One of the first things I did when I got married, driving two-lane Texas highways beneath the gray and hazy October sky, was to pull onto a dirt and gravel road running away from the main highway.
One of the first things I did was to take my new bride out to where my grandparents were buried. To introduce her. Show her something of significance in my life. In many ways, I walked her to the edge of a personal abyss and showed her exactly what I was afraid of.
Awfully morbid, especially as a way to begin a honeymoon, and in the midst of tears, I apologized profusely, over and over again, but what true love would ever brook such a display?
Maybe it was a test.
My grandmother was always a wise woman. Knew when to fight. When to laugh. When to tell someone to fuck off, and this makes an odd composite, especially for a devout, devout Catholic from Corpus. She was the most Christian woman I ever knew. She did the right things, the right way, for the right reasons. And died a horrible lingering cancerous death, a terrible wasting away that still leaves me flinching whenever I hear the word.
Cancer.
My grandfather died of cancer. Was I showing my bride my fear of death? My fear of dying? A fear of loss, or a fear of losing intimacy?
I got married wearing the suit my grandfather married my grandmother in. Man, that suit has great lines. All wool — good wool — from Italy. Nice, thick wool and stitching you can’t tear, and it hangs just right. A real classic. And I was carrying my grandfather’s old Barlow knife in my pocket, just in case I needed some other personal item to strengthen the ritual. Strengthen the summoning.
We honeymooned at the house my grandfather lived in until he died. Until cancer finally ended his final lonely days away from the woman he spent his entire life loving. The house I’d been born in. When we walked in, my bride, who was taken to seeing spirits, saw a figure sitting in an easy chair in the living room. Out of a couch, a leather Lazy Boy, and a beat up old easy chair, she’d seen the figure in the one chair Grandpa had frequented.
I was unnerved, but not too unnerved to fuck her in the bed my dad had been conceived in. And we had the dirtiest sex I think we’d ever had up to the point, and perhaps up to any point thereafter.
It would be difficult for me to describe in words, in my words, the impact my grandmother has had on my family. The hushed reverence observed when she’s mentioned, the drunken reverie when reminiscing about her, and everyone has a story. Often at funerals or weddings — pretty much the only family gatherings I still attend — aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends will connect with me by telling some story about my grandmother.
She was a smart lady. Despite being a devout catholic, she felt youth groups weren’t a place to find God, but a place where you could make youthful mistakes. You’re young. You’re gonna’ fuck around, and people get pregnant. At least it’d be a catholic girl you’d knocked up. At least it’d be a Catholic boy that did the knocking. There’s some wisdom there.
At my cousin’s wedding this weekend, I smiled knowing Grandma would’ve loved Lisa. They would’ve gone out raising hell, shopped, cooked, chattered, and laughed about men: all the things grandmothers and granddaughters-in-law are supposed to do. And it made me wonder, what would she thought of my bride? Would she have seen the coming doom? Could she have steered us through safer passes? Or maybe she would have navigated us safely through the storm we’d chosen.
At the wedding I noted how life is like sailing. Your parents put your butt in the water, give you a little tap on the rear, and send you off. You’ve got stormy seas, and somewhere along the way, you’ll find someone to navigate them with, and the point isn’t to avoid the bad weather. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do. The point is to keep your eyes on the stars, to remember where you’re heading. Hopefully you’ll share the journey with someone watching the same stars as you.
I told my cousin how I’d inaugurated my honeymoon. He was taking Lisa on a cruise. Maybe he had what he wanted. Didn’t have to take his bride out to some lonely Texas graveyard and show her what he expected.
But he understood. He felt the same way. He remembered. He remembered the mournful July sky, the grey haze that stretched from horizon to horizon, punctuated by the headlights of a line of cars — like a line of stars — pulling up to the cemetery to pay their respects.
The most amazing thing was the line of cars stretched all the way to the horizon. As the ceremony ended, as we piled into the limo, driving along the dirt and gravel road back to my grandparents’ house, the cars were still arriving, one long line of stars stretched as long as any good life could hope for.
From Daniel
Down in the small town of Ingleside, TX, there is a bar called the Getaway. It is a faded tan building with a metal exterior. The sign is a little difficult to make out. But, once you squint right you can make out the words and soon realize they are bent around the picture of a car. The fading of the building is a result of the corrosiveness of the salt air and the blistering heat of the summers that begin sometime in March and last until November.
Inside, the interior is much of what you would expect from a town of a little over 5,000 people. It is smoky, badly lit, and has its fair share of people whose faces look best in dark, smoky rooms and while wearing beer goggles yourself.
But, that night back in either 1973 or 1974 the jukebox wasn’t playing a tired old country tune about loss, heartache, and/or misery in which the town drunk drowns his sorrows. No, it was a raucous song with a lively beat worthy of the liveliest tavern. What was the reason for this transformation? Well, the “Dirty Dozen” were there and having a good time. This group of people (6 couples to be exact) were from good old Catholic stock. In other words, they could drink like fish.
That night my mother was dragging my father inside for what would be one of the more shocking nights of his life.
My father… The son of a Baptist preacher from a rather non politically correct Mexican family… Nothing in his family has prepared him for this. His bride-to-be is dragging him into a BAR of all places to meet his soon to be in-laws. To his surprise he sees the “Dirty Dozen” partying away. One of the men (balding at this point in his life) has just fallen from the height of either a chair or table. No one can really remember for sure as those that were sober are disgusted by anything to do with that night. And the ones that didn’t stay sober… Well, memory of events in a bar are always kind of hazy. They just accept that as a fact of life.
Imagine his surprise as the balding man picks himself off the floor and runs to greet him… He introduces himself as the father of the bride. Of course, his wife is soon there pulling all of them back into the partying and introduces him to everyone… For, she knows them all and they all know her.
She was the matriarch wherever she went. She was the oldest surviving child from a large family. The oldest sister was lost to a ruptured ulcer. The oldest brother lost in WWII.
She knew her role as oldest and wisest of the family. And she played it well. And power she wielded from pure force of personality. How else do you explain a Catholic priest marrying the son of a Baptist preacher to a young girl already 4 months along?
She was the glue of the family. She helped start the boy scout troop in the town. She helped with CYO. She was as involved as could be. But, she could also enjoy herself. And damn anyone that told her how to behave.
But, most of all she was loved and respected.
Austin can tell you the lights stretched back all the way to the horizon on the day of her funeral. What you don’t know is that the church was standing room only. And we’re not talking a storefront church either. The parking lot was filled to capacity and then some. And carpooling was mandatory.
And for a line of cars to stretch to the horizon is no mean feat when on the coast. They didn’t get cut off by a tree or a hill. They stretched so far back on that summer day that the heated air coming off the road had enough time to turn the end of the line into a mirage. It was as though the cars materialized from a quivering nothingness to became solid.
And for those that wonder… I couldn’t have worn grandpa’s suit. I’m too damned tall. I wore a tuxedo. And Austin made a damned good best man.