In-laws and Out-laws
November 27, 2006 My parents wedding anniversary, whereby they consummated their relationship and before long, begot me.
My father in-law died last night. Perhaps I should say ex-law, or out-law, seeing as I have been divorced for over 20 years now. I called my ex today, and found him somewhere outside Cleveland, en route to our home place in Michigan, with his wife and son. He sounded flat and tired, but mildly pleased to hear me. I have stopped wishing he would be other than he is, finally, finally. My disappointment still curls around me like tendrils of fog, but its not so heavily laden onto him, or other family, but now dispersed, more equitable, about the human beings in general.
Tony was 90. He lived through many worlds in his life. I loved my romanticized Tony, the earthy hands-on outdoorsman, wise in the ways of water and wood. He hunted for us for all our college years and young married life, we had meat in the freezer that he had stalked and killed. I loved that part of him that shone through my lover and mate. I loved their long legs and strong sculptor’s hands; cherished their deep-set eyes, curiosity, and sandy hair falling over their eyes.
I look around my house tonight, and I see elements of his influence on my life, the wood and weather life I crave, with fire blazing, and brick hearth rising to a beamed ceiling. Even though neither of these men has ever set foot here, I could see them here, and know how they would make themselves at peace in this place.
There was a dead deer in the road this morning. On the way back from the gym I recognized him, the young buck who hung around like a dog in the little hamlet along Farmington road. Those small antlers, he couldn’t be even three years old, and there he is now with his dead eye staring, and one prong broken off, his face lying in the road. Such a little beauty he was, but dumb as dirt I guess, to hang around the road, so tame and trusting. Poor little fool. No one even gets to make good food of his body, the way Tony would have.
The Tony I romanticized was a strong gentle man, a liberator of Nazi death-camps, a wise catcher of fish and skillful carpenter. The Tony I learned to hate was dismissive of his wife, intolerant, bigoted and harsh with his son, and he would shoot a neighbor’s cat for trespassing. I remember they used to have a sweet, smart little poodle, Sherry, who died mysteriously. My ex thought she had been poisoned. Maybe by someone who’s cat disappeared. Years later, when our marriage was failing, the son gets out the 22 and shoots a barn cat in our yard. I flip. Terrified, I smuggled the gun out of the house and hid it. I loathed that he had that in him, and as our relationship deteriorated, I saw more and more of the cruel misogyny that came from his dad, and no doubt the dad before him.
My father in-law died last night. Perhaps I should say ex-law, or out-law, seeing as I have been divorced for over 20 years now. I called my ex today, and found him somewhere outside Cleveland, en route to our home place in Michigan, with his wife and son. He sounded flat and tired, but mildly pleased to hear me. I have stopped wishing he would be other than he is, finally, finally. My disappointment still curls around me like tendrils of fog, but its not so heavily laden onto him, or other family, but now dispersed, more equitable, about the human beings in general.
Tony was 90. He lived through many worlds in his life. I loved my romanticized Tony, the earthy hands-on outdoorsman, wise in the ways of water and wood. He hunted for us for all our college years and young married life, we had meat in the freezer that he had stalked and killed. I loved that part of him that shone through my lover and mate. I loved their long legs and strong sculptor’s hands; cherished their deep-set eyes, curiosity, and sandy hair falling over their eyes.
I look around my house tonight, and I see elements of his influence on my life, the wood and weather life I crave, with fire blazing, and brick hearth rising to a beamed ceiling. Even though neither of these men has ever set foot here, I could see them here, and know how they would make themselves at peace in this place.
There was a dead deer in the road this morning. On the way back from the gym I recognized him, the young buck who hung around like a dog in the little hamlet along Farmington road. Those small antlers, he couldn’t be even three years old, and there he is now with his dead eye staring, and one prong broken off, his face lying in the road. Such a little beauty he was, but dumb as dirt I guess, to hang around the road, so tame and trusting. Poor little fool. No one even gets to make good food of his body, the way Tony would have.
The Tony I romanticized was a strong gentle man, a liberator of Nazi death-camps, a wise catcher of fish and skillful carpenter. The Tony I learned to hate was dismissive of his wife, intolerant, bigoted and harsh with his son, and he would shoot a neighbor’s cat for trespassing. I remember they used to have a sweet, smart little poodle, Sherry, who died mysteriously. My ex thought she had been poisoned. Maybe by someone who’s cat disappeared. Years later, when our marriage was failing, the son gets out the 22 and shoots a barn cat in our yard. I flip. Terrified, I smuggled the gun out of the house and hid it. I loathed that he had that in him, and as our relationship deteriorated, I saw more and more of the cruel misogyny that came from his dad, and no doubt the dad before him.
posted by Ven at 10:52 AM
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