Laid to Rest

I flew to Rhode Island on a 6 am flight on Friday morning in order to attend my grandparents funeral. After much trauma with renting a car and getting lost for a ridiculous period of time in sketchy neighborhoods trying to find my aunt and uncle's house, wondering why I hadn't taken the GPS unit when the rental company offered it, I finally made it.

The service was beautiful. My grandfather, who I positively adored, died several years ago, but we waited to bury his ashes until my grandmother had also passed away. My uncle made two beautiful teak boxes for their ashes by hand and mounted them to a piece of my grandfather's beloved sailboat, the Night Wind. Their ashes were lowered into the ground with chains taken from his boat. We had a beautiful, tear-filled ceremony and laid them to rest, each of us throwing a shovel full of dirt on top of the boxes. I felt like they were finally in peace together.

During the ceremony, we all took turns telling stories about Grandma that meant something to us. Many of them were funny because my grandmother was quite the character, but I had both an amusing tale and one that was more serious. When I first married Ex, my grandmother, then in her mid-80's, said to me, "Almost, I'm worried about something."

"What is it, Grandma?"

"Well, you're so tiny, and Ex is so huge. I mean, how does the sex work? Is it actually possible? Doesn't he hurt you?"

I laughed. The comment was so typical of Grandma, who used to vacuum in the nude and trail behind my grandfather's boat on the Long Island sound attached to a rope, also sans clothes. She used to complain to me that my grandfather wasn't interested in sex regularly enough for her taste. When she was 86, my mother and I visited her in her assisted living facility. She was raving about the classical musician Andre Rieu, and told us that she wouldn't want to marry him, but he was so handsome that she'd just want to "do" him.

These aspects about my grandmother are incongruous when you consider that she was a very Bible-believing woman and truly centered her life around her faith. On the flip side, she was so realistic about life and sex that she was one of the few Christians I could tolerate being around. When Ex and I were on the slippery slope to divorce, I told my grandmother all of the details including my tawdry part in the marriage's demise. I fully expected her to give me a lecture on the Christian way to approach marital problems, i.e. a "you made a promise before the Lord, so you have to stick through it no matter what" type of diatribe.

Instead, she said, "Oh, honey, life is too short to go through it in this kind of misery. I totally understand where you're coming from. You're young and have your whole life ahead of you. Dump him."

Not words I anticipated from a Bible-thumping woman in her 80's whose favorite song was "The Majesty and Glory of Your Name," but healing words that made me laugh because of their candor and words I appreciate to this day.

Although I was supposed to return home that same night, my flight was re-routed through Ava's city, which wound up being fabulous since I was able to spend a fun evening with her and catch the first flight home the next morning. On my way there, we flew over a series of thunderstorms with lightning firing up the night sky beneath us. Overhead was an almost-full moon casting a silvery pall on the tops of the clouds below. It was breathtaking.

My grandfather was a pilot for many years, retiring from the commercial airline in the 70's, and his last private flight was when he was in his 80's. That one made the paper. Flying was his number one passion, and he loved the calm and peace of guiding a big silver bird over storms, feeling tranquility and smooth air despite the turbulence visible below.

I had laid my grandparent's ashes to rest that day, and my flight reflected another thing I'm learning to lay down. Though I still have my moments of panic, I'm beginning to ascend through the storm into that serene place between the pale moon and the squalls transpiring beneath me. I'm learning how to lay to rest my own tempests and watch them from above, enjoying gliding through the smooth air and appreciating the beauty of an uproar from afar, just like my grandfather. At some point, I will be able to lay the ashes of my marriage to rest and throw a handful of dirt on top. I hope I will feel that I've laid it to rest in peace and can look back upon it with no malice, but rather with fondness for the times that were good and with appreciation of all that I learned from it, just as I've done with my grandparents.

P.S. I'm heading off to Greece for a week tomorrow with Ava, the Doc, and Ava's friend Erica. I'm bringing my computer and I fully expect to be posting, not about divorce drama, but rather about the hilarity that is sure to ensue. I will spend a glorious, sun-filled week immersing myself in hedonistic pleasures and I refuse to think about Ex or anything related to this divorce. We're going for my fabulous and gorgeous Designer Friend's 40th birthday party, so expect some craziness and fun in the days to come.

Oh, balls.

It's pretty early in my blogging life to lay this one on you, and even for my friends (you know who you are, and the others who are reading are thanks to Barmaid), this is probably the first you're hearing about this.

My cousin offed himself tonight (not afore mentioned Newscaster Cousin, but a different one). Shot himself in the head, apparently, although we don't have all the details yet. He has a baby, too. Had. Sorry.

I'm disturbed, sad, a bit wacked out. My cousin J. and I weren't super close, but he did confide in me once at another cousin's wedding that he felt closest to me because I seemed to understand him. He was sleeved in tattoos and had 4 tongue rings. I suppose that in our family that wasn't the most acceptable of airs, where we're all attuned to appearances, well-educated and well-versed in terms of appropriate etiquette, though I have a couple of piercings and several tattoos as well. Maybe that's why he thought us to be kindred spirits. I'd prefer to think that it's because I genuinely liked him and found him to be a fascinating person.

J. didn't have the most spotless past, having spent time in the joint for a variety of infractions. I can't defend him on those actions - he was clearly wrong. However, I remember J. visiting my family's house when he was little.... a super-sensitive, smart-as-a-whip kid drinking in the love of my family, relishing every second of it. My Mom used to tell me that if anyone would be affected by the wrongs of the world, it would be him.

I didn't return J.'s last calls to me. He had first asked if he could visit. I was afraid of him in my house, given that I own a gun and he had a history of violence, though never with firearms until tonight. He called me 2 months later to announce that he was going to be a proud father soon. I can't believe that I couldn't find 5 minutes out of my day to call him and congratulate him.

I can't begin to fathom what drove him to shoot himself, but I look at my drama with Ex and I have to put things into perspective. Though I'll, of course, continue to post nutjob stories of Ex and my friends' crazy, fun moments, this puts a lot of my own struggle into perspective. I am clearly not facing J.'s level of pain, and I'm grateful for that. I have to take a little time out tonight and hope that J. is in a better place wherein he's found peace. I just wish he had chosen another route. Maybe he didn't think he had a choice.

R.I.P., J. I'm just sorry that you were in so much pain that it ended this way. And I'm really sorry that I never called you back.