Christopher Street

A funny thing happened at the wake: a story in 5 parts

Part 1: Godparents

I wanted to be a Jew, I wanted to be a Hari Krishna, I wanted to be Catholic.

When I was a teenager, I became fascinated by religion. For a time, I wanted to be Jewish. Then I wanted to be a Hari Krishna. (Really. You ever see a Hari Krishna up close and personal? They are the happiest people on the planet. They are beyond 'up with people' happy. They are beyond X happy. They are truly full of bliss. OK, so they are brainwashed...bliss is bliss. ) But I digress.

I wanted to be a Jew, I wanted to be a Hari Krishna, I wanted to be Catholic.

Catholicism was particularly interesting. Being a Catholic seemed to be more about doing than being, more about ceremony than belief. Catholicism seemed very task oriented: you know, there was the crossing and the communion, the rosary and the catechism, the Hail Mary and the confession. It seemed like being Catholic would leave very little time for religious introspection. By the time you finished, you know, just with the *being* Catholic, it would be time for bed.

So, I liked the idea of being Catholic. And I decided that I wanted Godparents. We Methodists don't get Godparents--there is no one but the family involved at the baptism. I thought that having Godparents was a right that I was being denied, in my stunning Protestantism. So I went a recruiting.

Part 2: Bud

'In my little town, I never meant nothing, I was just my father's son.'

I am from an impossibly small place. I am from a tiny little hamlet in the corner of a tiny rural county in the lower corner of Pennsylvania. if you are from where I am from, you know everyone--and the people you don't know, your parents know and the people your parents don't know are known by your grandparents. On the other side of the coin, everyone knows you. And if they don't , they know your family.

And, on the off-chance that you don't actually know someone, it is certain that you know someone that knows them. It's like six degrees of separation, only really, there aren't more than two or three degrees separating everyone in the county. Bud and I were originally separated by three degrees and then later by two. Bud was friends with Fred and Fred was friends with Wayne and Wayne was my friend. Later, I was friends with Fred, too, bringing me one degree closer to Bud. But Bud was always on the periphery--he came to my apartment once when we were all going to a concert, and he was always nice to me when I called to talk to Wayne (they were roommates for a long time) or if I was over, we would talk or joke. But he remained on the periphery for years and years--10 or more. And then one day, he wasn't anymore.

Part 3: 1960

In a 1974 Pinto stationwagon with no air conditioning. And vinyl seats. Talk about *Hell*.

My mother met her best friend, Jerry in their first semester at the Uniontown Hospital School of Nursing. They hit it off immediately--similar backgrounds, similar sensibilities. If possible, Jerry is the only person gentler than my Mother. She's also quieter and probably more devout. Which is not to say that my Mom is a slouch in the devout-ness. But I think that Jerry is a church-goer, where we never really did that, you know, much. My mother thinks that the worst sin of her life is that she raised heathens--which is an exaggeration. Well, my brother may be a heathen, but I'm not. We were just not much with the church, preferring to commune with God at the mall, or during the halftime report. I mean, it was Pittsburgh in the 70s--there was not a more popular religion than Football.

But I have digressed again.

Jerry and Mom have been best friends since that first day. When they graduated, they got married on successive weekends They had their kids at close to the same time. Mark is a year older than me, and Matt and Lee are about 6 months apart. We were all close enough that we were fast friends as kids. They picked the same silver pattern, and the same linoleum for the kitchen. They have the same throw pillows on their beds. And last week as Nanna passed away, Jerry was there keeping my Mom strong.

Growing up, we saw the Glotfelty's--Jerry and her husband David, Mark and Matt--at least twice a year. Once usually in the summer and always--always--at New Year's. From 1960 to today, I think that there have been three New Year's missed with the Glotfelty's. Once when I had pneumonia. Once when Jerry's mom was terribly ill. And once when they had moved to Missouri for David to attend Grad School. That year, we visited in the summer, me and my brother and my folks on a road trip to St. Louis, in July, in a 1974 Pinto stationwagon with no air conditioning. And vinyl seats. Talk about *Hell*.

The point that I'm making is that they were always around. They were there for graduations and important birthdays. They were there in the summer and in the winter. We were at their house, they were at ours. Till I was in college, that was the way it was.

Which is why I asked them to be my godparents. It was a bit of a lark, really--I've already established that we're not Catholic, so there was nothing binding about my asking. But I wanted strangers to recognize how special they were to me, and saying to someone, "These are my Godparents" conveys meaning, conveys that specialness.

It's sad, but I rarely see them at all anymore. Usually, I only see them at funerals--which is why I saw them last week, at my Grandmother's service.

