Georgie Peorgie
It’s 9:12 on a Friday night and I am alone, in my bed, drinking red wine, working on my book and blogging while listening to the rain outside. I’m happy. I wasn’t happy earlier in the day when I got a phone call from my mom (who I have since made up with) letting me know that a family friend, George, had passed away at age 60. This got me thinking about all manner of things. 60 is young. I’m going to the funeral tomorrow and it will be the first one I have attended since my grandfather passed away. It will be the first funeral of one of my parents’ friends. My parents are 60. My dad and George weren’t getting along. I don’t know what the last conversation was between my dad and George. I wish I had known George better. When I was a little girl he gave me a stuffed Bambi, I think I still have it. I had a crush on him when I was six or seven. I would say “Georgie Peorgie, pudding and pie, kissed all the girls and made them cry” and then I would run and hide. It’s still a favourite pick up line of mine. I don’t know why I’m single. George wasn’t married and didn’t have any children. I don’t know if he wanted to be married, or if he regretted not having children. I hope that he didn’t die feeling lonely. I wish I had had more meaningful conversations with him. I remember one time when I was in high school I told him that I hated school and he asked me why. I don’t remember my answer, but I’m sure it was flippant and ignorant. He was a teacher. He was always nice to me even when I was an idiot adolescent. I wish I could’ve told him that I went back to college and got my diploma (with distinction). My diploma actually arrived in today’s mail.
Tomorrow I will go to the funeral with my mom and dad and I will cry because of what I missed. I missed getting to know him better. He was a person that was in my life since I was born and now he’s gone. I will cry because the relationship between George and my father was such that my dad didn’t get to see him before he died. I think that’s shit. But that’s my dad’s bag and all I can do is try and avoid that. I will try to take something positive away from this. I think I already have. I left work at noon today after staring for inordinate amounts of time at my monitor and trying to remember what it was that I was supposed to be doing that was so damned important. I came up empty handed and left. I took the bus home and found everyone intensely interesting. People are interesting. My friends and family are interesting. The whole argument I had with my mother about being asked to come solo to my cousin’s wedding was not interesting. It was stupid and didn’t warrant not talking to her for four days. I need to call my friend Tina that has had her second child: I haven’t seen her for over a year. I need to see my grandmother, I haven’t seen her since Christmas. She lives 15 minutes away from me.
Why am I happy, you ask? Because this wake up call, this reality check has helped me to discern that I’m doing okay. I’m on track as far as the big picture goes. I’ve got my four day work week. I am not on the outs with any of my friends. I like to believe that all my friends know that they can call me at 2am on a Tuesday and ask for: a ride; bail; or a conversation. I think all my friends know that I love them and that I show my love with wild arm gesticulations and punches to the arm. I’m good with my family, but I think I need to see my brother more often. He’s a busy guy. I’m not plotzing that it’s Friday night and I’m spending it with some lime/chili almonds, my Dell, some bitchin’ California Shiraz and Macy Gray.
The last time I saw George he was working on his house up at Lasqueti. I think he was chopping wood and my dad, Michael and I went up to visit him. He seemed content. I think he liked the manual labour aspect of building his cabin. I think he liked the solitude and the contemplation time. I think he was done with arguing with my dad about whatever it was that they would argue about; it wasn’t important to him and he didn’t want to spend any energy on it. I went to look at his cabin later after he had gone. It wasn’t finished but I liked it. It was small, but it was perfect: there was no unnecessary space. It was sheltered by the trees so it would be quiet and full of nature. If you stepped out the sliding glass door and took just a few steps you would be on the bluff. From that bluff you could overlook the entire bay, all the sailboats bobbing there, the gulls wheeling in the sky. You can see the ferry – the Centurion – come and go. You can see across the Straight of Georgia to Vancouver Island. You can hear the echoing hammering of people building, the distant sound of outboard motors as skiffs make their way to the pier, the odd, metallic tok tok sound the ravens make as they fly overhead, their feathers rustling like muslin. The salty smell of the sea and the parched, almost breadlike smell of the dry grass. The ancient creaking of the trees as the wind moves gently through them.
Bye George.
Tomorrow I will go to the funeral with my mom and dad and I will cry because of what I missed. I missed getting to know him better. He was a person that was in my life since I was born and now he’s gone. I will cry because the relationship between George and my father was such that my dad didn’t get to see him before he died. I think that’s shit. But that’s my dad’s bag and all I can do is try and avoid that. I will try to take something positive away from this. I think I already have. I left work at noon today after staring for inordinate amounts of time at my monitor and trying to remember what it was that I was supposed to be doing that was so damned important. I came up empty handed and left. I took the bus home and found everyone intensely interesting. People are interesting. My friends and family are interesting. The whole argument I had with my mother about being asked to come solo to my cousin’s wedding was not interesting. It was stupid and didn’t warrant not talking to her for four days. I need to call my friend Tina that has had her second child: I haven’t seen her for over a year. I need to see my grandmother, I haven’t seen her since Christmas. She lives 15 minutes away from me.
Why am I happy, you ask? Because this wake up call, this reality check has helped me to discern that I’m doing okay. I’m on track as far as the big picture goes. I’ve got my four day work week. I am not on the outs with any of my friends. I like to believe that all my friends know that they can call me at 2am on a Tuesday and ask for: a ride; bail; or a conversation. I think all my friends know that I love them and that I show my love with wild arm gesticulations and punches to the arm. I’m good with my family, but I think I need to see my brother more often. He’s a busy guy. I’m not plotzing that it’s Friday night and I’m spending it with some lime/chili almonds, my Dell, some bitchin’ California Shiraz and Macy Gray.
The last time I saw George he was working on his house up at Lasqueti. I think he was chopping wood and my dad, Michael and I went up to visit him. He seemed content. I think he liked the manual labour aspect of building his cabin. I think he liked the solitude and the contemplation time. I think he was done with arguing with my dad about whatever it was that they would argue about; it wasn’t important to him and he didn’t want to spend any energy on it. I went to look at his cabin later after he had gone. It wasn’t finished but I liked it. It was small, but it was perfect: there was no unnecessary space. It was sheltered by the trees so it would be quiet and full of nature. If you stepped out the sliding glass door and took just a few steps you would be on the bluff. From that bluff you could overlook the entire bay, all the sailboats bobbing there, the gulls wheeling in the sky. You can see the ferry – the Centurion – come and go. You can see across the Straight of Georgia to Vancouver Island. You can hear the echoing hammering of people building, the distant sound of outboard motors as skiffs make their way to the pier, the odd, metallic tok tok sound the ravens make as they fly overhead, their feathers rustling like muslin. The salty smell of the sea and the parched, almost breadlike smell of the dry grass. The ancient creaking of the trees as the wind moves gently through them.
Bye George.
posted by Duder at 10:15 PM
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