Life is too Short for Burnt Coffee

So. I’m not sure where to begin exactly. I’ve started typing this post so many times I’ve lost count. I’ll start with an ending and go from there.

My grandfather died at the end of September. The same day that I found out my grandfather died, my sister told me that she’s pregnant. It was a poignant moment for me. It was the Universe in balance. It was almost like proof  of what I believed in and how, while unfeeling, there was a Way of Things. It was a bittersweet day.

The funeral ended up being a celebration of life. I flew out Wednesday, the celebration was on Thursday, went through some of his things Friday, and left Saturday. Alright, fine. There was more to it than that.

Wednesday was a bit of a blur. I spent most of the day flying. I kept thinking about how I was supposed to be meeting up with my friend Serena to hang out with her when she came out to the state to visit. I felt horribly guilty, but she insisted I go. Family is important, she told me.

Thursday was the celebration of life. Listening to all of the things my granddad got up to reminded me of the things I’ve done. My favourite story is of him as a boy. He was trying to reach a bell with a rope attached. A preacher saw him, came over, hoisted him up and granddad rung the bell.

“What now?” the preacher asked.

“We run like hell, preacher-man.”

When he was a little older, he almost created an international incident when he and the son of an ambassador left base because they wanted ice cream. No one could find them for hours. They were found later with ice cream in hand.

As a teen, he stole a car.

When he worked in Navy intelligence, he randomly decided to answer the phone as “Bellybutton.” It caused a bit of confusion because the brass thought it was a code name.

He left the Navy, attended seminary school, and joined the Navy as a chaplain. He retired and became a full time minister.

My grandfather is one of two reasons why I’m still alive.

The entire time my grandmother appeared to be doing well. There was so much to do in the wake of his death that she didn’t have time to think about it. She was “fine” until everyone left the house (I worry about her. I text and call when I can. Especially after finding out how he died).

On Friday, we went through his things. I have a couple of his sweaters and one t-shirt. I snagged his COMDESRON 7 hat, a KBAR knife, and a hatchet. I learned a lot about my family history that day.

His father, Grandpa Jay, was in WWII and the Korean War. In WWII he was part of the 99th Battalion out in Norway. When the war ended, his regiment escorted the King of Norway back into the country. He got a knife, and he described the occasion as “it was like being knighted.” In the Korean War, he and two others were captured. All of three of them tried to escape, but one was captured as he and the other hid in a haystack. If I remember correctly, he got a Purple Heart. I’m told he was never quite the same after the Korean War.

We have pictures and journals of so many of our family members. Nearly all of them were in the military. Granddad was able to trace our line back to a Viking Jarl. I come from a long line of warriors, and it seems fitting that I’m learning to use swords.

Granddad was the third person of my family to die. In May my brother died (we were both in the military, and he was close to being my brother without actually being related to me by blood). My uncle died (he was my dad’s best friend, and he was always my uncle). And then granddad. All in this year. I was/am depressed.  So much loss to cope with, and the only thing I could determine was that life is too short for burnt coffee.

I’m going to wear those beautiful dresses I have hiding in the back of my closet. I’m going to try the new makeup looks. I’m going to save up money to buy a 1966 Ford mustang.

I reexamined a lot of things in my life. Writing was at the top of my list. I was talking with Serena about how NaNoWriMo was right around the corner a few weeks ago. I always felt like I added too much fluff and not enough substance when I tried to write a novel, and I always end up purging most of it because it wasn’t important to the story. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I’m not a novelist. My short fiction was superior to my novel length works. In novels, I tend to get lost or lose the point. Short fiction? I was able to wrap everything up neatly, not get lost, and leave an impact.

The realization was freeing. This year I’m participating in NaNo, but writing short stories to be pulled into an anthology series called Another World. The stories are “A Moment of Resonance,” “The Temporal Dimension of Liminality,” and “The Ghosts of Black Holes” so far. I have a couple more in mind, but I don’t know if I’ll finish them before the month is out.

(I also got mad at myself for changing the ending of the first arc/short story for Variations on a Theme of You. The changes effect what happens in the second arc/short story, which means a near total rewrite. I’ll tackle that after NaNo)

I also moved in with a roommate. Things might settle down a little, but don’t hold your breath. We all know how Life is, and how weird and unpredictable it can be.

But that’s me, and all that’s happened from my last post until now. I’m hoping to get back on a regular schedule of posting again. Be on the lookout for more stories and updates