Grand Papa Raymond

PART I

“And I got this black suit on, rolling around like I’m ready for a funeral.”

-Frank Ocean’s ‘Swim Good’

I don’t remember what I wore at my grandfather’s funeral. Definitely not a suit. Probably a T-shirt and some winter boots. And pants, obviously. You’d have to be really depraved to go to a funeral without pants.

My grandfather’s name was Raymond. Well, technically, that’s not true. His actual name--along with my dad, five uncles and every other catholic male in Saint-Paul, AB at the time--was Joseph. Raymond was just one of his many middle names. But, in a town full of Josephs and Maries, I guess calling people by their middle names was the only way to keep insanity at bay.

I think my grandfather was born somewhere in Quebec, where he got married to my grandmother, Gertrude (Marie, actually, but…you know). They had their first kid (Joseph) there, before moving out to Saint-Isidore, and finally settling down in Saint-Paul. My grandfather was in construction. He wore one of the white hats. Big shot. He was a skilled carpenter too, as a considerable number of handcrafted wooden items displayed in family homes will prove. Apparently, he had trouble with alcohol, and my grandmother hated seeing him tear himself apart like this so bad that she wouldn’t live with him for the better part of his last year here.

But this is all second-hand information: things either mentioned or overheard at tables at family reunions over the years and carefully assembled into a vague, incomplete and pretty useless jigsaw. A jigsaw which I feel my grandmother has little interest in approaching, let alone clarifying. So, here’s the real question: what do I personally remember about my grandfather? Well, aside from a lingering impression of a time he came to Edmonton to help my dad re-paint our house’s siding, I remember his funeral. I guess that’s kind of blunt. But at least it’s honest.

November 11, 2000: News reached my parents that my paternal grandfather had just passed. My mother was pretty pregnant with my younger sister--any day now--when the call came down the line, so, when our forest-green minivan hit the road for Saint-Paul to attend my grandfather’s funeral, it was only my dad (Joseph 5.0 (or 6.0, depending on who you ask (he has a twin))), my sister and myself on board, meaning my dad would have to deal with both driving and discipline all by himself. Lucky for him, my older sister and I got along pretty good, even at the ages of seven and five, respectively. In fact, the only form of ‘discipline’ my parents ever had to use on road trips at the time was essentially bribery: in exchange for a stuffed animal or some other small gift, we’d keep busy and quiet. But this time around, my mother wasn’t involved in the selection of offerings that would be presented to her children.

About halfway through our trip, as my sister and I slowly became increasingly restless, my dad motioned towards a plastic bag on the van floor, indicating it was okay to open it. We’d already guessed this was where our presents were, but we had been awaiting a signal to find out what was inside. Looking back, I kind of wish our gift would’ve made sense. Something sentimental or touching would’ve been nice. Ultimately, I guess I just wish it had at the very least not been something aggressively incomprehensible. But, the way it goes, aggressively incomprehensible is exactly what we got.

Inside the bag were two Star Wars action figures, which really isn’t that bad. What’s bad is that they happened to not only be twin Jabba the Hutts, the obese space slug, but twin Jabba the Hutts, the obese space slug equipped with a tub of translucent lime-green slime which could be squeezed from their mouths to mimic vomiting. One for my sister, one for me. I don’t think there are any scenarios in which a vomit-Jabba would be an appropriately sentimental gift, but using it as a “behave-during-the-funeral, son” gift is definitely at the other end of the spectrum.

As we rolled around, Jabbas in hand, we were unequivocally not ready for a funeral.

Not that it mattered. Nothing would stop us from paying our final respects to the man who conceived the man who conceived me…

To be continued in Part II: A Tale of Cousins and Corpses, in which we are set to examine the full extent of the misbehavior that took place at the funeral parlor.

The Dude Abides,

S

TL; DR: Dead grandpa, yabish/ Vomit-Jabba, yabish