Gone Girl Not the Movie

*Grandpa Hodge (James) and me at Niagara Falls

I’m sitting in Santora’s restaurant by the UB North campus and it’s all TV screens and loudness at 7:30 on a Saturday. Greg and I have landed here after a failed attempt to see “Gone Girl” at the Maple Ridge movie complex. We didn’t get busted for the bags of popcorn we tried to smuggle in under our coats, but instead were told that the only seats available together would be in the front row, which at $12.50 a pop, what would be the point? Do we really have to buy seats online in advance for $3 more to watch a movie in the theatre these days? Of course, this one has swanky reclining seats, but still. No wonder we wait until they come out on DVD or stream them on Netflix.

            So here we are at Santora’s feeling a little grumpy amidst the beer and chicken wings when the room empties out a little and we see this magnificent couple enter and sit down a few tables away from us. They are so stunning that I literally cannot look away, as if Kate and William have just arrived in a motorcade with paparazzi snapping pictures behind them. Here in our midst is a little blonde girl about six wearing a sparkly headband and sparkly sweater to match. Her movements are graceful and light, her presence both grounded and ethereal. She smiles sweetly at her companion, a man in his seventies with tousled grey hair and glasses, who smiles back leaning in to speak to her softly. It’s an intimate encounter that we strangers bear witness to, so much love radiating between this lovely pair. And yet it feels familiar and somewhat personal. Am I really seeing strangers here or visitors from my past and future selves? Is this little blondie a perplexing vision of a gone girl who used to be…me?

I have been lucky enough to know all my grandparents and as I’ve written about before, my maternal grandfather was a big fan of my sister and me, bowing to our every whim. He took us on “dates” like the one I’m witnessing, hung on our every word and delighted in our smallest achievements. My paternal grandfather lived in South Carolina so we didn’t get to see him as much, but when we did it was the same kind of love fest. He would do crazy southern things, like let us sit on his lap and drive his car, and give us gifts of dyed baby chicks at Easter. In my mind he was as tall as Abraham Lincoln and I loved when he carried me around so I could see things from up high like he did.

My grandmothers were equally indulgent in their own ways. Gammy would sit on her porch doing paint by numbers with us then take us out for lunch and order us kiddie cocktails so we could follow in her footsteps as alcoholics. Grandma Hodge would make pajamas and beds for our dolls to match our own. She would spend her last pennies to buy us candy and when we got older, drive around Sumter like a maniac pointing out and honking her horn at all the cute guys she’d picked out for us.

We all love our children unconditionally, but with the added burden of making them into responsible, loving human beings which requires guidance that sometimes feels like judgment. Grandparents don’t have to do that. They are free to love recklessly, indeed spoil us, when all they expect and long for in return is our presence to receive their unbridled affection and adoration. We are their futures and we hold so much hope for them.

When I visited the Spiritualist Community, Lilydale, a few years ago with my friend, Tim, we sat outside where practicing mediums chose people from the group assembled to give them their messages from beyond. I was chosen twice. Both times they were from an older gentleman named James (my paternal grandfather) offering vague assurances and guidance about important life decisions I was dealing with at that time. While not a complete skeptic, I am leery of the idea that my southern grandfather, who died when I was still a child, would be hanging around in New York state waiting for me to show up at Lilydale this first time and make contact. But I was deeply touched by the thought that though over fifty years had passed since we were together on Earth that there was still some connection. That somehow Grandpa Hodge had managed to continue seeing me as I grew into an adult and made himself known so he could offer his advice…twice.

The holidays are hard for a lot people because so many have passed on to whatever or wherever your beliefs make sense of what happens after death. I am uncertain of what this is but what I know right now is that distance, time, and even death don’t separate us from those with whom we are deeply connected. The love continues and we are never gone to each other.

***

*Photo sent by Aunt Peggy. Thank you!

Waiting out the Solstice

         November and December are the darkest months in Buffalo. The leaves are gone, the sky is deep grey and just like everywhere else in the Western Hemisphere, the days keep getting shorter and shorter. If it wasn’t for things like work and needing to eat, I probably wouldn’t bother getting out of bed. But here I am, suffering until the solstice, wondering how on Earth I will get through these next three weeks without sinking into a deep and miserable depression.

         One of the ways I've gotten around this is by scheduling all my preventative care medical appointments which forces me to get out of the house and interact with people who are being paid to show concern for my well-being. There’s so many things on me that are falling apart or need checking; my eyes, my boobs, my thyroid, my teeth, all showing the wear and tear of aging. Now that’s something to get excited about.

         My dental hygienist is so young and adorable and tells me with such sweetness that if I don’t start flossing more regularly my teeth will likely fall out of my head. Then she compliments my smile and apologizes for scaring me. It’s the perfect love/scare, guilt/redemption relationship. When I tell her that she makes my dental experience a little less terrible, she says I should write an online review for the office, but maybe not use the words terrible or torture when I describe my visit. They are very aggressive about soliciting these reviews but who actually finds dentistry the least bit pleasant? I walk out with a new toothbrush, a tiny bottle of mouthwash, equally tiny box of floss and the slightest hope that my next periodontal exam will yield 2’s and 3’s, not 4’s like this last one.

                    I also joined a gym. Yeah, I did that, which only shows exactly how unstable I’ve been feeling lately. I’ve joined gyms before. It didn’t work out or let’s say more accurately, I didn’t work out. I mean, I did for awhile but then I’d have a headache or be too tired and then I’d just stop going, like it never even happened. My commitment was over but of course, I kept paying and paying until finally they let me out of the contract.

           But this time it only cost $10 and the membership lasts until December 31^st  unless they can get me to sign up for longer and then it will cost considerably more. But I’ll have to go to the gym for them to convince me of how worthwhile it is and I have no intention of going. I know I should be getting in shape or losing weight, getting some cardio…whatever. Aren’t we all supposed to be obsessed with that? And I heard exercise helps with depression, if you actually do it. Endorphin release, it’s supposed to be great!

             And everyone loves a bargain. What else can you get for $10 these days? Nothing! Which is exactly what I’ll get unless I get off my moderately fat butt and use the equipment at the gym that I paid for with my $10.
            Maybe I should have bought a sandwich. I enjoy sandwiches but they do make you fat. But at least you have something to show from having eaten them. An actual encounter, unlike the gym that sits a few blocks away and is calling my name. Or not calling my name. Maybe I should just put on headphones.

                 It’s eleven A.M. The slick black branches outside my window sway eerily sending tiny drops to the driveway. The wind shivers splashes into puddles. It’s a monochromatic scene, except for the grass no longer draped in snow. The rain pours down harder tilting slightly to the left. Stillness and movement in perfect alignment.

         Inside the candles flicker. The furnace roars from the basement. I stretch out my legs, unfurl my fingers from my fist, rest my chin on my wrist. The dark days will be over soon. The dark days will be over.