain to someone else how important their job was. It made me wonder if someone has to justify such importance then how important could the job really be. Of course, to this person the job is vitally important, so much so that it tends to top what anyone else does for a living, especially right at that very moment. And, of course, to the person doing the justifying, there is importance, immediacy, pressure, pride as it relates to a profession.

Still, it is as if we somehow, consciously or unconsciously, feel compelled to justify what we do for a living so that we know in some grand scheme we matter. We need affirmation from somewhere so instead of waiting on that from a co-worker or a superior, we provide it on our own, without a lot of, or sometimes without any, prompting from anyone else.

I play this game, too. I want to think what I do is important. I want others to know I am relevant. I need to feel significant in some way. Of course, while I am busy considering how important what I do is and how important I truly am, I brush away the fleeting memories of feeling the exact same way when I left previous jobs only to discover shortly after I left, somehow the world there still turned without me and life went on.

This game is so tiring. It seems as if it’s billions of not-so-tiny voices speaking up to say, “ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! LOOK AT ME!!!” Amidst it all, the chest-thumping appears to often be wrapped in the context of “and when you do look at me, you should recognize and then acknowledge how important I am!”

I suppose we all need some validation. Maybe we need such confirmation if we are disgruntled with what we do or if we feel we aren’t compensated as we should be or if we invest our whole being in what we do for work. Or maybe we just like to hear the sound of our own voice.

It also seems this is one of those great contradictions that inhabit our times. We are told we should speak up and speak out because what we feel, what we think and what we know is important. We are also told we should listen because listening is a cornerstone to good communication skills. So, we speak up and speak out but by doing so we sometimes drown out others who feel more passionately, who think differently or who just flat out know better because frankly, we don’t know when to shut up, especially when it comes to talking about ourselves. And then when we do close our traps long enough to let others have their say we are too wrapped up in trying to determine what we should say next that we pounce on the first quiet moment we recognize just so we can expound more on our own greatness.

In today’s world of ‘debate’ on the cable TV outlets, ‘you’re stupid’, ‘no, you’re more stupider’ discussion on online comment boards and “I said it and that’s ‘nuff said” attitude all around, maybe taking time to soak in some quiet and basking in the reflection it brings might make us realize the really important things in life and give us something really important to talk about later.