We got a nice surprise this afternoon. I was at the keyboard when the doorbell rang. Nobody comes to visit here so I was curious. I slipped into some real clothes and went to see. It was a postal carrier with a certified letter.
"Oh, great. It must be from the bank," I thought. Well, no point in putting it off. I signed for it and wished the carrier a good day, apologizing for not having shovelled the sidewalk. She said she didn't mind.
When I shut the door and examined the letter I noted that it felt bulgy. There was no return address, so I couldn't tell who had sent it. It was also addressed to the family. Handwritten. Not from the bank. I opened it up and found a gift card to Target Store for my son, and a gift card to Cub Foods in the amount of $100 for all of us. (Son just checked his card now. It's for $30.)
I didn't cry this time. (Not like last year.) Perhaps it was because we were helped last year, too. But it was a gentle reminder of how bad things have become in this house. I blame myself because there is no one else to blame. At least this Christmas we are together in a warm house.
People don't like misery. They don't like it when misery visits their house, and they don't like hearing how it has visited someone else - unless there is a happy ending. If the ending is happy it doesn't matter how bad things got before. Well, we are not at the end, but do not shy away. The ending will be happy. I just can't say when that will be.
I remember a certain woman at my last job. She hated it when I made jokes about myself and/or my financial status. (I was earning less than half of what I had been making.) She told me more than once that other people hated it, too. Making light of misery wasn't funny.
Why not? I asked. It's not like I'm making fun of somebody else. I'm talking about me.
That didn't matter. People don't want you making fun of yourself. That's bad, and if I didn't stop, I was going to suffer for it. There were people in that company who would go out of their way to hurt me. And then she added this, which I still find completely odd (actually, I found the entire conversation odd): You can't trust anyone around here. And that includes me.
I told her I was already suffering, so if people felt a need to impose suffering go ahead. Shooting fish in a barrel isn't really that much fun. If she wanted to hurt me, she was free to do so. I would not fight back.
And I didn't. Which is a major reason I do not work there anymore. She spread more lies about me in six months than I believe have been told against me in the rest of my life put together. Wow! As the little Banning girl said in Hook, "She just needs a mommy!" I expect she will suffer worse than I. That she warned me beforehand tells me she is having conscience problems. I'll leave her to God to get it worked out. I can't help her.
Why isn't it funny when someone recognizes their suffering is mostly self-imposed? I spent my money foolishly. I invested it unwisely. I allowed myself to get fat and my health suffers as a result. No one but me is responsible for my present situation, so no one but me is responsible for doing anything about it. That others have helped, such as the anonymous person who sent the gift cards today, tells me that God is still active in my life - and in the lives of others. Why not laugh about it? I want to write. People from around the world have been helping me. Why not laugh?
If my parents left me any legacy at all, the left me the Legacy of Laughter. Yes, I know. You read some of my moaning across my blogs and you find yourself thinking, Oh? Bevie actually laughs? Yeah. I do. Sometimes through the tears. Misery can be quite ludicrous. My parents were poor people. We would huddle around a table in that damn old house I grew up in, wrapped in blankets, staring at an oil lantern which provided the only light, and laugh about how funny it must look. When I got out on my own and married, I was never so poor. Until now.
My parents were right. Laugh! Why not? Pretend you are someone else looking at yourself and see how silly you look and sound. My family has always laughed at things people say should never be laughed at. Not right away. Not immediately. But we will laugh.
When Daddy died I was still in high school. I was in the room with him when he left. He had been laying on the bed, hardly able to move anymore, when suddenly he sat up straight and called for my mother. "Hurry! Hurry! They're here! Come quickly, or you'll be too late!"
Mother rushed to his bedside and sat beside him, her arms around his now bone-thin shoulders. (Daddy died from lung cancer.) She had me come and sit behind him, to support him. After a few minutes she asked Mickey to come and help her lay him down beside her. The two of them lay like that for about five minutes. Then I saw Mickey take Daddy's wrist and hold it. He looked at me, shook his head and dropped his face onto the bed. Those of us who were left huddled around Mother and cried. That was what happened right off.
Two days later was the review. Helvie, who had not been present when Daddy died, broke down when she saw him in the casket. We ushered her downstairs and sat together. About ten minutes later some of Mother's co-workers came down to pay their respects. They stood and stared at us, uncomfortable with what they saw. We were laughing hysterically about how we had to have looked, all huddled together and walking in a mass to the telephone. It had to have been like something out of a television comedy. And then we talked about Daddy, and how silly he could be (when he wasn't trying to be silly). Why were we laughing? Because what we were feeling inside - the loss, the grief, the despair - was too overwhelming to be expressed in tears. Only laughter could release it. And so we laughed.
My family is split up now. Mother lives in a tiny apartment for people over age 65. Mickey is down in New Mexico, I believe, running a campground. Lynahr has gone to be with Daddy. Judayl lives near Mother, about thirty or forty miles from here. Gayanne is either in Ohio, Iowa or Missouri. I don't even know! Helvie is somewhere in the Minneapolis area, but I don't know where. And I am here. But nobody around here thinks anything is funny.
Why isn't it funny? Spouse and son and I laugh. Why doesn't anyone else?
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