Life and Death

My grandpa died Wednesday. He was a WWII vet, an Irish boy through and through, landed on D-Day and never spoke about Europe again to anyone in his life, loved a good family card game (or two, or twenty) and a whiskey or a beer, and was laid off by his factory after twenty years of service literally months before his retirement would've been vested, so he died penniless and in a nursing home. I mention that last because someone told me a long story yesterday about how the worst part for her was the fighting over the money and the "artwork" her grandfather had collected after he was gone. I really don't know what to say about that. I'm sure that's hard, and I also can't stop seeing class everywhere I look. I also can't pretend that everyone dies happy or at peace with their lives or with no regrets and having imparted all their wisdom and their stories as in Tuesdays with Morrie or something. Most older people in particular seem to die in poverty and loneliness as society's trash, hidden away in horrific circumstances. He had nine kids, all of whom spent a lot of time checking in on him, and despite that his nursing home (which was one of the better ones) let his circulatory/leg pain progress to the point that last Christmas they had to cut off his leg with two days warning. So, yes, his pain is at least over and all those other things you're supposed to say, but I guess I see politics in everything and death and old age is no exception. I'm heading back East for the funeral next Thursday. It is fittingly on St. Patrick's Day weekend and we do the full drinking and laughing and weeping (after enough drinking) multi-day Irish funeral routine in my family. Happily, the department was understanding and is sending my finals to me to grade there.

He was my last grandparent and I've also found that it brings back the loss of each of them all over again -- I talked to one other person yesterday who'd lost all four and she had the same experience. Anyway, I know this is not a very uplifting posting, but in truth it's been a roller coaster few days. There was some Guinness and Jameson's in his honor on Wednesday night courtesy of E., followed by a few hands of his (and my entire family's) favorite card game. It hadn't occurred to me until Elizabeth pointed it out, but it is somewhat fitting that my family's favorite thing to do is play solitaire together competitively. I'm moved by the outpouring of love and support from friends the last few days.

Finally, we went to see Ailey II last night as a long-planned BCC outing -- that was exactly what I needed. I just feel joyful to be alive after that. Even if you're not a modern dance fan -- and really, I have to believe that just means you've never seen good dance -- this troupe could wring tears from a stone. They were breathtaking, and deeply political, and emotional, and at some point during the third act, the Revelations series that was choreographed by Alvin Ailey himself in 1960, I had this realization that his movements, literally, the muscles and twists and embodied feelings that this man had created, lived on even after his body had succumbed to the ravages of AIDS. Another body giving life to his body's movement after it had ceased to move -- somehow I knew this intellectually about ballet and choreography, etc., but seeing it in the context of dances from 1960 set to slave spirituals in a celebration of African American culture made it real in another way entirely. Especially as yesterday (dork alert) was International Women's Day and two days before that was the 150th anniversary of the Supreme Court decision in Dred Scott. Yes, I'm reading for comps and I find many useless facts. Celebrating the uncelebrated this week. If Ailey II or the Alvin Ailey group comes to your town, you are missing something profound if you don't see it.

OK, I promise my next post will be about cupcakes or crafts or cats. Or all three.