I was looking back over some of my more recent posts (although recent is a relative term given my lack of posting these days). One thing I've noticed is that I never really intended this to be a play by play rip-off for how my day (and by extension my family and friends days) goes. Somehow it ends up being mostly that and I apologize. My life is rarely interesting enough to sustain me, let alone the people that pop in here regularly. That being said, I'll attempt to have things other than what went on since I last posted.
I did take particular notice of the post I had a few Thursdays ago. I think I should clarify, it's not like I knew I was becoming a father and all of sudden I was reduced to weeping in a corner like a little girl without a pony. Don't get me wrong, I felt emotion before I found out I was going to be a father.
When I was 6 my parents took me to see this in the theater. During the scene where Superman renounces his powers to marry Lois, I started to cry. It's the first time I can remember crying for a reason outside of the kid's reasons (I'm hungry, I'm tired, you didn't buy me the toy I wanted, etc.). My mom thought it was cute and I just didn't quite understand the concept of movies not actually being reality. Hell, when I was 6 I still wanted to grow up to be Superman.
I've also cried on other occasions. When the Penguins won the Stanley Cup for the first time. When Badger Bob died. When Herb Brooks died. My wedding. The episode of M*A*S*H when Henry Blake dies. Miracle. But I usually had some sort of control. Until now.
We had our son dedicated in church on the 8th. It's not an occasion to cry and during the dedication, I didn't. However, my Grandmother (my mom's mom) was able to make it to the dedication in a wheelchair. Approximately 10 years ago she was given less than 2 years to live. She has a leaky heart valve that isn't able to be repaired and eventually will kill her. The entire family knows this and I think my mother and her brother are prepared for it, at least to the extent that they can be. I'm not. My Grandmother was the most independent person I knew. She lived alone (at least for most of my memory...my Grandfather and Uncle Frank died when I was 3). She carried coal in for her furnace every winter til I was a senior in high school and we basically strong armed her into getting a gas furnace. She walked the length of town every day going to the post office and grocery store to pick up anything she needed. The only thing she didn't do was drive. She wasn't able to make my wedding and I've always felt a piece of sadness in that happy memory. She was at my son's dedication and if I didn't believe in a God before, I did that day. With no advance planning or warning, two of her favorite hymns were part of the service. She was so happy and in turn we were all happy. Why am I bringing all this up, you ask? Actually you probably stopped reading several paragraphs ago, so I bring this up for me. On Friday, she slipped while she was walking and broke her ankle in two places. Now, she's become depressed. For someone that age, in her health, depression is a bad thing. So, on the way to drop off Dad's baby we stopped to see her. She's absolutely so happy to see Gage it breaks my heart to have to leave. I know that every day is another day closer to not having her, it's always been like that and the same could be said for anyone or anything, but after having known her for almost 30 (Yes 30 dammit) years, I can't imagine living without her.
Now that I've gotten that out of my system, not much else is going on. My uncles bought a house, so I helped them move in over the weekend and my cousin is looking at Carnegie Mellon as a prospective college, so I get to show off my campus in a personal tour.
On a completely different topic, I rarely take recommendations seriously anymore. Call it the whipped pup syndrome, I guess. I can't help but wipe out everything I've heard and judge for myself. In the category of books, I've had positive recommendations that I thought were horrible (Moby Dick), and negative recommendations that I thought were, on the whole, good (Crime and Punishment). Finally, Susiezy recommend Wuthering Heights. Actually, to be fair, she recommended that I stay the hell away from it. She was right. Hear that, you were right. I certainly don't say that often. And, to make matters even more interesting, I'm now doing something that I rarely, if ever, do with a book. I'm re-reading it. A few years ago, my brother gave me Black House for Christmas. Black House was written by Stephen King and Peter Straub and is the sequel to their first novel together, The Talisman. Now, I read the Talisman when it first came out back in '84 or '85. I wasn't more than 10 or 11. My memory is good, but not quite that good. So, I figured I would re-read what was a great novel the first time around in order to set myself up for what I hope is an equally enjoyable sequel. I'm going to have to do the same thing with the Dark Tower series. I haven't read the first one since the mid-80's as well and number 7 comes out sometime later this year, I believe. So, no it's not an obsession like other people I know. I certainly haven't re-read anything that I've read within the last five or six years. And, I haven't read the Harry Potter series so much that the cover is frayed and torn and the pages are almost worn smooth of all type. That is reserved for the truly addicted. Right, Suze?