Feb. 13th, 1986

Twenty years ago today, my maternal grandmother died.

It was the first serious death in my extended family, and was the start of my mother's family falling to pieces.

I was a freshman in college.

I remember it all so well. I was on the speech team, and having very little success. I was also doing a children's show and had just been promoted to the lead, after the original castmember dropped out.

I came home from rehearsal to find my parents gone, and my brother and sister waiting for me in the living room. They told me, cryptically, to go call mom at grandma's house.

In doing so, I learned that she had died.

It was no big surprise.

My grandmother had been battling emphysema for nearly seven years. She had been in and out of hospitals, and on the brink of death, the entire time.

I knew this was coming for some time.

One of her last forays into the hospital was during my senior year in high school, and after school I bummed a ride from some friends and visited her alone in the hospital. During that visit I steeled myself for the inevitable. She was so weak and bloated, I knew at once she didn't have long.

She was a small woman, but fierce. She could swear like a drunken trucker, and never bat an eyelid. That is a trait, many are surprised to learn, that my mother inherited.

My memories of my grandmother are her sitting at a dining room table, cigarette in her veiny, brittle hand, swearing and bitching about whomever, mostly my drunken grandfather.

She was not my favorite, a truth that even today still pangs me with guilt.

When she died, I was just about to embark on a speech trip for the state finals. She died Thursday, I was to leave Friday morning for my trip, returning Saturday night, and the wake was scheduled for Sunday afternoon.

My mother told me over the phone to go on my trip, but, "I damn well better be back for the wake on Sunday!"

Friday afternoon, sitting in a round of OI, which is a mash-up of prose and poetry and theatre all on a single topic, I felt her loss come upon me suddenly. Quietly, I started to cry. We were sitting in a class room. Me and about six other contestants, and one silent judge, all listening to these mash-ups.

I remember suddenly feeling my grandmother's presence. My grief, I felt, had somehow summoned her.

Just then, too, it was my turn to perform.

My topic was child abuse. Yeah, fun!

I had a prose comedy by Mel Brooks, about a thief father who derides his son for not going into the family business. A theatre piece by Christopher Durang about a seriously fucked up child recounting his upbringing. My third piece, I believe, was Flowers for Algernon. It was very serious, and I played both the son, and an abusive mother. Oddly, for the role of the mother, I would channel my grandmother.

So, that day, performing, with her "presence" there with me was strange.

I also won gold that weekend. My first time making finals, not to mention winning.

As the rest of my team was set to leave Saturday night, some friends who went to school at our host school, invited me and some others to stay and party. I really wanted to do it. I was suddenly a cool person due to my win, and wanted to cash in on that. Plus, the release was warranted, I told myself. Hell, I just lost my fucking grandmother.

My mother bitched me out over the phone, but since I was four hours away downstate, there was little she could do. Just fucking be there tomorrow, or your ass is in serious fucking trouble.

I drank that night. I was not a drinker yet, but had witnessed how to do it "properly" from my family.

I also smoked A LOT of pot. That was my particular vice.

I remember one of the guys who invited us had a walk in closet in his bedroom, and he had turned it into his own private bar. He let me and my friend TM use this stash, and we abused it.

I remember falling onto the floor in that closet, I was so drunk, and TM spilling his drink on me. We both laughed, and fixed ourselves another.

Heading downstairs to the party proper, we ran into our host and another of our teammates. They were smoking up, and offered us some. My teammate flicked his lighter and proffered it to me, reaching up next to my liquor soaked sleeve. Instantly, I was on fire.

I was wearing a thermal undershirt with a yellow Hawaiian short sleeve shirt over it. The thermal lit, giving the Hawaiian images on the over shirt a tribal ceremony look.

I waived my arm about as if I was the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. I remember recognizing the comedy in the moment and savoring it above any concern I should have for extinguishing myself. It did, indeed, get a big laugh. I became even cooler.

I did make it back in time for the wake.

My grandmother had been cremated, so at the front of the room was a table surrounded by flowers. On the table was a picture of her, and the urn. It seemed cold and detached.

My grandfather was drunk, and depressed. The siblings were already arguing over who would now watch over him. Not trying to pass the buck, but rather, arguing over who would do it best.

He would be dead in just over a year, and his house would be taken by my uncle. No money ever made its way to my family, a point my mother never got over.

The start of the end of my extended family. Also, the start of me using anything at all for comedy, and the benefits that would result.