Thursday, August 07, 2003

My grandmother died last night, so I'll be headed to La Cygne this weekend for her funeral.

As a part of the Practical Midwesterner tribe, I generally don't stop for death. There's work to be done, and if it's not other work, well, there's the work of getting ready for the funeral. There are phone calls to be made, an obituary to be written, pies to bake, and, well, somebody should buy a ham. Because there must be ham. It is the way of our people.

I can't imagine what it looks like from the outside, but from the inside it's a coping mechanism. In that first flash of grief, work provides something to occupy the hands, if not the mind, and at least keeps you on your feet. But I work sitting down, and my primary tool, besides the computer, is my brain. So it doesn't do the trick, and I catch myself playing the most asine tricks on myself to keep my mind away from, well, you know, it.

If I had a lick of sense, I'd sit with this a while, let myself grieve, but it is the ancient ways that provide meaning to our lives, and who am I to buck tradition? So I'm going to make bread.

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