continued from yesterday:
It would be a nice place if you could navigate around the stacks of papers and photo albums. They used to pay their various grandchildren to come by on Saturdays and clean up but as we got older we found better ways of making money. In stead of recruiting migrant workers, my grandparents decided to wallow in the sea of clutter that is Casa de la Yamagata.
I doubt my parents home looks any different either. Its the typical southern/ christian home. A statue of the angel Gabriel on the front porch. Scriptures verses at every turn. The decorum is of people that buy one peace of new furniture every five years and adds it on to their current collection. A hideous blending of 70s, 80s and 90s furniture. The guts of the house scream whatever works! The different yet equally atrocious carpet in every room, the dingy white walls, the doors that you have to yank to open and slam to close. This is my parents home, not mine, because I never plan on coming back. To live that is. I mean, Im coming back now.
My grandfather isnt the grandparent that sits you on his knee and tells you stories while grandma bakes cookies. Actually, I dont know anyone who has those grandparents except the Cosby kids. (I would hate those kids if I wasnt so envious. Viva La Cosby! What was I talking about? Oh.) My grandmother complains about how stiff her knees are or how her back aches when she stands up for too long. This is why I never ask her how shes doing. She has the horrible habit of telling the truth. I know shell tell me eventually anyway and I need to prolong the conversation as long as possible.
My grandfather on the other hand doesnt talk much except to tell me I dont work hard enough. He has worked for Caddell Construction for the past twenty years. Evidently kids of my generation dont know what real work is. He came up with nothing and before he was thirty-five he owned this... very... house. It took him thirty minutes to express this every time I hear it and I hear it every time see him.
As soon as I get to their house I call my parents. Its not that I dont enjoy spending time with my grandparents... shit, it is that I dont enjoy spending time with my grandparents. I love them though and I wouldnt have it any other way. (Damn Cosby!)
Thirty minutes after I call my father knocks on my grandparents door. We do our usual Howve you been exchange of words and were off.
5.
As Ive gotten older I find myself trying to make conversation with my father whereas when I was younger I said nothing. I never realized that he took it personally until I got older. Hed ask me questions and Id give him the shortest answer I could think of and that was that. I saw nothing awkward about it. His mother used to tell him to watch me because you never know what the quiet ones are thinking. I never understood that being quiet scares some people. I might be plotting something. I just never like talking, or liked people that talked to hear themselves. So I didnt.
Never the less I decided, not too long ago, to conform to society and indulge in the idiotic banter of everyday life. I talk to people in elevators and when in line at the bank. Its disgusting really. All because I couldnt think of an answer to the questions, Why dont you talk? or You dont talk much do you? How would you answer those questions without being a smart-ass?
So here I am in my fathers truck.
How you been?
Good, not much has changed. Your mother and I are still working, the house is empty these days.
I hasnt even been a year yet.
I know but were so used to having someone in the house and its so quite now.
I hope hes not going to say... It sounds like he and my mother were thinking about having another child but it couldn't be.
Your mother and I have been thinking.
It would be a nice place if you could navigate around the stacks of papers and photo albums. They used to pay their various grandchildren to come by on Saturdays and clean up but as we got older we found better ways of making money. In stead of recruiting migrant workers, my grandparents decided to wallow in the sea of clutter that is Casa de la Yamagata.
I doubt my parents home looks any different either. Its the typical southern/ christian home. A statue of the angel Gabriel on the front porch. Scriptures verses at every turn. The decorum is of people that buy one peace of new furniture every five years and adds it on to their current collection. A hideous blending of 70s, 80s and 90s furniture. The guts of the house scream whatever works! The different yet equally atrocious carpet in every room, the dingy white walls, the doors that you have to yank to open and slam to close. This is my parents home, not mine, because I never plan on coming back. To live that is. I mean, Im coming back now.
My grandfather isnt the grandparent that sits you on his knee and tells you stories while grandma bakes cookies. Actually, I dont know anyone who has those grandparents except the Cosby kids. (I would hate those kids if I wasnt so envious. Viva La Cosby! What was I talking about? Oh.) My grandmother complains about how stiff her knees are or how her back aches when she stands up for too long. This is why I never ask her how shes doing. She has the horrible habit of telling the truth. I know shell tell me eventually anyway and I need to prolong the conversation as long as possible.
My grandfather on the other hand doesnt talk much except to tell me I dont work hard enough. He has worked for Caddell Construction for the past twenty years. Evidently kids of my generation dont know what real work is. He came up with nothing and before he was thirty-five he owned this... very... house. It took him thirty minutes to express this every time I hear it and I hear it every time see him.
As soon as I get to their house I call my parents. Its not that I dont enjoy spending time with my grandparents... shit, it is that I dont enjoy spending time with my grandparents. I love them though and I wouldnt have it any other way. (Damn Cosby!)
Thirty minutes after I call my father knocks on my grandparents door. We do our usual Howve you been exchange of words and were off.
5.
As Ive gotten older I find myself trying to make conversation with my father whereas when I was younger I said nothing. I never realized that he took it personally until I got older. Hed ask me questions and Id give him the shortest answer I could think of and that was that. I saw nothing awkward about it. His mother used to tell him to watch me because you never know what the quiet ones are thinking. I never understood that being quiet scares some people. I might be plotting something. I just never like talking, or liked people that talked to hear themselves. So I didnt.
Never the less I decided, not too long ago, to conform to society and indulge in the idiotic banter of everyday life. I talk to people in elevators and when in line at the bank. Its disgusting really. All because I couldnt think of an answer to the questions, Why dont you talk? or You dont talk much do you? How would you answer those questions without being a smart-ass?
So here I am in my fathers truck.
How you been?
Good, not much has changed. Your mother and I are still working, the house is empty these days.
I hasnt even been a year yet.
I know but were so used to having someone in the house and its so quite now.
I hope hes not going to say... It sounds like he and my mother were thinking about having another child but it couldn't be.
Your mother and I have been thinking.