Day XXXVI of the Every Day is Like Sunday, Every Day is Silent and Grey Road Trip of Morrissey Ruminations
Cut & Shoot, TX
The second day of our sojourn in Greater Cut & Shoot was pretty miserable athletically, as the piercing cold rain and unmitigatingly gloomy skies made exercise an unapproachable option – and because the bad guys won both the Carolina/State game and the Super Bowl. I only cared about the Super Bowl because I think Warren Sapp is a fat, sick fuck who should go to prison for the kind of bullshit he’s pulled on the field this year, and to see him celebrating with a World Champion hat on (three minutes before the game was over, mind you) further convinced me that we are deep into an era of American History I call the New Mercilessness.
I believe the New Mercilessness manifests itself everywhere from reality TV to our Republican-held government, but it’s been a saturnine enough day to skip it for now. One more rant and I’m going to get that GERD acid reflux disease that Sean’s always getting.
We spent most of the day with Nonnie, Tessa’s grandmother, and it only nails home the Buddhist prospect of remaining in the moment. Tessa asked me (after having some family personality difficulty of her own) how I’ve always managed to stay friends with both my mom and my dad, and I think it is largely due to my thankfulness that I have them around. Not everyone does, you know. Plus, as Tessa said, very few people actually bother me, which is funny given that everyone thinks I’m such a rant-monger.
I did tell her the story of my mom’s biggest fight with me: in 1995, I was pretty sure I got scabies from a houseguest at the Pink House (everyone in Chapel Hill deals with it at some point, and no, it isn’t a sexual thing), which meant my erstwhile girlfriend and I had to sleep in the nude, covered in some radioactive lotion designed to kill the little buggers. Afterwards, you burn the sheets and pray it never happens again. However, at this juncture in my career, I was too poor to buy any new sheets, so I grabbed some extras from the Holiday Inn where my mom was staying.
She found out about it and thought it was a metaphor for everything else in my life where I’d abdicated responsibility, where I’d acted classlessly, and intimated that my life was careening apart at the seams. I screamed back that I was itching too bad to care, and we had an hour-long blowout that left me feeling like something of a worthless cad. We got over it, though, like parents and children do.
My mom and I never fought like that again, most likely because I got a job. And the only thing I bug her about now is an exercise plan, which I dearly hope she starts again. She’s 71, and if she wants to see any of our kids – should we be lucky enough to have them – she’s got to lay off the Snickers and enact a regimen. You hear me, mom?
Speaking of mothers, I found pictures of my dad’s mom’s farm while scanning images at Uncle Chuck’s place. It was her childhood home in the piedmont of Tennessee back in the teens and 20s. A picture of their fields looked familiar, and when I started going through pictures of our farm upstate, I suddenly realized why:
above, Geneva’s farmland in 1920; below, ours in Columbia County last year