In which the author ‘rends his garments’ so to speak.
Jesus F Christ, my writing is just…terrible. What a bunch of sappy, artsy-fartsy crap.
Let’s get real here, as much as I can.
My Grandmother was born in 1904, big family, Catholic, poor. She liked her father, had a contentious relationship with her mother. Met a man from Paris, got married, ended up in prairies as wheat farmers, starved through the depression, had a smaller family, and moved to British Columbia.
I’ve heard it said that the sins of the church are not justification for denying God. Maybe yes, maybe no; but certainly good enough reason for leaving the god damn church. She told me a lot of stories; maybe I’ll use some of them, if I can recover from my current mood.
One of her daughters was my mother. She married two drinking men; the second one was my father. He rear ended a truck when I was about a year old. Mom went through the windshield. She never left the hospital, dying a couple of years later.
My grandmother took the kids in. My father hung on, then moved on, and moved out. She was sometimes deferential (with a purpose) but tough as nails when she had to be. Having raised one family, she was probably more lenient the second time around.
In the first story, the scene in the hospital takes place around the mid-1990s. That’s about right, about my grandmother dying.
The bit about joining the human race, that’s true. I got half way there when I fell in love with my wife, and I got the other half done when I became a father. My math is still a bit off, though. I’m still not sure if I feel completely at ease with the human race.
That stuff about being a child no matter how old I have been, or will be, that’s just my opinion.
Fuck, I can’t believe how bad my writing is. I feel that way every time I finish something. Then I get over it. I have the soul of a writer. I wish I was better at it. Okay, I feel a little bit better now.
Fuck.
Gary Fletcher – December 8, 2017
