Shock, Awe, and Elderly Relatives
Jun. 20th, 2005 02:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
featherynscaleHere follows an account of the most alarming thing that happened to me this weekend:
I arrived at the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner a little ahead of most of the rest of the party, so I was leaning against a post on their patio, when an elderly man who looked a bit like my father walked up to me. He had a little girl with him.
"You're Kimberly," he said.
I said, "Yeah."
"Do you know who I am?" I searched my brain and couldn't come up with anything reasonable.
"No, I'm sorry," I said, grinning the grin of 'Don't take offense, I'm a dumbass'. (This is a Southern survival skill.)
"I'm your Grampa Art."
Now this took me aback, and for good reason. As far as my addled brain can manage to recall, my mother told me that my Grampa Art was dead about ten or 12 years ago. And I haven't seen any of this side of the family very often, and certainly nobody beyond the immediate-family types, so I had no reason to doubt this information. But lo, there he was, looking quite alive and even healthy.
What I wanted to say was "I thought you were dead!". What I actually said was "My, you're looking well!".
I have decided to charitably assume that I was told that my grandfather was dead because someone had made some sort of error -- perhaps another of my father's relatives had died, and she was confused. Or, perhaps he had been very ill and she had just assumed that he had died. But I don't know, and I probably never will.
I arrived at the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner a little ahead of most of the rest of the party, so I was leaning against a post on their patio, when an elderly man who looked a bit like my father walked up to me. He had a little girl with him.
"You're Kimberly," he said.
I said, "Yeah."
"Do you know who I am?" I searched my brain and couldn't come up with anything reasonable.
"No, I'm sorry," I said, grinning the grin of 'Don't take offense, I'm a dumbass'. (This is a Southern survival skill.)
"I'm your Grampa Art."
Now this took me aback, and for good reason. As far as my addled brain can manage to recall, my mother told me that my Grampa Art was dead about ten or 12 years ago. And I haven't seen any of this side of the family very often, and certainly nobody beyond the immediate-family types, so I had no reason to doubt this information. But lo, there he was, looking quite alive and even healthy.
What I wanted to say was "I thought you were dead!". What I actually said was "My, you're looking well!".
I have decided to charitably assume that I was told that my grandfather was dead because someone had made some sort of error -- perhaps another of my father's relatives had died, and she was confused. Or, perhaps he had been very ill and she had just assumed that he had died. But I don't know, and I probably never will.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
::nodding head::
Date: 2005-06-20 08:26 pm (UTC)The politeness of my response uto the "Do you know who I am?" question depended on whether it arrived in the conversation with some exclamation about how much I look like my mother...guaranteed never to win any favors, in case you wondered.
Re: ::also nodding head::
Date: 2005-06-20 08:46 pm (UTC)I tend just to look shiftily around and ask, "Is this a pop quiz?" They chuckle warmly and declare that it's not a fair question, is it?. I smile with my teeth bared and do not disagree with them. I could add that it's also a rude question, but I don't. That would be rude.
This is all becoming moot for me, though. I noticed that for the first time this visit. The situation described is now my children's problem, and my parents are the old fogeys. That puts me squarely in that uncomfortable spot in the middle. We've shifted up a generation all of a sudden. To quote Mr. Horse from Ren and Stimpy: "No sir, I don't like it."
Re: ::also nodding head::
Date: 2005-06-20 08:52 pm (UTC)Hey. I didn't say it set a good tone.