It has become very apparent to me lately that the term “family” refers to the people in your life that nurture you, and guide you, and love you. This often has nothing to do with the people who created you biologically, and anyone who may be related to them.
My dad was an alcoholic and died when I was nine. My mom raised my sister and I by herself. We always knew she cared for us and she always did her best for us, but she was not a huggy kissy kind of person. We were never really “close.” She was always cold and aloof and rarely praised us. Even when we had good grades and stuff it was always, “Well, you could be doing better.”
Because she was always working, my sister and I were “latch key kids.” This meant that we really had minimal supervision. Where I generally took that as a challenge to try to “do the right thing,” my sister looked at it as free-range to do as she pleased. We both abused it at times but no one’s perfect.
My sister was always very selfish and everything was always what she wanted, and she wanted everything. She was angry when I was born because I cut into her having her way and she has treated me badly my whole life. She teased me, denigrated me, and generally bullied me until I was in high school and finally got the nerve to tell her off. I’ve refused to let her bully me since.
For many years, my mother lived with my sister. This was, in my opinion, primarily because my sister used my mother to bail her out of all of her financial crises. My mom always complained to me about how my sister had to borrow money, or how she had to help her pay for something. But for many years we all hardly talked to each other except on holidays or if there was some “important” news about a relative, like someone died. I never considered this a bad thing because if there was one thing my mom taught me, it was to be independent. We always had an understanding between us that “no news was good news” so we never felt compelled to talk “just to chat.”
My mom eventually moved out and got her own apartment where she lived on her own for a long time. A few years ago, she began having weird spells and memory problems and she was diagnosed with dementia. This has progressed and she is now diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. For a couple of years, meds kept her fairly stable and she could still live on her own with my sister keeping close tabs on her. My sister did this because she lived very close to her and worked from her house. I worked business hours in an office 35 miles away and we both agreed it was better if she did the day-to-day stuff. But she is no longer able to care for herself and is now in a nursing home.
I was handling her finances for a while, but, I could get no accountability from my sister and I didn’t like a lot of the things I was seeing in the checkbook. The more I asked for accountability the angrier and more abusive she became. Until she finally stopped taking any calls and blocked my emails. Imagine, I’m legally responsible for money she’s spending and she won’t tell me where it’s going. That was the last straw. Since I was legally responsible for the government money, and because I could get no decent accountability from my sister, I had to protect myself and my family by divorcing myself from my mother’s finances.
My sister has spent the last year telling everyone on our side of the family that I have “abandoned” my mother. I “never” visit her and “never” call her. She takes great pride in telling me how the rest of our family now hates me as thoughtless and evil. In the meantime, no one from our family has made any attempt to contact me for anything. Not to find out my side of the story, or even to see how things were going for me. Most of them haven’t sent me even a token Christmas card in years, and stopped inviting me to any family outings well over a decade ago. My niece is a chip off the old block. Harassing everyone in my family and attacking them at every turn.
This is supposed to be my “family?”
I have been visiting and calling my mother, and she once commented that I was not really a member of our family anymore. I seemed to be a member of my wife’s family. This is because when we talked I always talked about my wife’s family, her sisters and husbands, and their kids.
She was right.
I am a member of my wife’s family. I became that when I married her and they treat me like a “family” should. They are close and keep in contact. We are always invited to different homes around holidays and everyone sends cards and letters. We constantly call and email and when my mother first started having problems, many people on my wife’s side of the family called to ask how I was, how my mom was, and if there was anything they could do to help. It’s not all perfect, but at least people care and show it.
All I did was marry into this family and they have taken me in as one of their own. Just like in high school when my friend Joe’s family took me in and cared for me like I was one of their kids. I was just invited over around Christmas and spent time with them. These are the people I learned loving, caring, respect, and how to treat family from. Not my biological household. These are the people who are my family, not those whose DNA I share. I would be proud, at any time, to tell people I was a member of those families. I do not have the same warm feelings for my biologics.
