Awhile back, I wrote about some kookiness in my family. NO! Yes! NO!! YES!!! Believe it. It's true. I am the descendant of nut jobs!
In that blog, I spoke specifically about my uncle's quirks. But there are others in this family with QUIRKS. My grandmother had them too. To some degree, I would have to say that my mom had some milder ones and I'll just stop there - to save myself from potential lawsuits. Those mentioned have already passed on and I am guessing that, at this point in their existence, whatever that is, if they haven't gotten a sense of humor by now, they never will. And if it's the latter, I may be sleeping with the lights on for a very long time.
The more I talk about family idiosyncracies to others, I realize that almost every person I know has some sort of craziness in their family. Recently, while speaking with my son's fiancee, she told me about her uncle who is now confined to a home where he can be monitored. Occasionally, he visits the family. Emily mentioned the banter in her grandmother's garage one day last summer when he was visiting, which consisted of him sitting in the garage shrieking, "ONLY HITLER WILL SURVIVE!" I have a feelilng that Emily will feel right at home with our family.*
When my uncle was caring for my grandmother as she aged, he made a daily call to "the lady" a/k/a The Blessed Virgin a/k/a Mary, Mother of Jesus. He'd go out to the phone while Grandma eagerly sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped, as he dialed.
"Hello, is this the lady? Well, hello! How are things? Yes. Yes. I'm wondering, if you aren't too busy to tell me...how will mom's day go today? Really? That's great. Thank you, dear lady. Yes. Thank you!"
"WHAT'D SHE SAY, PADDY??" Grandma would shout.
"Well, mom, the lady says your day is going to be perfect, with many blessings."
"She did?"
"Yes, mom, she did."
"Well, hot spit!"
Anyone who has families like mine understands the art of speaking a different language. Not French, not German, not Hebrew. It's the special universal language of C.R.A.Z.Y. Creative Reasoning Amidst Zany Yahoos. It's a special art that is learned through years of experience with those "Zany Yahoos."
As a teenager, I spent a great deal of time at the home of my uncle and grandmother. In fact, I was there pretty much everyday because we lived in the same town. And I consider that a huge blessing because I love them deeply and they gave me the incredible gift of writing. A gift that was born from the knowledge that if it wasn't written down, even I wouldn't believe later.
The art of C.R.A.Z.Y. has come in handy. Learning the language endears you to the one who is spewing all kinds of kookiness. As I matured in the art and graduated to the next level, I was favored in their eyes. As a teenager, I'd revel in seeing what avenues I could take the conversation down and, let me tell you, getting that conversation to a boulevard level or an entire heated, excitable esplanade was, well, EXCITING. I would leave there feeling triumphant in the world that I had created and which they so enjoyed. I was able to do something for them that others couldn't - speak their language and become one of them. Speaking that language goes way deeper than just being family.
I mean no disrespect in any of this. It brought my uncle and my grandmother great pleasure when they had someone other than themselves to talk to about THE WIRE TAPPING IN THE HOUSE THAT WAS ALL EASTMAN KODAK'S FAULT AND THE VERY REASON WE COULDN'T TALK ABOUT PHOTO PROCESSING!!
My husband, having witnessed my expertise in the language over the years, has told me that if I ever get that way, I mean, seriously get that way, he will not entertain me. He thinks the best way to end it would be to tell me I'm talking crazy and to tell me the reality of the situation.
"Why wouldn't you just humor me?" I say.
"Why should I do that? Wouldn't you want to be put back on track?"
"Not if I'm talking crazy. If I'm talking C.R.A.Z.Y., just go with it, will you?"
"No."
I've gotten a little less polished in the "language," but my ears still perk up when I hear someone say, "I hear voices," or "That song reminds me of my first husband's pretend dog," or a sweet little girl, about to enter the circle of a very strange family tells me about her uncle's ramblings and I yearn to one day meet the man and surprise him when I open my mouth and speak his language.
*Note: This does not in any way mean we, any of us in this crazy family, have any empathy or sympathy regarding Hitler. That is not the case at all.
Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma
