9 June 2025
"Grief is weird" is a phrase I have heard a lot recently. I think it is being used to excuse some crappy behaviors, mine included.
I suspect it's exacerbated by the country on fire and the joy of Dealing With Dad's Trailer and Dad's Car. There's also other stuff like lack of money and summer jobs and heat and hate and car issues and the shifting sand baseline of government hate for me and my children's simple existence.
But I digress.
Shocking.
The original plan with my cousin, Lisa, was to simply combine scattering dad with her mom, dad's sister, who had passed two years ago. Lisa and I and my sister were in agreement to simply driving out with immediate family and scattering. Quietly. No pomp and circumstance. No headstone. No service. Plain and simple, like the farm and the cemetery itself.
All we had to do was have Genoa, Harp and their partners meet my cousin and I at the house at 9 am. Drive to Virginia and Bob's to meet my sister and Ed, and caravan to the Glenn Cemetery with dad's ashes.
I did not sleep well, and got up at 6. Lisa got up at 8.20. At 8.45 she wanted to go get coffee at Dutch Brothers. On a Saturday. Being in an altered state and not wanting to cause more conflict, I did the complete opposite of what I would have- had my brain been working. I said "Sure".
The trip put us behind schedule.
Please remember I am a theatre kid: An hour early is on time, half hour is late and on "time" is fired. Translated to early is on time, on time is late and late is fired.
So Anxiety Party of One was joined by unwanted friends.
I love Lisa. And she moves at the speed of global warming. Two things can be true. She always has been both slow to move and chatty---a lethal combo when trying to leave any event. Or house. It's never been an issue until Saturday, when suddenly I couldn't imagine how she functions and I got frustrated. She kept saying "It's a Wyckofff thing" and I responded every time with "I am a Wyckoff, so no, this is not a Wyckoff thing." I am not social, I hate family gatherings. I love the people, but I don't chat.
We were heading back to the house from Dutch Brothers, and Lisa slowed down at the various garage sales cooing "Ooooh, what do they have there?"
. I snapped "No, we have a time table."
Of course she has to use the bathroom when we get to the house. I came in right behind her and she was at the top of the stairs chatting up G and H and their partners. I waved my arms and used my director-fussing-to-chatters-in-the -wings "Lisa! Seriously? Move. We're going."
The Wyckoffs are notoriously social. It is not a trait I share. I am aggressively introverted. That's why I'm in theatre----give me a script and I'll analyze and delve and create and perform another person with great googley glee. But make me attend a neighborhood cookie exchange and I'll sit in the corner with a glass of wine and scare away humans attempting to connect with me by spewing highly controversial political and social news items.
I have no social skills.
I yell. I direct. I project, I teach. I analyze. I discuss politics, religion and history in depth.
I do not small talk. I do not chat. I do not "visit".
The Wyckofffs talk, chat and Dear God Do They Visit.
This has never been an issue, just a fact. My dad wasn't particularly chatty, he liked to listen to people visiting. I think that's what I inherited. I'm the audience in my own real life and do my talking, chatting, and visiting in my work. I watched my Uncle Reggie at their homestead gathering and he does the same thing. I mean, he's probably 85 and has hearing aids, so it may be contingent on opportunity. His son Josh is the same quiet way at first, but if you give him an opening, he will absolutely chat you you up.
Case in point, we were sitting at the table outside on Saturday. I hadn't talked much, I'm listening. But I'm tracking two conversations, as everybody talks over each other. My cousins. All five talking at once. I remember when I was a kid, sitting at the table on the farm, listening to my grandparents talk at the same time, like two radio stations fighting over the same number on the dial. Then were were joined by my aunts and I had to get up and walk the property.
Back to running late...
We were late to Virginia and Bob's, and Bob---who is in his 80's and functions like I do, meaning he has no patience for the "Wyckoff Visiting Trait" which means he hates lingering, chatting and visiting when it interferes with leaving on time. When we arrived, he stood at the bottom of the stairs with the door open. Because Lisa had to pee. He just rolled his eyes and stood with the door remaining open, glaring at Virginia who was chatting with Lisa.
No judgement. Just facts.
It's one hour and fifty five minutes to the graveyard in Genoa. We wagon trained, because someone somewhere said the country dirt roads were not on google. So we followed Virginia, who was raised on the farm. Bob was driving. Bob drives at the speed of his age---one MPH for every year of his life. Pedal to the metal. Impressively determined. Yet he would pull over when he got too far ahead for a turn.
Road M, Road R, CR 2, turn left at the T section, turn right at the cow, look for the tree...we did this years ago for Bryon's memorial, and in 2010 for the 100 year celebration, which is A Very Big Deal. There is now a sign outside the homestead identifying it as a registered landmark.
https://www.historycolorado.org/location/wyckoff-farm
So we didn't even need to follow Virginia and Bob.
We're all going because my Aunt Arlene -Lisa's mom, dad's sister- died two years ago and was cremated. Lisa was waiting to scatter her with her husband who passed last fall. I proposed we scatter them and dad on the same day, less travel stress on their remaining siblings. But that meant that Arlene's husband's family, Lisa's family, my cousin Josh and his dad Reggie...and suddenly my idea of just chucking dad's remains over the cemetery fence had been hijacked. Also there was a headstone he would not have wanted that caused a lot of angst among his daughters. But that doesn't matter.
My Uncle Bob.
My Uncle Bob Jaramillo has been a sassy Latino fixture my entire life. He has said a lot of very funny things that would be considered racist today, yet they are part of my imprint of the man. He and my dad were besties. They were the central two of their Old Man's Club. Breakfast Queen on Wednesdays, brunch on Fridays, bowling back in the day, driving to Wyoming so my barber brother in law could cut their hair. Hooligans.
You are lucky if you get one best friend in this life. I know Bob was my dad's. And I suspect he was Bob's.
Bob knew my dad for who he was, and he knew he was too kind and occasionally taken advantage of. Bob looked out for him and understood him as only a best friend could. After dad died, we found a receipt for a paint job on his vinyl Town Car roof, clearly the work of someone who had swindled my dad. Because why would anyone paint a vinyl roof? Bob said "I told him not to do that, shit, Gary, you're an old man whaddya need a new paint job for?" Dad was both easily duped due his kindness, and slipping mentally the last few years. The news of the paint job seemed to send a knife into Bob's heart.
Bob stood at the gravesite as we scattered dad's ashes. He clung to the edge as my brother in law buried a few ashes. As he did so, Bob reached down-leaning on his cane- and took a rock and placed it on the gravestone. He stood stoic. When Todd patted the final dirt, Bob saluted as they do in Honor Guard---Bob was not in honor guard. But Bob knew how much it meant to my dad, and he was determined to honor him. It was too much. I still tear up thinking about it.
Uncle Bob is the sassiest, Judgeist man I know. I never even considered he had a heart. He was hit by a car (he is 82 years old) in January, and is still using a cane, but drove 80 MPH out to the cemetery. He hobbled over to us after we scattered dad from the cremation box.
"Gimme that box, " he croaked.
I tried to hand the empty box to him, but he indicated the wanted it on the ground. I obliged.
He knocked at it with his cane. "Dammit, Gary, it was your turn to pay." He looked up at me. "It's not fair. I want to beat the shit out of that box."
After almost everyone had left, my Uncle Bob stood staring at the gravestone. His wide brimmed black hat, black coat and cane cutting a stunning portrait of grief.
You're lucky if you get one best friend in this life. My dad was the luckiest man I know.
I can't write any more.
Maybe later...
The chicken coop