So I watch with great sadness as my mother goes through this, and I will continue to see her and talk to her as long as she can remember who I am. We actually have nice conversations and she seems pleased to see me. My biological relations can think of me by whatever slander my sister feeds them. I’d sue her but she’s not worth it. It is their shortcoming and problem, not mine. I will continue to spend most of my time with my “family.” The ones who really care and the ones who really matter.
I really don’t think I care anymore what my biological relatives do.
They are simply not my “family.”
Monday, January 18, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Transformation of a Town
This story is a mite older. It reflects more my status as Grand Duke of Hoboes and gives you a better feel for why I appreciate the honor.
Transformation
of a Town
by The Grand Duke of Hobes
Originally written April 14, 1983
Revised March 15, 2002
Copyright 2010
Tucked away along an insignificant little crossroads in north central Iowa is the
town of Britt. Britt is a small farming town that is just the same as hundreds of other small farming towns in Iowa. Were it not for the grain elevator and the local Harley-Davidson dealer, this little town would sink, without a trace, into obscurity. Yet, for one week every year in August, this easily misplaced speck on the map is visited by a group of fairy godfathers. These gentlemen produce a transformation of the town that is as wondrous as changing any ghetto into the “Emerald City” of Oz. These gentlemen are hoboes. Hoboes who have been returning to this spot at the same time each year for over a century to hold their annual convention and elect a national “king.”
The transformation begins about a week before the hoboes arrive. The shopkeepers and merchants along Britt’s one main street begin hanging signs and decorative bunting proclaiming the event to come. The normal daily quiet is assaulted by the sounds of hammering as the coronation and judging platform is erected in the town park. The large metal drums which will hold the gallons of mulligan stew that the town cooks for the visitors are brought out from some forgotten corner and cleaned. The public address system is rented and brought to town from Mason City by the editor of the Britt newspaper.
The ancient presses at the newspaper office get used now more than at any other time of the year. Mulligan stew cards, hobo convention cards, and brochures describing
the advantages of bringing a business to Britt are all produced en masse. The local residents, who have come to know and love the hoboes that visit their town, begin to gather in excited little groups. They discuss last year’s convention and wonder aloud what this year will bring. Which one of the old hoboes didn’t make it to
the festivities last year, and whether that individual will arrive this year. They try, many times in vain, to remember the names of the young newcomers who showed up and surprised the town. Many begin to take frequent trips to the north end of town to see if anyone has arrived early in the hobo “jungle.”
The festivities and coronation are always held on a Saturday. On Thursday morning the carnival arrives. This is one of those traveling carnivals that comes to shopping centers and malls across the country. They set up rides and games in the parking lots of those malls and still manage to leave quite a bit of room for parking. When they arrive in Britt, however, the squeeze is tight. The main street is blocked and the carnival sets up. This turns the entire shopping district into one huge midway. By Thursday night, the bright glaring neon lights and the taped strains of calliope music begin to fill the evening breezes. The hoarse cajoling of the game barkers to passersby and the sights of people with cheap stuffed toys and cotton candy confirm that the festivities are underway.
Hoboes have been arriving sporadically during the entire week. They quickly settle into the “jungle” which is right along the tracks at the north end of the main street. The grain elevator, like some familiar protective behemoth, rises abruptly from the level terrain on the opposite shore of the tracks. It is huge and silent. Seemingly quite content to tower supremely over the bright singing machines which leap and spin about in its shadow. The hoboes know this dark lighthouse and follow it to their friends.
Saturday morning finds the butterfly breaking from the cocoon. People from all over Iowa, indeed, from all over the United States flood into Britt. The noise is unlike
anything normally heard in this little town. The barkers are calling, the rides are singing, horns are honking, people laugh and speak loudly to be heard above the din. Trains pass by occasionally, their crews yelling loudly and waving as the engines scream a salute to the “men of the road” who wave back from the “jungle.” The air is filled with a myriad of smells. Popcorn and cotton candy from the carnival mixes and is overpowered by the smell of the stew cooking in the park. Near the tracks, the hoboes small stewpot sends its own aroma skyward and the smell of hobo pickles peeks from hidden corners where they are fermenting. Here and there an almost imperceptible hint of liquor betrays a few old ‘bos who made the trip to the tavern the night before.
Saturday night brings about a great change. The crowds slowly leave after having
witnessed the coronation of the “king” and “queen”, and then watching them ridden out
of town on a rail. The masses of smiling children which flood the hobo camp during the day trickle down to a persistent few. The carnival, having a commitment to be elsewhere by Monday, begins to vanish from the streets. The popcorn all sold and the cotton candy eaten, the great dancing machines quiet and fold themselves into cold, silent stacks of steel. The hoboes gather around a large campfire and begin telling tales of the road. They talk about the “good old days” and the “bad old days.” They talk of trains, adventures, and other hoboes in a sad nostalgic way as they realize that none of those things exist anymore. They sing railroad songs and exchange lies that bring guffaws of laughter from both the hoboes and the remaining crowd that gathers to listen. The integrity of the storytellers is never questioned as the entire point is fun and entertainment. Some hoboes, in an attempt to coerce the crowd into joining in the fun, begin to grab spectators and dance as several hobo musicians pick up the cue. Eventually, the hoboes and the small crowd that remains become like a large family. Everyone laughs, sings, jokes, and dances well into the wee hours of the morning.
By Sunday morning, the crowd is gone. Many of the hoboes pack up early so they can catch the early freight train which comes through about 7:00 am. The rest are recuperating from the days before or are visiting with friends before they leave. It is very quiet, almost solemn, as these vagabonds once again go their separate and solitary ways. The trucks carrying the carnival pull out and leave a deserted street. The platform in the park, a lone monument to the madness, will itself be gone before the day is over.
Within a week all of the hoboes are gone. The streets which were crowded with people and debris are clean and bare. The “jungle” is silent and the signs and bunting have been removed. Britt settles, once again, into friendly obscurity. The grain elevator
and motorcycle dealer once again regain their places of honor and prestige. The
convention, now just an exciting memory, fades further into history as plans for the next convention are quietly discussed. The cycle is once again complete
Transformation
of a Town
by The Grand Duke of Hobes
Originally written April 14, 1983
Revised March 15, 2002
Copyright 2010
Tucked away along an insignificant little crossroads in north central Iowa is the
town of Britt. Britt is a small farming town that is just the same as hundreds of other small farming towns in Iowa. Were it not for the grain elevator and the local Harley-Davidson dealer, this little town would sink, without a trace, into obscurity. Yet, for one week every year in August, this easily misplaced speck on the map is visited by a group of fairy godfathers. These gentlemen produce a transformation of the town that is as wondrous as changing any ghetto into the “Emerald City” of Oz. These gentlemen are hoboes. Hoboes who have been returning to this spot at the same time each year for over a century to hold their annual convention and elect a national “king.”
The transformation begins about a week before the hoboes arrive. The shopkeepers and merchants along Britt’s one main street begin hanging signs and decorative bunting proclaiming the event to come. The normal daily quiet is assaulted by the sounds of hammering as the coronation and judging platform is erected in the town park. The large metal drums which will hold the gallons of mulligan stew that the town cooks for the visitors are brought out from some forgotten corner and cleaned. The public address system is rented and brought to town from Mason City by the editor of the Britt newspaper.
The ancient presses at the newspaper office get used now more than at any other time of the year. Mulligan stew cards, hobo convention cards, and brochures describing
the advantages of bringing a business to Britt are all produced en masse. The local residents, who have come to know and love the hoboes that visit their town, begin to gather in excited little groups. They discuss last year’s convention and wonder aloud what this year will bring. Which one of the old hoboes didn’t make it to
the festivities last year, and whether that individual will arrive this year. They try, many times in vain, to remember the names of the young newcomers who showed up and surprised the town. Many begin to take frequent trips to the north end of town to see if anyone has arrived early in the hobo “jungle.”
The festivities and coronation are always held on a Saturday. On Thursday morning the carnival arrives. This is one of those traveling carnivals that comes to shopping centers and malls across the country. They set up rides and games in the parking lots of those malls and still manage to leave quite a bit of room for parking. When they arrive in Britt, however, the squeeze is tight. The main street is blocked and the carnival sets up. This turns the entire shopping district into one huge midway. By Thursday night, the bright glaring neon lights and the taped strains of calliope music begin to fill the evening breezes. The hoarse cajoling of the game barkers to passersby and the sights of people with cheap stuffed toys and cotton candy confirm that the festivities are underway.
