Full House, Empty Grave
So not only do we have our full compliment of five adults in residence ( and one bathroom) we now have + 1 house guest. One of my father's siblings (their are eight brothers and sisters total) has flown in to town and commandeered the TV /Computer room as her own for the duration of her stay. (forcing me to blog on my ailing machine of slapped together parts). She may or may not spend a day and a night in Joliet visiting another brother. She may or may not borrow a car and head to a very small town in Illinois about 40 miles out of St. Louis to visit her youngest sister. We can not really say what she will do as these trips are generally unstructured and taken on a whim. In the past she has called us from the airport to say she was in town and would we be so kind as to retrieve her. Other times the first we knew of her visit was her key in the lock and a bold,"Hello is anyone home?" The woman is very much a wild force of nature and one of my parents favorite house guests. She needs no chaperone, no extravagant plans, does not need to be conducted about the city. She does have a very imperious way of ordering me about with requeststhat are not really requests, but rather a polite way of telling me what chore I could kindly accomplish for her if it isn't very much trouble or even if it is. I take this in stride as I remember that the old man would be very displeased with me if he were to find out that I was a bad host in any way to anyone in this house. This could lead to something terrible like employment.
So anyway, I was shaken from my bed at the indecently early hour of ten o'clock in the morning (which is only four or five hours after I had gone to bed) to join the family for breakfast at The Original Pancake House. I did not whine or complain overly much at my loss of beauty rest as not only do they make fine food at that establishment, but they have excellent coffee and they serve whole whipping cream in place of half and half. If you haven't tried using whole whipping cream as your coffee creamer you are missing out on one of the more enjoyable experiences in life. My only problem with eating at such a fine establishment is that my body is on longer used to the tasty wonder that is butter and whipping cream. I, much like a duck, no sooner eat such items as needs make my way to the lavatory to while away a brief period earning intestinal relief.
So as we are walking out the door and heading to the car my mother suggests that since we are out and about we make a quick trip to the cemetery where my paternal grandmother and her parents are buried. Imagine my distress as my only desire was to be home close to my familiar throne and my mother is suggesting that we not only refrain from returning to our domicile, but head a good twenty minutes in the opposite direction. I begged off, but my pleading fell on deaf ears.
It was an awkward moment for me in the cemetery. Here for the first time I was seeing the grave site of my father's mother and my great grand parents, people I only knew by anecdote and by the speech and mannerisms of their offspring and all I could think was that I needed to be home before a gastro intestinal emergency occurred. Humor aside for a second these were ancestors dead years before my conception, to whom I had no real knowledge of connection. Here was my Irish heritage three graves with stones that were completely covered with leaves, stones and names I barely new, people whose lives will be forgotten in fifty years.
There is one spot left. It was being saved for my grandfather. He spent much of his life in Chicago but retired to the small town his family originally settled, in southern Illinois. He is buried there beside his parents in a cemetery filled with relatives. It is ironic to me, that in a place that is slowly disappearing off the map , a place with no industry and no business, there is this cemetery that is almost filled to overflowing and with not just a few of my paternal grandfathers ancestry, whereas here in the mighty metropolis of Chicago, there are but three members of my paternal grandmothers family. Here in one of the largest Irish enclaves in the nation there are these three members of a family very far from their native land and with few around to remember them. Here there is still a space and I wonder who if anyone will lie with them.
Yet this morning, my mind otherwise engaged, I could only look at some names and dates and stand in silence.
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So anyway, I was shaken from my bed at the indecently early hour of ten o'clock in the morning (which is only four or five hours after I had gone to bed) to join the family for breakfast at The Original Pancake House. I did not whine or complain overly much at my loss of beauty rest as not only do they make fine food at that establishment, but they have excellent coffee and they serve whole whipping cream in place of half and half. If you haven't tried using whole whipping cream as your coffee creamer you are missing out on one of the more enjoyable experiences in life. My only problem with eating at such a fine establishment is that my body is on longer used to the tasty wonder that is butter and whipping cream. I, much like a duck, no sooner eat such items as needs make my way to the lavatory to while away a brief period earning intestinal relief.
So as we are walking out the door and heading to the car my mother suggests that since we are out and about we make a quick trip to the cemetery where my paternal grandmother and her parents are buried. Imagine my distress as my only desire was to be home close to my familiar throne and my mother is suggesting that we not only refrain from returning to our domicile, but head a good twenty minutes in the opposite direction. I begged off, but my pleading fell on deaf ears.
It was an awkward moment for me in the cemetery. Here for the first time I was seeing the grave site of my father's mother and my great grand parents, people I only knew by anecdote and by the speech and mannerisms of their offspring and all I could think was that I needed to be home before a gastro intestinal emergency occurred. Humor aside for a second these were ancestors dead years before my conception, to whom I had no real knowledge of connection. Here was my Irish heritage three graves with stones that were completely covered with leaves, stones and names I barely new, people whose lives will be forgotten in fifty years.
There is one spot left. It was being saved for my grandfather. He spent much of his life in Chicago but retired to the small town his family originally settled, in southern Illinois. He is buried there beside his parents in a cemetery filled with relatives. It is ironic to me, that in a place that is slowly disappearing off the map , a place with no industry and no business, there is this cemetery that is almost filled to overflowing and with not just a few of my paternal grandfathers ancestry, whereas here in the mighty metropolis of Chicago, there are but three members of my paternal grandmothers family. Here in one of the largest Irish enclaves in the nation there are these three members of a family very far from their native land and with few around to remember them. Here there is still a space and I wonder who if anyone will lie with them.
Yet this morning, my mind otherwise engaged, I could only look at some names and dates and stand in silence.
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posted by Rich Rosenthal II at 1:17 AM
2 Comments:
Great piece, Rich.
the cemetary is an odd place of emotions--i put flowers on my uncle's grave once--he passed before i was born--one day i saw a picture of him and just wanted to go see him. i sat there and talked to him for a good hour. ...who needs to pay a shrink. your piece makes me want to go visit with him again.
oh, and i hate unannounced company. i always wonder..why couldn't they have at least called 30 minutes ahead? ..iihh. you know me.
You wont regret it. If you have the time get the dutch baby or the apple pancake (they take like 45 minutes. Great Food.
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