I thought today would be a fantastic day to get the hell out of the house and do some work with my Deadz. I have never gone to visit my grandmother on my mother’s side and TH’s grandfather is buried within the same cemetery. I figured, two birds with one stone. It was supposed to be a peaceful, thrilling ride that would end with offerings left and a peaceful, serene feeling throughout. As you can probably tell from the tenses I’m using here, that didn’t fucking happen.
I had no idea where the cemetery was to begin with. I got directions via the Internet because I’m not the kind of person who has something fancy and easy like GPS on my phone. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to have these things, but I was an idiot while phone shopping. I got stuck on the desire for a keyboard as opposed to a good phone. I ended up with a fairly shitty phone that only has a very tiny allotment of space in its memory banks: what do you expect, right? It’s a floor model phone. The thing is that this phone is notorious for not letting you have apps on it and that when it hits a magic number, it will not let you do a damn thing (text, receive messages, check your E-mail, or get voice mail, etc.). This means that you have to remove your apps or remove the updates and watch as your memory inexplicably grows toward the magic number again, causing a reset. It’s a piece of shit. So, suffice it to say, I don’t have GPS.
But, I have an infallible sense of direction… as long as I kind of know where I’m heading. I had no fucking idea where I was heading.
So, I ended up having to stop and get directions. I was almost positive that I had taken the wrong direction when getting off of the off-ramp, but I wasn’t positive. I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts and inquired about where the cemetery was. They sent me in the complete opposite direction from where I had to go. They sent me to some other cemetery that had no bearing on anything. After turning around, I earmarked a future cemetery that is circa 1820 or thereabouts. It’s very small and looks incredibly worn and in need of love. On my way back from accidentally heading into some other town, I stopped at a gas station and asked about directions. She sent me in the wrong direction, as well, but yet another uplift to the already hour-long journey was yet another old cemetery that is circa 1774 or thereabouts. That one is much bigger and going to take hours to pay attention to, but looks like it’s in better shape than the other I accidentally found.
After turning around in Suffield, Connecticut, I gritted my teeth and tried not to let my irritation get to me. I’m used to getting lost or driving completely by the cemeteries I’m looking for. For some reason, this whole trip was pissing me off. I had been driving for about an hour and a half at this point. As I was driving back down Main Street and glowering at Six Flags (the cemetery is, practically, diagonal from Six Flags), I happened to look to my left and what do you know? I had driven right by the damn thing. Excited and thrilled, I went barreling in like a bat out of hell. (Slight over exaggeration: I patiently waited until I could make a U-turn down a side street and sedately drove the speed limit to get into the cemetery, but the exaggeration sounds cooler.)
I pulled up to the administration building. Unlike with my grandmother on my father’s side, I had no idea where my grandmother was buried. She’s buried at the Veteran’s Memorial Cemetery in the area. So think of a smaller scale version of Arlington. When you go to bury someone at the cemetery, you are not taken to the graveside with flowers strewn about. You are ushered into this private little chapel where kind words are spoken, moments of thought are had, and flowers are casually strewn about. So, I had no idea where to find my grandmother (or TH’s grandfather, for that matter). But the administration building (and the cemetery, actually) are all new and innovative and state of the art. Instead of having to ask someone to aid me, there was an awesome little touch screen device that lets you do a search by last name. Writing down the directions to both grave sides, I went driving around to find their sections.
Now, I wanted to see my grandmother first. I haven’t been near her since we said good-bye in 2005. I had no such relationship, or desire really, to see TH’s grandfather. (More in a minute.) I wanted to find my grandmother and have a private moment with her. I ended up finding my grandmother’s section right away. Since I was already in the car, I figured I’d look for TH’s grandfather’s section as well. Except that there weren’t any sections that were clearly labeled with his. For example, my grandmother is buried in section 3C, which is directly across from the administration building. TH’s grandfather was in a section entitled “WE.” I had no fucking clue what that meant, but there were men wandering around and doing cleaning up duty. I figured once I found my grandma, I could ask.
And yet another adventure was had.
I had no idea how to find my grandmother.
I had the section to hand and I had the row number and even the site number. I counted down the rows until I felt that I was in what they had labeled as “section L.” And I walked up and down that row twice, but there was nothing about my grandmother. I went down the row a third time, getting irritated and worried. What if I wasn’t paying attention to things properly? What if I was delusional? What if I had just wasted all of my gas? That’s when I noticed that there were little discreet numbers on the back of each tombstone. The one in front of me ready something like, 3A K 245. Frowning, I looked at the other tombstones around me and wouldn’t you know? They all had them. It became much easier to find my grandmother.
After that, I waltzed over to the men who were doing their work. Very kindly, they sent me in the direction of TH’s grandfather.
I’ve never had much of a relationship with TH’s grandfather and as far as I can tell, the relationship between the two of them was extremely strained. TH is on of the most mellow people you will ever meet, but it’s difficult to maintain a care-free relationship with someone like his grandfather. He was mean, spiteful, angry, irritating, bitchy, and a drunk. He liked to beat on his ex-wife. I knew from the get-go that I didn’t like George and I’m not too sure how he felt about me. Still, he is a part of my family and he has a place on my familial shrine. I reached out and touched his plaque and felt the most white-hot rage I have ever felt in my life. There was a burning sensation from my hand all the way up to my bicep and into my shoulder. Actually, as I write this, I can kind of feel little leftovers of his death rage.
The man is fucking angry.
I stumbled away and went home. I was so angry and pissed off on the way home. I was angry with the drive and the getting lost (again) as I tried to leave. I was pissed that there were cars in front of me and I was irritated that my car was making funny noises. I wanted to punch someone in the fucking place and put on loud music instead. When I got home, I immediately started yelling at TS for doing what he always does when I come home from somewhere. I was so fucking pissed off and angry and that’s when I realized that I was… feeding in or tapped into George’s white hot rage. I can still feel it, like I said, in my arm and in my head. It’s like a buzzing nest of bees. I’m planning on taking a nap, but I can assure everyone: I will not be visiting that cold, selfish bastard ever again.