Now for this message....

I can just totally lose track of time. It's Wednesday and I'm really trying to slam some work out. The office is under the misconception that this new system should be faster and more streamlined. NOT. I am always amazed that rather than listen to the person responsible for the job, management would rather listen to some consultant, who doesn't have a clue.

I last spoke of my father. Here lately, it's my grandmother on my mother's side that I am thinking of most often. Her name was Maria Offer and she lived in Laredo, Texas for almost all of her life. She was born in Mexico City and at just a few years old, moved with her whole family which included her mother, Aunt Hortencia and Uncle Pepe, to Nueva Laredo. Her father (my great-grandfather) was killed in some military issue with Santa Anna or something like that. Which explains why she was an only child. So, Gramma married a German fella, Werner, and they had one daughter (my mother) Mary. My grandfather died at a somewhat early age of a smoking related illness. I don't think my grandmother really ever missed him. Years after I got married, my grandmother confided in me that he saw other women. I think she tried to be a good wife to him, but it's hard to say what goes on in a relationship. The thing about my grandmother....she loved me despite the fact that I was broken. She was the only one and I wonder if she remains to be the only one. I'm not feeling sorry for myself or anything...just how things are.

As I live and breathe....here's an update.

I left off talking about my father. Only once did I ever hear him stand up to my mother. It was one of those amazingly stressful dinners where it was pick, pick and more pick and the best thing to do was keep your head down, eat quickly and asked to be excused. Mother was on one of her hatred-filled rants of me and I was thinking how wonderful my life would be if she would just choke on her dinner. Would that not prove that there was a true and just God? The kitchen vent ran up to my room and after I made my escape, I ran up to my room where I heard my father say that he was tired of how she treated me. No doubt about it, I was stunned. Her response? "Too late." I was already 17 years old and you know, she was probably right. What's done is done.

He wasn't around that much. Dad was a pilot in the Air Force and was pretty busy most of the time. I don't remember him being that instrumental in my life, but every now and then I remember some specific time that we had a moment or two. I don't think he necessarily "loved" me but I don't think he hated me either.

He was not what you would call a friendly fella; not even nice and I wonder if perhaps his childhood might have something to do what that. Details are sketchy at best and some might not be true, but from what I remember, his mother, my grandmother Fern, left soon after the birth of the third child, a sister to my dad. Times being what they were and my grandfather trying to raise 3 children, my father was sent off to some friends in South Carolina, the Todds. I don't know when Fern rejoined the family or when or if my father returned home. I just know they were never close. Because we moved around a lot, we rarely saw his people in Florida, but when my parents adopted my youngest brother (boy that's a story for another day), the name they gave him? Todd. Those rare times when my grandparents would visit, it was very tense and yet I know they saw things as well. They were Southern Baptists and could teach you a thing or two about being pious. More about them later.

Catching up and Looking Back

It's been awhile since my last post and though I see the blog in my "favorites" I have chosen to ignore the calling for me to write few words, until today.

I'm having a particularly stressful day. The new Epson arrived and of course there were issues. Keith came out to wave his magic wand and without a hiccup, it is now working. So rather than get to work and get my billing done, I've been thinking about the past half-century or so and the life I have had.

My father died a few years ago. I didn't find out about his passing for some months afterward. I simply asked my brother, who at the time was living next door, if he had gone to see Dad for Father's Day. He kinda hemmed and hawed and finally let it spill about Dad's death. Why, for the love of God, had he kept this from me? Was he really worried that I would show up at the funeral and make a scene? What???? Another thing...why had I not been able to sense the change? One less hurtful person on the planet should have felt different. I have always been a little sensitive to these things. Many people have arrived in my dreams to let me know just how they're doing. Should probably wig me out a little bit, but it really doesn't.

My father had esophageal cancer, but could have been laryngeal as I really don't have the details or facts. This must have been a long and arduous illness. During this time, did he want to see me? At the end, with mother at his bedside, did he ask her to call me? Did he want to make amends? In my head, it went down something like this: Mark: Mary call Teri and tell her I'm sick and I want to see her and apologize for the hell we created her first 17 years. Mary: I've tried calling her and she says she won't come. (Of course, she never called and never had any intention of calling). But this is how it plays out IN MY HEAD. I hope he wanted to make things right before leaving. Who knows. (Mary knows)

So, when people ask me about my parents, I tell them "My father is in hell and my mother is just killing time waiting to join him."

Earlier memories at the next update, hopefully tomorrow, but no promises.