Part 4: Serena

It's been 12 years and we have still not run out of things to say. :)

I met Serena in the fall of 1991, which seems impossible to me on so many levels. It seems impossible that it was 12 years ago, because the last 12 years have just flown by. And yet, it also seems impossible that it was only 12 years ago, because I feel like I have known her forever.

After I graduated from college, I moved to DC with a boy. It was a pretty big disaster, as those things go. I was young and he was insane and I was too dependent on my family, and he was too intent on breaking me of that dependence. I left him, and DC, and ran home in the summer of 1990.

For a year, I was a nomad. I worked various temp jobs. I slept various places. I lived part time with my brother, in the city, and part time with my folks, in the country. Sometimes, I had a bed to sleep in, sometimes, I got the couch, sometimes, I crashed with friends. I worked at three different jobs in the city, and did some filing for my Aunt at a nursing home. I had a little money and a lot of freedom. I felt like a kid, in a way that I hadn't felt even when I was a kid. I had no responsibilities, I answered to no one.

In the fall of 1991, I decided to apply to grad school and, after MUCH groveling, I got in. I moved in with my brother full-time, and we rented a house, and filled it up with overgrown kids like ourselves. I was living in that house when I met Serena.

I can't explain my relationship with Serena. It defies logic. Our connection was immediate and intense. We weren't friends immediately--I liked her well enough, and I think she liked me, but we didn't really connect in the very beginning. By Christmas, though everything had changed. I don't remember why I invited her over, and I don't know what we were supposed to be doing--probably studying or something, but we stayed up and talked for something like 9 or 12 hours--and never ran out of things to say.

It's been 12 years and we have still not run out of things to say. :)

Interestingly, most of our relationship has developed long-distance. As odd as it seems now, I was only in Pittsburgh for a total of three years, and Serena and I were only friends for about half that. We have spent about 88% of our friendship 250 miles apart. That isn't particularly relevant, I just think it's...weird.

After I left the 'burgh, Serena met and married a man that...well, let's just say that I was not the president of his fan club. Their story isn't mine to tell, but I will say that he was not Prince Charming and theirs was not a fairytale end.

After they split, and Serena started dating again, she called me one day to tell me that she had a date with...wait for it...

Bud.

"Wayne's Bud?" I asked?

The same. Now, I can't pretend that I wasn't...full of trepidation. I knew that one of two outcomes were possible--it would be good or it would be bad. If it were good, well, gosh...you know, yay! But if it were bad, I just feared what it would do to everyone's friendships. I was freaked.

But, in the end, it was good. They just closed on their first house together--and now, it seems odd that they weren't always together, that Bud was on the outside for so long when *obviously* he was always supposed to be part of the family.

Part 5: So, a funny thing happened at the wake...

"Bud? Bud!"

And so, they were all at my Nanna's funeral. Serena and Bud were there, as were Jerry and David. John and Wayne and Serena and Bud and I were all sitting at a table in the back, eating--fried chicken, rigatone, green beans--when, Jerry and David walked up. As I stood to hug them, it occured to me that no one sitting at the table, except for my husband, knew them. So I introduced them.

As they were walking away, Bud leaned over and asked me if they had a son named Mark. Yeah, I told him--and one named Matt.

"I was roomates with a Mark Glotfelty at Penn State."

I ran to David--"Was Mark at Penn State?"

Yes. Yes he was.

"Bud thinks that he may have roomed with him there."

"Bud? Bud!"

Turns out that not only was Bud Mark's roomate, but Jerry and David had taken him home one Thanksgiving, and had met his family.

Turns out that I was one degree away from Bud all along. :)

Sticking with the topic of charcoal sketches and mortality for a minute

In my 5th life, I dated an artist. There were perks associated with this--namely that I could get him to do custom commissions for me. He did a painting of me and my brother for my mom for Christmas, for example, and for my Grandparents 50th anniversary, he did a charcoal wedding portrait.

This was an interesting gift, because my grandparents never had a wedding. Like me, they eloped. No cake, no dress, no pictures. In thinking about what might give them joy on their 50th anniversery, I thought--wow, I wish I could give them a wedding day. Barring that, though, I thought that I could at least give them a wedding portrait.

We went through boxes of photos--Fred was especially good at working from photos--and found some that would have been from very early in their marriage. Fred put Pap in a suit and Nanna in a simple white dress and posed them in front of an alter, covered in flowers. They cried when they saw it.

I looked at that picture the other day, on Thanksgiving as I sat in my Nanna's house for the last time. I don't usually think much of it--it's been hanging on the wall for 12 years now, part of the landscape of the house. But I looked at it on Thursday, considered it, noticed it, paid respect to it.

Which is why it was on my mind yesterday.

