Despair and Puzzlement

As my younger brother Mike told my children when we were all gathered together, “Your grandfather really hated your mother.  Really hated her.”

How true.  And yet, why?

I never knew why my father had such an intense dislike of me, but it certainly cast a pall over my childhood and adulthood.  He was nasty to me; he was nasty to my sons.  I will give him this much.  He was nice to my daughter.

My father’s career stalled at a certain point, when he moved from the lab to administration.  I’m not going to say it was because he was Jewish, but I’m sure it probably was.  I know he and my mother discussed moving on, but they had lived where they were forever, so he stuck it out and retired at exactly sixty-five.  From then on he could live life as he wanted.

I mention this only because not only did he dislike me but he came to dislike my husband, since my husband’s career advanced.  And didn’t stall.

My husband also had his “lab,” which was research, for which he needed grant after grant after grant.  Those who have to chase after government money know how tiresome that can be.  My husband was only too happy to move into administration, at which he succeeded quite well.  No matter his thoughts about the people he dealt with, he was kind and never vindictive.  He had the ability to handle people, something of which I would never be accused.

Where does this lead?  To my father’s death at the age of seventy-nine.  After the small ceremony, where all my children made an appearance, we went to the family home; and I can remember crying crying crying, wailing, asking, “Why didn’t he love me?”

I came home, my home.  A few days later, this raggedy raccoon, looking all beaten up and with a gimpy leg appeared on my deck.  In the daylight.  Raccoons being nocturnal, this was unusual.  Was I annoyed, yes, because I have to deal with raccoons all the time.  I chased it away.

The next day my daughter Judy was with me when the raccoon reappeared.  I took a closer look at it, at all its ailments, especially the leg, as my father had gout.  Then I said to Judy, “That’s your grandfather.”

Once I recognized him, he never came back again.  I thought he was asking for my forgiveness, which I gave.

Until I read the will.  In which he insulted me.  And my husband.

So here’s a lesson.  When you’re writing a will, don’t use it to get even.  Distribute things equally.  And if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.