Hoboes have been arriving sporadically during the entire week. They quickly settle into the “jungle” which is right along the tracks at the north end of the main street. The grain elevator, like some familiar protective behemoth, rises abruptly from the level terrain on the opposite shore of the tracks. It is huge and silent. Seemingly quite content to tower supremely over the bright singing machines which leap and spin about in its shadow. The hoboes know this dark lighthouse and follow it to their friends.
Saturday morning finds the butterfly breaking from the cocoon. People from all over Iowa, indeed, from all over the United States flood into Britt. The noise is unlike
anything normally heard in this little town. The barkers are calling, the rides are singing, horns are honking, people laugh and speak loudly to be heard above the din. Trains pass by occasionally, their crews yelling loudly and waving as the engines scream a salute to the “men of the road” who wave back from the “jungle.” The air is filled with a myriad of smells. Popcorn and cotton candy from the carnival mixes and is overpowered by the smell of the stew cooking in the park. Near the tracks, the hoboes small stewpot sends its own aroma skyward and the smell of hobo pickles peeks from hidden corners where they are fermenting. Here and there an almost imperceptible hint of liquor betrays a few old ‘bos who made the trip to the tavern the night before.
Saturday night brings about a great change. The crowds slowly leave after having
witnessed the coronation of the “king” and “queen”, and then watching them ridden out
of town on a rail. The masses of smiling children which flood the hobo camp during the day trickle down to a persistent few. The carnival, having a commitment to be elsewhere by Monday, begins to vanish from the streets. The popcorn all sold and the cotton candy eaten, the great dancing machines quiet and fold themselves into cold, silent stacks of steel. The hoboes gather around a large campfire and begin telling tales of the road. They talk about the “good old days” and the “bad old days.” They talk of trains, adventures, and other hoboes in a sad nostalgic way as they realize that none of those things exist anymore. They sing railroad songs and exchange lies that bring guffaws of laughter from both the hoboes and the remaining crowd that gathers to listen. The integrity of the storytellers is never questioned as the entire point is fun and entertainment. Some hoboes, in an attempt to coerce the crowd into joining in the fun, begin to grab spectators and dance as several hobo musicians pick up the cue. Eventually, the hoboes and the small crowd that remains become like a large family. Everyone laughs, sings, jokes, and dances well into the wee hours of the morning.
By Sunday morning, the crowd is gone. Many of the hoboes pack up early so they can catch the early freight train which comes through about 7:00 am. The rest are recuperating from the days before or are visiting with friends before they leave. It is very quiet, almost solemn, as these vagabonds once again go their separate and solitary ways. The trucks carrying the carnival pull out and leave a deserted street. The platform in the park, a lone monument to the madness, will itself be gone before the day is over.
Within a week all of the hoboes are gone. The streets which were crowded with people and debris are clean and bare. The “jungle” is silent and the signs and bunting have been removed. Britt settles, once again, into friendly obscurity. The grain elevator
and motorcycle dealer once again regain their places of honor and prestige. The
convention, now just an exciting memory, fades further into history as plans for the next convention are quietly discussed. The cycle is once again complete
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Christmas Got Run Over by a UPS Truck
Chestnuts roasting on a cardboard fire
Jack Frost chips a vinyl nose
Tapes of Yuletide Carols sung by a Plywood Choir
and Mannikins Dressed Up like Eskimos
Oh, Everybody Knows
Tofu Turkey and Fake Mistletoe
Neighbors Competing with their Lights
Tiny Tots before the Tube All Aglow
Will Find it Hard to Sleep Tonight.
They know that Santa's on His Way
Mom and Dad Have Been Ordering from Amazon All Day
and Every Mother's Child is Gonna Cry
If the Room's not Stacked with Presents ... Sky High
and so I'm Offering this Simple Plea
To everyone including you and Me
Let's Keep Christmas for Family and Friends
and Make It Mean Something Special Again
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