Whirlwind.
2011 has come and gone. Our house is once again a gift earthquake. Unopened boxes, Barbie clothes strung across the floor like a doll one-night-stand, the menacing look of a soldier aiming at no one. We'll soon discard the old for the new, as many families do this season. 2012 is just about here.
December evokes lots of reflection. Thoughts of home. This year we stayed in Ohio, and I barely get a glimpse of what Christmas is like back in Houston. Tamales, my loud uncles, my cousins with kids of their own, my sister. My grandfather's birthday passed on the 21st. I joke with my wife that if he was still alive I would have never left his side. I vaguely remember driving in his truck, sitting on his lap as a toddler, able to honk the horn at passerbys. I remember making my uncle Gilbert (who at the time was in high school) change the channel to what I wanted to watch on tv. Foghorn Leghorn was the king of Saturday morning cartoons. When he grew sick from the pneumonia that eventually took his life, I reportedly was so mad I stormed out of his hospital room. It would be the last time I would ever see him, apart from the pictures I still own, the ones my grandma has in large photo albums she keeps. One memory is sitting by the window awaiting his return, wondering if his truck would simply pull into the driveway.
Growing up in Houston has its own stories, too many for a mere blog. Many of them are with my uncles. Richard the handsome one, whose life was struck short in a tragic accident. Gilbert the young one, whose girlfriends were the frequent targets of my seemingly endless questions. Jesse, the black sheep, the one I outwardly root for. In a movie he'd somehow be redeemed by the actor Jimmy Smits in one of those Oscar-winning speeches. David, the family man turned tragic cautionary tale. My uncles were the men in my life when my father sat speechless in front of a television screen living his life through the actors and actresses he logged in various 3-ring binders. They weren't the ones quoting from the Book of Responsibility my step father used often (In hindsight, I was as much as an issue for him growing up. Whether that was from rebellion, our differences or some Freudian attempt to keep men away from my mother is beyond my intelligence to comprehend). I envisioned making a movie about a kid being raised by the four of them, and indeed if I took parts of each one they would make for a great narrative.
Memories of them come up often. I watched "The Tree of Life" this past week. Brad Pitt plays the reverential and tough father of 3 boys in Waco, Texas in the 50's. The movie is part poetry and existential ruminations on the meaning of life, from creation to the afterlife (not sure if I totally agree with the movie, but it proves for some great conversation, first and foremost--what the hell was Sean Penn doing in this movie?). I thought so much of my uncle Gilbert's job as a father to four boys. As a brother myself I related to so much of the story (Cruz did too, I think, because it's the only way to explain how a 7 year old can sit next to his father and watch an art house movie, a Terrance Malik movie by golly, is beyond explanation. But it all has to do with boys being boys, and probably some of his desires to have a brother run around the neighborhood with, someone to push and push back, someone to wrestle with, someone to understand his point of view). I'm not here to say it was a perfect model, but I do know that my 4 cousins are special in the way that God only can do, from the way they act, their personalities, their looks and the memories they all invoke.
The other night when wrapping last minute gifts, my DVR slighted my emotions by clipping the last cathartic minutes of "It's a Wonderful Life." I know how it ends but I was ready for my deep Holiday cry. Not that I have anything to be sad about. Crying for George Bailey finally understanding where God placed him, thankful for the gifts around him. When I see the tears in my uncle Gilbert's eyes whenever I say goodbye I see the dame thankfulness. I see it in the vivid memories of my grandfather under the sheen of worn photo album covers. The black and white photo of him wearing a suit and Al Capone hat will probably stay etched in my mind. I can't imagine seeing him once again in color. By then it probably wont matter. Perhaps he'll be a floating celestial being. Perhaps not. But I know that my Sean Penn-walk-in-the-afterlife walk will look like.
Whirlwinds.
No comments:
Post a Comment