See, Nanna died yesterday. And in the car last night on the way home from work, I wondered what will happen to the portrait. It can't hang in Nanna's house anymore, because Nanna doesn't have a house anymore. Where will it go? Odd the things you think about. I know that it's not the portrait that I am sad about, that it's just a manifestation of a much bigger sad. The portrait's disposition represents the horrible prospect that, since my Grandfather died a couple years ago, it will soon be time to completely dismantle their lives and, in so doing, dismantle huge chunks of my childhood. Nanna's house gets sold. The tree in the backyard with the tire swing? Gone. That flat backyard that flooded every time it so much as threatened to rain -- the one that we used to splash in with Nanna on warm summer days? Sold. Nanna's famous apple pies? How is there Christmas without those? I mean, yeah--she taught me how to make them, but it just won't be the same. Nothing is ever going to be the same.

I made a new Livejournal icon today for Christmas--it's a picture of my Nanna in all her crazy glory, standing like Vanna White in front of my Aunt's Christmas tree, circa 1991. This is the way I will remember her, and I wanted to share just a piece of the remarkable goofball that she was. I'm leaving it up through the Christmas season to honor her memory.

And, for the funeral, I'm dying my hair bright Nanna red. Up in heaven, it's going to make her smile. It will horrify the rest of my family, but I don't really care. This one's for Nanna.

A long time ago

Back in my fourth life, I knew a girl named Susan. Susan was from Texas and was absolutely larger than life. First, she was gorgeous. Texas gorgeous, to be sure, but drop-dead, breath-catch-in-your-throat gorgeous, none-the-less. She was blonde, of course, but her blonde hair wasn't the big blonde of Texas myth. Her hair was, well, it was a little tall, but also really short on the sides and in the back. It was as though that Flock of Seagulls dude suddenly started going to a salon in Austin. For 1989, it was just retro enough to be ungodly chic. The hair, in addition to being tall, was also well and properly highlighted and sprayed, such that it never moved. It could have been a wig, for all its unmoving perfection.

Her clothes were also way fashionable, and designed to show off her killer body. I would guess that Susan was about 5'7", maybe weighed 125-130. She had a slim. strong athlete's body--and great legs which poked out from under her almost-too-short-to-be-business-like skirts. Her makeup was striking--nothing natural about it, although it wasn't so garish as to be completely *unnatural*. Her palette was just not found *in* nature--she was all blue mascara and purple eyeshadow. And then, there was the lipstick--that famous Susan shade that I have never seen anyone else wear successfully. That brght frosty hot pink. Not so dark as fuchia nor so light as baby. Susan's lips were Pink Lady satin.

I was 23 the year that I worked with Susan. I was on my second job of my fourth life-I would have one more before I left DC to embark on the great adventure--grad school--that would be my fifth life. But I was a year away from that when I worked with Susan. I was 23, she was--I think--26. I was just out of school and struggling in a job that I was both under- and over-qualified for, at the same time. I had a boyfriend that I didn't like very much, I was wicked homesick and I was barely making ends meet. Susan wasn't much older than me, but she was successful and wise and beautiful. I was never very comfortable around her, although that was more my own insecurities than anything she did. I idolized her--and idealized her.

Surprisingly, as it turns out, this isn't a journal entry about pretty, perfect Susan, but about me and how I feel about getting older. For some reason the other day, I thought of Susan--for the first time in years. I thought, I wonder what Susan is doing now? I wonder...and then it hit me.

Susan Streeter is 40. Jesus Christ. That makes me...

Well, that makes me 37. I knew that. I know that I am 37. I live it, every day. I look at my 37-year-old life square on. But Susan--man! How did *she* get to be 40?

I write a lot about age and aging. And it's such a cliche. "I can't believe that we're so OLD!", I whine to my friends. They whine back, similar sentiments. We talk about the rapid passage of time like we're the first generation to have seen our days whiz past, unstoppable, amorphous freight trains shooting toward an inevitable end. I get that this has happened to everyone.

Well, everyone that didn't die before they realized that they were mortal.

I realized that I was mortal at 13. I was at a carnival and my mom paid for someone to do a charcoal sketch of me. I was wearing a red, white, and blue top and my hair was long. I was wearing glasses. I see this picture all the time, hanging at my parents house. I don't really remember sitting for it, but I do remember the bottom dropping out of my world when they handed it to me and I realized that the picture would likely survive me. That someday, after I was dead, someone would find that crappy charcoal picture in a box somewhere and I wouldn't be there to explain about the carnival and the red, white and blue shirt.

And suddenly this is in a really morbid place, which wasn't my intent at all.

I'm going to go take a paxil and go to bed. :)