December 25
“What is sorrow? I thought. What is sorrow but old, worn-out joy?” – Jon Raymond
Excerpt from Moral Orel: Episode: “Maturity”
Orel: Well I tried not talking about my feelings, too.
Clay: Oh son, behaving like a grown up is many things. First and for most it means doing things that you hate doing.
Orel: Like what, pop?
Clay: Well like dealing with people who make you unhappy, being stressed about things you have no control over, working soul-numbing jobs.
Orel: Ooh
Clay: Then gradually as we endure these hardships and accept them as normal, that's when we finally earned the right to get drunk and be emotionally distant from our families.
*
The coffee pot gurgled on the polished stone countertop as red kielbasa casings, mash potatoes, gravy, and grizzle were scraped off the floral china and dribble into the black plastic garbage bin with a plop.
“Oh, the countertop is made out of recycled stone. I’m not sure what types of stone are in it, but it’s called ‘Chocolate Truffle.’” My Aunt Nancy said slowly annunciating each syllable like the TV personalities on the Home & Garden channel.
My sister Jenn spun her head around, took a sip of pinot grigio, and responded, “Well it looks real schnazzy!”
“It better after how much it cost!”
The women in the kitchen burst into giggles and laughter as the assembly line of female hands scraped, washed, dried, and put away the dishes. The men sleepily drank their beers watched a repeat of the ’95 Rose Bowl game where Penn State beat Oregon; the last Penn State team to go undefeated. A traditional Swiderski Holliday dinner, well almost.
For me, Holliday family dinners with the Swiderski clan always came at a price. I’m not talking about family feuds, shitty cooking, or an aunt or uncle who has one too many. No, the reason why I never liked these soirees is because I usually spend most of my time outside by myself. It’s not because I hate my family or because I’m anti-social. (Not to say that it hasn’t helped me avoid the occasional awkward small-talk conversation with an aunt, uncle or cousin. You know, the conversation where you’re giving the generic questions and responses because there’s no common ground, but you still feel obliged to speak because your family.) It’s because I have asthma and horrible allergies, the most annoying being my allergy to pets.
Whenever I am in a house that has an animal (more specifically, any mammal that is covered with hair or fur) in it, a horrible chain reaction starts to unfold. First, red blotchy hives start to show up on my face. Then, I start to wheeze. Next, the eyes start to water and become bloodshot, which is usually followed by a runny nose and a box of tissues. At this point, I usually have to take two hits off my Albuterol inhaler, flood my eyes with Naphcon, and ingest two pink pills of Benadryl. If I continue to stay submerged in the toxic atmosphere, the Albuterol inhaler becomes worthless and I have to take a full on nebulizer treatment to keep my lungs from closing up. It usually ends with me having to go home because I’m too sick. But, every now and then, it’ll end up with me spending a night in the hospital. (This happened to me a couple of times because I was too sick and too far away for my mom to take me home.)This condition caused me to spend the majority of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners outside. If it was mild and dry, it wasn’t so bad. I credit it with helping me win the 2001 and 2002 Knights of Columbus Northeast Free Throw Championships due to the number of hours spent shooting at the basketball hoops that hung around whosever house we were at. What made me despise these get-togethers was the amount of miserable hours I spent outside huddled up trying to keep warm or dry in inclement weather. When I was younger, I wondered if I was the only kid who had to where long-johns to Christmas dinner or if there were other kids out there like me.
But not this year; I left the long-johns at home. The high pitched yelps of my Nana and Pop-Pop’s poodle were absent. All that could be heard was the constipated belches of the coffee maker bubbling along on the chocolate truffle countertop in the kitchen.
I got up from the lacquered kitchen table and stood on the outskirts of the living room as Kijana Carter exploded for an 83 yard touchdown run on Penn State’s first possession.
My dad took a sip of Coors Light and exclaimed to my Uncle Rick, “It’s sad that they can’t even come close to doing this anymore.”
“Well, they can on defense.”
“Sure, but on offense they’re putrid. This team scored 38 points in this one game. They can’t score 38 points in three or four games anymore. Peeyew!” he said with glee in his eyes as he looks at my uncle and pinches his nose.
“Well that boils down to a lot of things: coaching, recruiting, academics. But, they just can’t develop talent like they used to. I mean look at the team their playing next week, Florida…”
My Uncle Joe turned and made eye contact with me as the white foam clinged to his half grey half brown mustache. Small Talk.
