I have never liked funerals, but overall this one wasn't too bad. Nana looked so peaceful in her periwinkle dress. There were some shining moments I'm sure no other family has ever had at a funeral, but my family is a little different to say the least. My cousin Allen got there about 30 minutes before things started, accompanied by his friend from Chicago where Allen lives now, making a living drawing anime cartoons, of all things. Allen was dressed in a white shirt and black pants, but he's at least 6'5 and 350 pounds, and he still looks like an overgrown four-year-old to me. His friend is also tall, but looked like something that walked out of "Goth-r-Us" - long, lank hair (think Aragorn with an extra quart added for good measure), unshaven face, dark sunglasses, wearing a black shirt, black pants, God-awful huge black boots with straps and buckles everywhere, a dirty black Matrix-styled duster,and the piece-de-resistance, the yew walking staff with three prongs at the top, which was damn near as tall as he was. The minister was obviously Baptist, because he couldn't resist using this opportunity to tell us that hell-fire awaited those who didn't believe (I'm guessing here he was speaking directly to Allen's friend), yet somehow he managed to forget to say where he thought my grandmother might be sitting. I wanted to slap him cross-eyed, but managed to stay in my seat. He mis-pronounced Momma's name, and said she lived in Huntingdon, not Humboldt. The most uplifting thing he said was "Amen" when he'd finished the final prayer. There were no fireworks, no fights, despite the fact that my cousin's ex-husband showed up to pay his respects (apparently they're on better terms than my mother thought). After an hour-long service, since I can't classify what the man said as a eulogy, we loaded up into our cars and took the long drive to Sandy Ridge for the burial. The rain held off, the graveside words were mercifully brief, and we all watched as they lowered her into the grave next to her first husband and her son. As I helped Momma to the car, she said she guessed she had no reason to go back to Paris again. I hugged her as she cried.
I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection. I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.
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