(no subject)
There is a list of things that we can't talk about at holiday events.
My family is very closed in this way, very secretive. I want my Grandfather to tell me stories like I was a little kid, but he wasn't very good at doing that when I was a little kid. There's so much I don't know, an entire history thats going to be missed with their passing.
I know his father's name was Frances, and that Frances was a hard man, a farmer, who bred greyhounds and had a pair of old Clydesdales and got up early to feed the cows and the horses. I know that my grandfather had to take care of the dogs, and his little sister, and that one time when my grandfather was twelve or maybe younger, the barn caught fire, and the horses were trapped inside, and my grandfather bravely tried to make his way to the flames, but couldn't get the horses to come out with him, so they both died in the fire, and he barely made it out alive himself. A couple of the dogs may have died too, but he told me that later he had to coax the frightened curs out from underneath their porch.
This was in Connecticut.
I know that my great-grandfather gave my grandfather his name as his middle name, Robert Francis, and that my grandfather gave his name to my father, Robert Francis Junior. And when my grandfather's little sister was born, she was named after her father: Frances, but everyone calls her Frannie (or Auntie Frances, pronounced "Ountie").
My great grandmother died last July, while I was in San Diego. The funeral was while I was traveling. No one told me, even when I called, until I got home. Her name was Stella, and when I was eight years old, my grandparents took me to her house in Florida, and we all went to Disney world together. She had Parkinson's disease, and the last time I saw her, she kept calling me Mary, which is my mother's name. She shook a lot and was a very petite woman, with a shaky voice. She ate a lot of rice cakes and was gluten intolerant. I don't know a lot about her. There's an entire history there that I will never know. Her obituary talked more about her husband, who'd died a couple years before I was born, than her.
Stella had old cassette tapes of Groucho Marx at her house in Florida. When I went down, we would sit together, play 21 and listen to Groucho Marx and laugh.
Before my great-grandmother died, my grandfather stopped talking to her. Just like that, made a conscious decision that he didn't want to talk to her anymore. My Auntie Frances got mad at him and they stopped talking for a long time too, until the funeral.
I guess they're talking again.
I saw Frannie this past June, along with her husband and children and grandchildren. She invited me to come visit her in Maine, to see the new house.
I don't know much about them either, except that Auntie Frances is a really strong woman, and when I was a little kid, I loved her very much. Every time she would come and visit, she would listen to Irish Drinking songs, get tipsy with my grandparents and encourage me to read to her.
Once, when I was in second grade, after visiting with her, I went to school and sang "What Do With a Drunken Sailor?" for the entire class. My teacher berated me forever, called home and yelled at my parents at the appropriateness of such music. My mother took away my Irish mix tape after that.
My family is very closed in this way, very secretive. I want my Grandfather to tell me stories like I was a little kid, but he wasn't very good at doing that when I was a little kid. There's so much I don't know, an entire history thats going to be missed with their passing.
I know his father's name was Frances, and that Frances was a hard man, a farmer, who bred greyhounds and had a pair of old Clydesdales and got up early to feed the cows and the horses. I know that my grandfather had to take care of the dogs, and his little sister, and that one time when my grandfather was twelve or maybe younger, the barn caught fire, and the horses were trapped inside, and my grandfather bravely tried to make his way to the flames, but couldn't get the horses to come out with him, so they both died in the fire, and he barely made it out alive himself. A couple of the dogs may have died too, but he told me that later he had to coax the frightened curs out from underneath their porch.
This was in Connecticut.
I know that my great-grandfather gave my grandfather his name as his middle name, Robert Francis, and that my grandfather gave his name to my father, Robert Francis Junior. And when my grandfather's little sister was born, she was named after her father: Frances, but everyone calls her Frannie (or Auntie Frances, pronounced "Ountie").
My great grandmother died last July, while I was in San Diego. The funeral was while I was traveling. No one told me, even when I called, until I got home. Her name was Stella, and when I was eight years old, my grandparents took me to her house in Florida, and we all went to Disney world together. She had Parkinson's disease, and the last time I saw her, she kept calling me Mary, which is my mother's name. She shook a lot and was a very petite woman, with a shaky voice. She ate a lot of rice cakes and was gluten intolerant. I don't know a lot about her. There's an entire history there that I will never know. Her obituary talked more about her husband, who'd died a couple years before I was born, than her.
Stella had old cassette tapes of Groucho Marx at her house in Florida. When I went down, we would sit together, play 21 and listen to Groucho Marx and laugh.
Before my great-grandmother died, my grandfather stopped talking to her. Just like that, made a conscious decision that he didn't want to talk to her anymore. My Auntie Frances got mad at him and they stopped talking for a long time too, until the funeral.
I guess they're talking again.
I saw Frannie this past June, along with her husband and children and grandchildren. She invited me to come visit her in Maine, to see the new house.
I don't know much about them either, except that Auntie Frances is a really strong woman, and when I was a little kid, I loved her very much. Every time she would come and visit, she would listen to Irish Drinking songs, get tipsy with my grandparents and encourage me to read to her.
Once, when I was in second grade, after visiting with her, I went to school and sang "What Do With a Drunken Sailor?" for the entire class. My teacher berated me forever, called home and yelled at my parents at the appropriateness of such music. My mother took away my Irish mix tape after that.