“Matt! What’s going on buddy? Still frostbitten from being up in Vermont?”
“Hey, what’s up? Nah, I’m warming up thanks. How’s it going with you?”
He paused and took a sip of his black Stegmaier Winter Warmer before he responded.
“Good, good. Can’t complain. Your aunt just bought a new countertop, and of course I had to install it. Besides that, I’m just working on trying to finish the basement. How about yourself? You graduate this spring right?”
“Yeah, if all goes according to plan.”
I had not work on my senior project since I got home; I had five months left to get it done anyways.
“So what do you plan to do afterwards?”
“Um, I don’t know. Well, I’m not sure yet. I think I’m going to take a year off of school and then go for my masters. Right now, school is just getting real old.”
“Well, you got to do something. Your mom and dad can’t pay for everything. Plus, everyone has to work. It’s part of growing up.”
“Yep, yep.”
I was looking for a way out of this conversation when I noticed my grandfather. My Pop-Pop. He was sitting in a maroon wingback chair with his legs splayed out on the matching footstool. They looked like two fallen trees that were tired of standing. His light blue eyes sank into the back of his skull as he rested his chin in the palm of his right hand as he watched The Blue Band play “Fight on State” on the TV.
“Hey, um I’m going to go over and sit next to Pop-Pop. He looks like he can use some company.
“Yeah, I got to go take the trash out anyways before your aunt kills me.”
This was the first time I had seen my grandfather since what has become known in our family as, “The Incident.”
About two months ago, my Pop-Pop took his small French Poodle, Ginger outside so she could do her business, just the everyday routine. While Ginger was searching for the best patch of grass to piss on, my grandfather next door neighbor yelled over his fence, “Hey, those dogs are out.” Earlier in the day, two dogs, a Rottweiler and a German Sheppard, had escaped from a their pen; the owner of the dogs was on vacation, and his elderly mother was watching them. Before my Pop-Pop could even process the statement, the German Sheppard had charged and got a hold of Ginger. It shook her back and forth like a teddy bear, but instead of soft white stuffing there was blood. He hurled himself onto the back of the dog, and started swinging with balled fists at the dog’s head. A few landed, but the pain wasn’t enough persuasion for the Sheppard to let go. The Sheppard started rolling around the ground like an alligator in a death roll as Ginger’s high pitched yelps of agony echoed off the bricks and blue vinyl siding into the street. The Sheppard’s spiked collar sliced my grandfather’s forearms causing them to bleed. Finally the Sheppard let go and ran off after the next door neighbor hopped the fence and smashed it in the back with a wooden stake that’s meant to hold up tomato plants. A small puddle of syrupy blood started to form under her mutilated body transforming her fur from white to pink to red. My Nana broke into tears after arriving at the crime scene; she was inside when what went down went down. He gathered the body his little baby, his Ginger and wrapped her up in a blanket. My Grandfather, with tears flooding down his face, drove frantically down the highway to the animal hospital, repeating, in a low murmur, the phrase, “I wish I had done more,” over and over and over again. The story made the front page of the local newspaper.
“How could he have done more?” I wondered as I walked over to him. He took his dog outside to go to the bathroom. He wasn’t expecting a German Sheppard to come bolting down the side of the yard, and attack his dog. It’s a freak accident. There was no time to prepare, just react. Plus, he’s an 84 year old man. He’s my grandfather. My Pop-Pop. He was the man who survived the streets of New York City, alone, homeless, and parentless when he was 10. He was the guy who punched a his commanding officer in the face while he was in the Navy, and hitchhiked 7858 miles back to Nanticoke so he could be with my Nana. He was the guy who took his grandson fishing multiple times every summer since he was 7. He didn’t take shit from nobody. He was one of the only people from my family who I actually admired. I admired him even when he blamed me for running over the bait bucket, or when he turned the boat 180 degrees around because I was catching fish and he wasn’t. I wanted to tell him, “You did all you could have done. Don’t beat yourself up over this cause you don’t deserve it.” And suffocate him with a hug.
I sat on the tan plastic fold out chair next to him as I contemplated telling him what I was thinking, something meaningful.
“Hey Pop-Pop. So have you been out golfing recently?”
Small Talk.
