(no subject)
Chadwick Larimore Seaton, Lieutenant Commander of the U.S. Navy, PH.D-holder of three specialties (english, theology and history) and minister of a ridiculous number of various churches, died a little over a week ago.
Titles. Titles that say little, and yet, in the end, define anyone to everyone.
He was also an alcoholic, was married three times (that I've been told about), was stand-offish and cold to his only child, and forced everyone to work for his respect.
Mistakes. The first things that you remember about a person, dead or alive. Gossip fodder; when asked about someone else, you delve to the interesting, if only because the depth of someone else's mistakes make you feel better about your own. Defining, but not definite.
He taught me to read. He taught me to draw. He taught me to write. He had me analyze Shakespeare when I was six, he had me read and recite pieces of The Art of War when I was eight, and when I wanted to read 300+ paged books over the dinky 100- paged books society (and teachers) told us I was supposed to, he bought them.
He taught me to dream.
He took me to the zoo, weekly. He took me to the park to feed ducks. He took me to libraries and let me check out tens of tens of books at once. He watched MASH, every weekday, with me. He picked me up from school, and took me out to lunch, every day. He wanted to feed me mashed potatoes when I was a baby. We were in a bowling league together for five years. He taught me all about that, too.
He taught me board games. He taught me card games. He taught me Rummy and Backgammon. He taught me how to win all of them. He refused to teach me poker.
He went with me to walk Shiloh, because he was certain I couldn't go alone. He hated when I picked up fencing, and he LOATHED the thought of me fighting sabre-style. There are no words to describe the ridiculous, suffocating depths of his over-protective nature. Actually, he bloody well JINXED me when I shattered my ankle, because his protests, just a week before, over me playing soccer, were a growled, "you're going to break your leg and never be able to run again."
Yeeeeeeeeeeeah THANKS Grandpa.
He taught me to stand up for myself. He taught me justice and shades of grey, not black and white. He taught me when to fight, when to bide my time, when to bow out and admit I was wrong. He taught me to use my weaknesses to my advantage, not my strengths, as leverage over other people. "People love having their pride stroked," he told me. "Swallow your own and you'll get what you want."
(People also love helping out a small girl with a big grin, when she's seemingly honest and blatant about what she needs.)
He taught me to constantly pushpushpush against that boundary. Against what people said I could and couldn't do. He taught me to forget the stars, and reach for the moon. He taught me that excuses are weakness, are laziness. And then he taught me when it was alright to be lazy.
He made me appreciate the work and art and skill it takes to tell a good mystery. It's something I still suck at.
Memories. Actions. Love beyond the simplicity of, "I love you." Showing, not telling. The art of writing, appearing in life.
Definition.
The majority of that man, for me, died a long time ago.
It's ironic, really, that the smartest man I will ever know had Alzheimer's. I have a theory that it's actually his drinking that led to it, really.
(And now you all know why I will never, ever, drink.)
It's a terrible thing for a grade schooler, for a young high schooler, to go from being the learner and protected to the teacher and the protector. It wasn't fair of my family to throw all that weight on myself--or maybe I took it on myself, because I'm like that, and they just didn't stop me, because they're like that. It doesn't matter. But by my junior year of high school, Grandpa had forgotten about zoos and bowling, about battle strategy and old poets, and risk and Go and Othello and Rummy and Backgammon.
And, really, he'd forgotten me. He didn't know who I was, sometimes. He called me D'Arcy, he called me Pamela, sometimes he just referred to me as "her" and "you."
But he still knew I was important. His grey eyes didn't remember my name, or my hobbies, or my ambitions, but they remembered that I was important.
And that was enough.
That's still enough.
When he died, it was unexpected, but it was expected. I knew, really, that he didn't have long. And he was horribly miserable, the two years I've been in Memphis and not at home, where I belong.
And so, in a not-nearly-as-horrible-as-it-sounds type of way, I'm grateful that he's gone. Grateful that he's not in pain anymore, not miserable. He didn't deserve that. FEW deserve that--but he didn't.
He wanted to see me published. And I know, really, that it's my own prioritizing and laziness that kept that from happening. But it will. It will.
I like pushing the deadlines.
He taught me that, too.