TASK 26: YOU CAN’T GO HOME
“Never forget where you came from.” Unknown
A couple of weeks ago I wrote that I always visit the grave of my mom and dad on the 4th of July, and this year was to be no different–only it was–and things didn’t go quite as planned.
I got to my hometown on the 5th, a day after I planned to arrive, and it was incredibly hot and muggy as only Ohio can be…and after I dumped my stuff in the cheapest, least-frilliest, no cable or air conditioning motel room, kind of like the motel in Psycho, I got in my car and headed straight for the Crow’s Nest, a legendary drinking establishment perched on Lake Erie and the literal epicenter of the rust belt.
I didn’t make it very far. I pulled over, put my head in my hands, and tried to figure out just what terrible things I had done (recently) to piss off God so much…
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As I’m walking into the Nest I spy a guy outside on his phone, talking animately and, given his furtive glance at me, somewhat conspiratorially. The man was somehow familiar to me…
I went inside and ordered a glass of wine. Big mistake. The place came to a stop and every man, woman and child (yes children are welcome at the Crow’s Nest bar), stared at me as if I was wearing a University of Michigan tee-shirt. The bartender wasn’t even sure they had wine. So I said, “my bad–I’ll have a Bud.” And everyone got back to their lives.
Then came the high point of my trip (yes, that means that everything after went from poor to miserable). The guy outside, the man on the phone, walks into the bar and it is none other than Urban Meyer, coach of THE Ohio State Buckeyes. For me, there are only 3 things that make life palatable: 1) NOT having to pay a mortgage, because I paid off my house, and while that is incredible, financially, it is even better in the humble/brag area, and I bring it up to my friends endlessly; 2) legalized marijuana; and 3) THE Ohio State Buckeyes. Actually, there is a number 4: fried chicken.
The next day, after a sleepless night, and with a gallon of beer still sloshing in my stomach, I drove to the cemetary. I parked my car, and walked over to the graves of my mom and dad. Only they weren’t there. I was befuddled. I looked around. Where are their headstones? I started walking around. Nothing. I stood by the car and tried to think logically–where the hell are the graves? Now, the cemetary is pretty big, but I KNOW WHERE THE GRAVES ARE.
Only I didn’t. So I looked around for someone–I saw a guy mowing the lawn. I asked him if he knew where my parent’s headstones had moved to, and he looked at me blankly, and I asked him if there was a map or something that showed where everyone was buried. He looked at me like I was nuts, and drove off.
So I walked around again and tried to call my brother-in-law. He is the kind of guy who would never forget where the graves are because my sister makes him go visit them every six months and change out the flowers, and he doesn’t like doing it because he thought my dad was a moron but he does it anyways. No luck, he didn’t pick up his phone, and I wasn’t about to call my sister because she would rip me open like a ripe tomatoe and never let me forget that I couldn’t find the graves of my own parents…
So I wandered around the cemetary for a good hour with no luck. And finally, drowning in my own sweat–that smelled suspiciously like stale beer–bone-tired, pissed off and hungry–the kind of hungry you get when you’re hung over–I got into my car and drove off.
I didn’t make it very far. I pulled over, put my head in my hands, and tried to figure out just what terrible things I had done (recently) to piss off God so much that he wouldn’t even deign to allow me to find my parent’s fucking graves.
Then, of course, it hit me. It wasn’t God’s fault. It was mine.
The rest of the trip was a blur. I was at the Crow’s Nest a couple of more times; I visited my sister and didn’t say a word about the cemetary, and neither did my brother-in-law, bless his soul (although I know he’s packing that one away with some of my other discretions and will produce them someday when I least expect it).
TASK
My task for you was supposed to be visiting the grave of someone near and dear and remembering them–for the good and the bad–and remembering that someday that you too will be below ground or have your ashes tossed into the surf or put in an urn in your wife’s next husband’s man cave. But shit, I can’t blame you if you pass on this one.
Joe
Photo by Frederik Trovatten on Unsplash