I Wear My Grandad's Clothes

My grandmother died recently; she was 96. She was my last remaining grandparent, my father's stepmother. Arrangements were made to have us all meet at her home on the morning of the funeral to read the will and divide up a few things. It sounded like the tedious sort of thing you would normally equate with preparing one's taxes or having a colonoscopy. But it's all part of the life cycle.

My daughter was away at college, but I got my son and husband, and pep-talked them into getting on board with this activity. We found a pair of pants my husband could get on over all the bandage/drainage stuff that wasn't a pair of sweats, and my son coaxed his dad into a red bow tie from TJ Maxx as compensation for having to endure a day of funerary festivities.

We made it to the house with seconds to spare. We all exchanged the normal niceties and enjoyed coffee, Danishes, and grapes, courtesy of the assisted living folks who really just wanted us to get everything out so they could rent her house to someone else.

Now, I had never actually been to a "reading of the will" event, and had no idea what to expect. And really, I wasn't expecting anything beyond a free lunch and the opportunity to visit with a couple of cousins I had not seen in decades. The will was read. Some paintings and photographs were divided up with the key players getting to make a choice according to the numbers they had drawn. Then, we were introduced to "the bags." Take a bag, fill it with whatever was left. Put it in your car. Get another bag. Do the same. Basically, it all had to go.

The will calls this stuff "residue." If I were to die now, the amount of residue would be insane, but my grandparents had a very manageable amount. So everyone started to go through their stuff. And that's where the fun began.

I went to my grandmother's closet, and we pulled out hats and scarves and handbags galore. At the amusing suggestion of my aunt, all the women picked a hat, and we wore her hats to the funeral. I think she would have been amused. But it was not until we dug into my grandfather's closet that I found this gem: a circa 1976 textured polyester coat in a patriotic red, white, and blue pattern. How cool is that? I think it was the find of the day, personally.

The real find of the day, however, was the laughter we were able to enjoy. It turned out to not be weepy, or tense, or morbid. It was fun, and perhaps even a bit healing. My grandfather and I had not had any relationship for the last decade of so of his life because of his refusal to accept my decision to adopt a child of color. So I wonder how he feels, looking from beyond the grave at my son, lounging in the satin pajamas of a grandfather he never knew. Or at me, strutting about in my grandad's clothes like a hip hop star?

I guess we'll have to wait and see.

Fun With Anthropomorphics

I actually engaged in a little art therapy a couple of weeks ago, which resulted in this indifferent little harpy. She started with a digital collage, then a drawing with a sharpie that was scanned and reworked in Photoshop. I liked her so much I used her for some fun products that will never sell on Zazzle.

Zazzle is great to work with, and I have over 60,000 products there. Sadly, it doesn't come close to making me a living, which is why I also work at the Christian place and the Big Box. It is like a giant vortex, sucking the life out of me. Meh.

The Quiet Face of Cancer

I did a drawing of my husband recently, which is not really unusual. I've been drawing pictures of him for the last 20 years we've been married. He is one of those rare people that, seriously, never changes. Until this time.

It was only going to be a little sketch, drawn on the inside of a discarded library book. A face I had seen for so long. Something, somehow, had changed this time. It was almost imperceptible. His lips were not as full. His look was a little harder. Very quiet differences.

I would probably never have noticed the changes had I not studied his face so many times before. I remarked to him, almost quizzically, that he had suddenly become old. Now, I am thinking it wasn't the old that I was seeing. Now I think it was the cancer.

I think it would be interesting to have a morning selfie every day for 10, 20, even 50 years, to see the differences. Would you pick up on the changes? Would it be possible to see cancer coming, like an early warning system?

I dunno.

And I Think It's Gonna Be a Long Long Time...

Yes, it's been a long time since I blogged. I'm sorry about that. The past year has not been overly kind to me, and this year is not shaping up all that well so far, but I am determined to get back on track at least a little.

I was asked back in the fall to do a show of drawings for a gallery at a small local college, which actually got me to drawing again, only to have the show abruptly cancelled because they "didn't have time to do the publicity right," and could I maybe do the show next year.

Huh?

As it was, I had been drawing all these people I work with down at the Big Box Store, and had promised them their portraits once the show was over with. So I just gave the drawings away and moved on. Here's my favorite from the group, Veretta, a cashier at the Pro Services desk. I think she looks like a modern day Mona Lisa.

You can see a selected collection of the drawings from the show that wasn't here online at Crooked Smile. I am still working on them, especially since I no longer have a deadline, and also since my life has gotten a little bit sidetracked by my husband's cancer diagnosis and because I work 2 jobs now trying to make ends meet. Art has sort of by necessity had to take a back seat as it is not really a great way to make a living. I wish it were different. And if wishes were rocket ships, we could all visit the stars.