Our Lady of Erosion

From my Ringgold series, this documents a church my mom always referred to as Our Lady of Erosion.

Lugnut

Last time I was home, my sister picked me up from the airport along with my cousin, Mark, and his wife. Mark lives on the mountain in a house that belongs to the Forester Sisters. There are several mountains in North Georgia, but each is referred to by it's inhabitants as THE mountain. On the way home from the airport one of his stories from the mountain began as follows:

We were in Eton going hog hunting when we realized we only had one lugnut...

I wish I remembered the rest of the story, but I never got over the richness of the opening line.

Clippings

Our office administrator is a lovely lady who expresses her feelings through newspaper clippings. I have to be careful of which pop culture events I express interest in because I will be inundated with related newspaper and magazine articles. Over the course of my time here I have received no less than 15 articles about Harry Potter. This week, I received around 10 articles about Lost. For a while she would cut out any article related to texting. I'm really not sure how this one happened, except that she had seen me texting. She didn't even own a cell phone, but started trying to work texting into office policy.

"Oh, we should let Dave know that he doesn't need to come in tonight. Kevin, can you text him?"

"I think it's probably better if you just call him, Linda".

I did finally convince her to get a cell phone. She has digital camera and she wants an ipod. As her technology guru, I keep trying to explain to her that these things are pretty useless without a computer, but she just isn't ready for that yet.

Friends

"We're not friends", he tells me. He adds that we won't be friends for a long time, maybe 10 years. I tell him I'll add that to my Google Calendar.

I got an email from my not-friend saying he was flying through O'Hare and I could stop by his gate to say hello, if I wanted.

Ever since the airborne toxic event that was our breakup, we don't have conversations. He emails me a news article about Taiwan. Weeks later, I'll send him a link to an odd invention that slices a hotdog to look like an octopus. He alerts me that the new Vampire Weekend album is on sale on Amazon. I send him a funny picture of Mayor Daley. Our emails are never in response. Always new, unrelated topics. Responses would make conversations. Conversations are dangerous. We are not friends.

I stop by to see him at his gate. The conversation is pleasant for a few minutes. Updates on life. I tell him about being accepted to the University of Chicago and completing my application for Columbia.
"How are you applying to such prestigious universities", he asks.
"You mean, why?", I ask, genuinely confused by the question.
"How or why; choose your interrogative. You went to Dalton State University for undergrad"
"Dalton State College", I correct.
"Exactly".

Snarky as hell. Not friends. I'm fine. I could be friends. But it takes two, right?

So why communicate at all? Because even though we may not be friends, he knows me well enough to send what were the most thoughtful words I received after Granddaddy's death.

Hey, Kevin. Liza just told me that Granddaddy passed away earlier this week. I sure am sorry about that. I hope that your family is able to spend lots of sweet time together remembering him this week. Your stories and anecdotes about him were always so fun, such a reminder of what home really is and why family is worth all the effort that is required. I'll be praying for you and all of your family - your mom especially, too - this week.

James F. Daniel

My granddaddy died. Anytime I told someone this over the last couple of weeks, I found myself pausing, considering using "my grandfather", knowing how childish "granddaddy" sounds. But he wasn't my grandfather. To my mom, aunt, and uncle, he was Daddy. To his six grandkids, he was Granddaddy. To his one great-grandchild that just began talking, he was Gangay (though we were never sure if she knew the difference between Gangay and the La-Z-Boy recliner he was always sitting in until she correctly identified his body at the viewing).

I heard my cellphone ringing on Sunday morning. I was sleeping in a stranger's brand new apartment in Mexico City. I knew why my sister was calling. I had talked to her yesterday when they knew he was close to passing. I had just been home for Christmas ten days earlier. I got to spend several days with Granddaddy. As he had gotten sicker, he had switched from Fox News to the Western Channel, progress for progress. My relationship with my grandfather for the past 5 years has been sustained by arguing and trips to Cracker Barrel for lunch. For some reason the two never coincided. Our arguing took place in his living room sitting in adjacent recliners. Our time at Cracker Barrel was reserved for quieter conversation about family and work.

I arrived just a few days before Christmas and went to see him. I was worried about how different he would be from the last time I saw him four months ago. After sitting down for a few minutes he said, "Kevin, I believe this is the first time you've ever come back to visit with a decent shave". Compliments like this usually only came after long arguments about politics, when he felt like maybe he should lighten the mood.

I didn't answer my sister's call. I slept for another hour. I got up, told Miguel I needed to call home and left the room. My Dad told me that Granddaddy had said goodbye to everyone the previous night, and then died in his sleep that morning. I didn't feel left out of the goodbyes. I told him goodbye before I left for Mexico, and we both knew we wouldn't see one another again.

I went back to sleep for another hour, then spent the day changing my ticket, buying funeral clothes, and trying to enjoy my last day in Mexico City.

They Carried Him

"What time am I picking you up from the airport" my sister asked?

After the details had been arranged she mentioned that our mom and aunt had kidnapped Granddaddy from the nursing home.

She was being a little dramatic. They had simply decided to remove my grandfather from the nursing home he had been checked into one day prior and take him home.

I picture the two of them sitting in my grandfather's room, both with the same thought. They turn to face one another and without even speaking they take their places on each side of his bed lifting him up and into his wheelchair. I imagine it like a scene that Pedro Almodovar could have directed. The two sisters able to lift their father only because of his recent recent and significant weight loss.

They knew he would be more comfortable at home. This dingy nursing home was no place for Jim Daniel.

Kids Castle

Anyone can be a freelancer in Taiwan. I miss this. I find myself becoming jealous of people that work for themselves and stumble upon ridiculously cool jobs that have them working from coffee shops and going to Portland to "help my buddy get his business off the ground".

In Taiwan if you wanted a little extra money, you just picked up a few kindergarten sub jobs. You could drop off your resume one day and be in charge of a class of 3-year-olds the next day. A couple of times I judged speeches for this shady mega-school called Kid Castle. This involved riding my motor scooter about 25 minutes across town and listening to kids repeat a memorized speech (or freeze up completely unable to say one word in English). I was paid 1000NT/hr to do this. That is about $31 right now. I just got an email today asking if I would like to judge another speech contest. At that rate, 27 hours of judging speeches could pay for my roundtrip ticket.

I don't know why I haven't told them I am no longer living in Taiwan. I like the idea that someone thinks I am still scooting around drinking bai xiang lu cha (wei tang, chu bing), shopping at Mitsukoshi. Sometimes I have a hard time cutting that last stubborn tie.