Consulting The Picture...

   I went a last night to face some of the ghosts. The Hyer family, being perhaps the most helpful people in the world toward my family, offered to help me clean out some space in Dad's shed/barn/teenage-hangout-from-the-80's. Not wanting to be alone in all that (which I know they were silently aware of..thanks guys), I took them up on the offer. Knowing that I have too much crap of my own (that I don't want to sort and purge right now), I was going to need some space over there to pile boxes full of things that will never see the light of day again. I understand the idiocy of this, but getting rid of his stuff is difficult enough without sorting mine.

   In typical fashion, Mechele beat me there by minutes and already had a pot of some really good food warming on Dad's stove. We talked for a while about my future plans and what to do with my current house and then proceeded back into the fray. Wading our way through a good-sized pile of things that might have made people featured on “Hoarders” call for a dumpster, I found little bits of my life mixed in with Mom and Dad's. It was, overall, a fairly pleasant experience thanks to my support team who dispensed much advice on me, proving that, while I now own two homes and four cars, I don't know a steamy pile about anything at all.

   The main item of interest for me was the removal of a twenty-or-so-year-old broken riding lawnmower that hasn't run since Bill Clinton's first term. The layers of dust that had settled on it had actually taken on the quasi John Deere green color of the mower itself; something I never knew was possible (probably should have paid attention in science class). As we, in our hillbilly wisdom, decided to tow it out of the barn with a truck and a chain, I found myself aggravated that Dad had held on to this piece of antiquated metal for all these years. I winced a bit when I thought of the argument that would have occurred if I had said something to him just a few weeks ago about it, and found myself wishing that fight could actually take place now. I know I wouldn't win, but it would feel awfully good to lose.

   Long before the myriad of insects unfortunate enough to be caught under the flat tires of the mower had twitched their last twitch, the corpse of the mower was hefted up into the back of a pickup truck and hauled away for scrap. Some lucky garbage-picker/entrepreneur just made about twelve bucks for themselves. My way of bolstering the economy.

   After everyone had left, Sarah and I walked around the empty house making plans on what to keep and what to change. In the master bedroom, a photo still hangs that I made for Dad the Christmas after Mom died. It is a photo of the four of us taken at the Hyer house on Mom's final yuletide. Dad had a smaller print of this picture framed on his dresser that I had surreptitiously stolen and scanned. I digitally cleaned up the image and superimposed the four of us into a Thomas Kincade painting that Mom and Dad were very fond of. I enlarged it, framed it, and hid it in the spare bedroom at my house waiting for him to come over for dinner Christmas eve.

   I don't care much for the picture myself. I look very bad in it (not that I look particularly good in any photo...or in real life for that matter) and was at my overall heaviest when it was taken. Dad, however, loved it and loved what I had done with it. He said that it captured Mom better than any photo he had seen. I gave it to him that first Christmas without her after we had promised not to exchange gifts that year (and after I had unwrapped the Playstation 3 from him that had already broken that promise). We all got a bit teary eyed and that picture still hangs in the short hallway in his master bedroom.

   As Sarah and I made redecorating plans, I looked at that picture. This time, and in this rendering, Mom and Dad seemed to be agreeing with all of my plans. They were happy that I was moving forward and facing the demons. This picture, for all my dislike of it, was giving off the positive vibe that maybe, just maybe, things would be alright. Despite the quiet and eerie chill of the empty house, I had started to become excited about the future. “That's it!”, they both said from inside the frame, “It's about time, son. Go on with your life, we're happy here in the memories. Go make some new ones for yourself.” The mood of the night had turned upbeat and, for the first time since everyone had gone home, the house had a happy feel to it.

   I sit writing this blog well past my bedtime. Why? Tonight was not a happy night at all. Riding on the high of yesterday's uptempo mood, I decided to accomplish some things at the new house (I purposefully am trying not to call it Dad's any more...but it's not easy). Without going into any detail, I will just say that everything I attempted to accomplish tonight failed for idiotic reasons. These were fairly mundane homeowner things that anyone else on the planet could have easily gotten done. Not the big boy. The last man standing; the strong survivor who has taken this tragedy with a stiff upper lip; the mature one who is rock-solid and moving forward has experienced what the internet people call an EPIC FAIL. Hours of errands and planning yielded absolutely no results (other than spending money on things we cannot use and hoping we can return them). All that was accomplished was a trip to the Arby's drive-through, a hearty belch or two, and several items being thrown across a garage in anger.

   I can't bring myself to face either of the photos now. Am I angry with him for leaving me in this predicament? Probably... I'm not sure on that one. I know what Dr. Phil would tell me, but who listens to that guy? Of course, I got this mad at idiotic bad luck when my parents were still alive, so maybe it's not that. 

 Often times, it seems like my life is an old 70's sitcom where I am the bumbling oaf who has good intentions but never seems to be able to accomplish them. When these stupid things happen to me, I can literally hear the laughter from the studio audience and it enrages me. All intelligent thought ceases at that moment and I become violent to inanimate objects. I spiral out of control and say things that mature forty-somethings shouldn't say. I have never grown up.

   Then, it got worse.

   I asked Sarah what I would normally do when stupid things weren't going right. Of course, she answered “You would call your dad.”

   I can't look at the photo right now.