Ridiculous Opinions #221
Last week, I was sitting around the house in the evening, pondering whatever it is that I ponder when I’m sitting around, when I spoke with my sister. She was planning my mother’s 80th birthday party and I said that I wished I could be there. After I hung up, I thought about how I could make it happen, and after a bit of encouragement from Tracey (and approval from the school), I decided to go. This all happened within about twelve hours, so it wasn’t long before I was on a 16 hour flight to surprise my mom.
I flew to Dallas and then drove for four hours to get to Tulsa (I refuse to fly domestically in the United States anymore, but that’s a tale for another newsletter). I spent the night with my sister and then drove down with her to surprise my mother. She was absolutely delighted. I got to see my youngest daughter, my oldest brother, have the best barbecued chicken I’ve ever had (courtesy of my brother-in-law), and enjoyed a wonderful little event organized by my sister to celebrate 80 years of my mother’s existence.
But visiting one’s hometown also brings with it a sense of melancholy. On Sunday afternoon, I went for a drive with my mother out to a place called Caney, which is known colloquially amongst the people that lived there as Tailholt.
Along the way, we picked up my Uncle Plez (yes, that’s his awesome name) and we toured the countryside for the afternoon. My mom was raised dirt-poor in the forties and fifties in rural Oklahoma and as we drove through this area, both she and Plez regaled me with stories from their youth; about what it was like growing up in the area, about how they used to get to school, where the best fishing holes were, what it was like to drive into the big city of Tahlequah where their father used to pick up his welfare check while sending the kids off to the movies for the afternoon.
My grandfather was a man named Bedford. I never met him because he was fifty-seven years old (I think) when my mom was born. Not many people alive today can say that their grandfather was born in 1887 or that their great-grandfather fought in the U.S. Civil War, but I can. There’s a story behind my grandfather, one that is murky, but intriguing (and at times disturbing). He actually came from a rich family, was a highly intelligent man, but was an outcast in his later years. He was married three times and had several tragedies in his life. He spent a couple of years in prison for trying to kill a man and lost a young son early in his life when the horse-drawn wagon he was driving was hit by a train.
His sister was a woman that is only known to me as “Aunt Minnie” and she was very wealthy and married to the sheriff in Tulsa. She owned a beautiful house in Caney, in one of the most picturesque areas that exists in Oklahoma (the house, and its surrounding land, is now owned by a very wealthy man from Tulsa, who has purchased practically everything in the area in an attempt to keep the little valley as pristine as possible). Aunt Minnie let my grandfather and grandmother live on the land. I’m not sure what, exactly, my grandfather did, besides collect a check, but the story of why he was living there and had four children late in life is yet another mystery. My mother has told me that Aunt Minnie inherited all the money from her father and had my grandfather cut out of the will, which might have contributed to the state in which he lived, but I don’t know for sure and it will forever remain a mystery.
And as my mother told me this story, I was filled with a strange existential disquiet.
All these stories. All these lives led. Who was going to remember them all?
Whenever I go to my mother’s house, I end up trying to document things. Inevitably, I break out the various boxes and start taking pictures of old photographs with my phone. My mother’s sister died last year, so she inherited a new box of old photos, some of which were ours, so I started scanning them in and that feeling crept back in.
So many stories. Who was going to remember all of these stories? There were old photos with people in them that were unknown to me. What happened to this person? What were the circumstances in which this photo was taken? What were their relationships?
I found a roll of pictures from my mother’s younger brother; a man named Don. They were all candid photos from his time in the National Guard. Don died in a car accident in the sixties, but here he was taking pictures in his barracks, on the highway, and at the beach. There was a picture of a young woman and all I could think was, Who is this woman? Was she a girlfriend? He took this photo for a reason. Why?
I have no clue who this person is. I don’t think anybody I know knows who this person is. It’s a mystery.
I looked at pictures of my mother’s sister and I thought, She’s gone. Who’s going to remember her? What is the story behind this photo?
And that was the existential feeling that I had. I’ve had it for years, and I wonder whether it’s why I try to document things all the time, why I write this newsletter, why I write novels and want to draw comics and to make movies. It’s because the thing that I hate about life is that I can’t know everything. I want to absorb all of the stories. I want to know about people’s inner lives, what they did when they were bored, how they loved each other or how they fought with each other. I want to know how they paid their bills, what did they think about when they were alone, what music they listened to, what movies they loved.
I want to know it all.
And perhaps that’s the existential nature of all of these things and why I get so mad at the world at various times. I get annoyed because I can never know it all, and that’s depressing.
But at the same time, it’s hopeful, because it makes me want to live an extraordinary life. Here’s one more photo to end the newsletter for the day…
The woman holding the baby is my grandmother and the baby is my mother. Her sister, Beverly, is the second from the right in the group. My mother’s grandmother (on her mother’s side) stands in the doorway. And the boy in the picture, to the right of my grandmother, is my Uncle Plez (we think).
Look at him for a second.
I adore this picture; the sole reason being what Plez is wearing on his head. Look at that aviator hat. Look at those goggles.
Imagine the adventures he had that day. Imagine the pride he felt wearing that hat. Imagine him running around that afternoon, playing in rural Oklahoma, no electricity in the house, not a care in the world, headed to the fishing hole, throwing rocks into the pond, jumping on horses that he shouldn’t be riding. What an extraordinary existence!
And the story behind this photo will someday be gone.
So, for today, be Plez. Your story will someday be gone, so it’s important that you do something extraordinary with the time that you have. Write a novel. Read a book. Have a nap. Cherish the mundane. Celebrate the extraordinary.
Because we don’t want to forget your story.
