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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =

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                     DeBucks Sod Farm and Gift Ship

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Today, June 4th, would have been my grandfathers 85th birthday. He passed

away on December 23, 1996 and not counting the F.U.C.K files that I have

written, I have not written a peep since his funeral.



This one is for my grandfather, John Preiss, whom I love and miss dearly.



-----------



When thinking about all the poetry, prose, essays, and short stories that I

have written, mainly in the last few years, I realized that I have never

mentioned my family. Not one instance of my relationships with any of my

relatives, save my younger brother.  I do believe I mentioned my family's

long history of mental illness in a piece I wrote, but other then that, not

one peep about anything. As far as anyone is concerned, I was hatched by

aliens, which would work for me.



I am writing this piece about my grandfather because of how much I love him

and regret not doing the things I wanted to do with him before he passed

on. Sometimes I hate human nature. How we are always rushing around, gotta

do this, and we have to do that. And we miss out on smelling the roses,

doing the little things like seeing the world around us, and seeing people

we haven't seen in years....



Living only 2 hours from my grandfather in these last few years, I always

promised on going to see him. If anyone out of my fucked up family, he

would be the one I would want to see. And something always came up: a new

job, a new boyfriend, a trip somewhere more exciting then going back home

to Port Huron, a pissant little town above Detroit.  



If you can't tell by now, I have absolutely hated where I grew up. For a

town of 30,000 people, it was like living in a town of 300 people. Everyone

knew each other, their families had all grown up together, all partied

together, got in trouble together and fucked together. Even now its the

same way. My cousin Kevin is a good example of that. He has become sort of

a 'infamous' figure in the area (at the tender age of 18) for dealing

drugs. He knew the younger brothers and sisters of the people I grew up

with, who were the kids of the people our parents grew up with. Rumors flew

hot and heavy in the area when I stepped into town, even though I hadn't

lived there for 10 years.



No one has changed, its still white trash, eeking out a life working at

taco bell or super-k. The big excitement came when they opened up a mall in

the area that had a Mervyns as one of the corner stores. Everyone smokes

pot, drinks heavily and pops valium like its going out of style. This is

my family. I come from these people?



Growing up, people always said that I was "just like Jack (my

grandfather)". It was considered an insult to have this said to you. I took

it as a compliment. Out of my whole family, my grandfather was the only

"real" person there. Sure he had a fucked up life, was an alcoholic, did

crazy things (like burn 12 cords of wood in the fireplace in ONE

weekend). But he was real, he was alive, he did what he wanted, not giving

a shit about what others thought of him.



I remember being a little tot, family meetings being held in our main

living room. All 7 of my grandfathers children (with appropriate spouses)

would convey occassionaly to figure out "what to do with him".  You see, my

grandmother had died in November of 1972, when I was five months old. My

grandmothers death prompted my mother to leave my father, and move us to

Port Huron. After my grandmothers death, my grandfather had a nervous

breakdown, which ended up with him in a mental hospital for a few years.

After that episode (I had recently found out that he had been in one in the

late 50's to early 60's after he had caused a death in a drunk driving

incident), he had gone "crazy". 



My grandfather was the epitome of the typical immigrant in those days.

Illiterate, obnoxious, bigoted, loud mouth, heavy drinker.  His own

children shunned him. Those damn "meetings" were about getting him out of

trouble at various senior living places, lawsuits for shoddy work he had

done, his temper, and every other fallacy known to man.  He was a

"disgrace", he was "dangerous", and he was "crazy".



Now despite my fucked up, materialistic family way of seeing things, my

grandfather had great charm. He loved all his grandkids. He never forgot

any of our birthdays, christmas's or special events. His "obnoxious" charm

grew on people, and he was forever having people over to our house. He was

protective of his own children, even though they seemed to disrespect him.

I remember when one of my mothers boyfriends took to stalking her in the

early 70's. My grandfather was like a mother lion with her cub, he threw

the guy off our property and told him that if he came back, he would beat

the shit out of him. That was the last we ever saw of the ex-boyfriend.



There are so many memories I have of growing up with my grandfather. He

lived with us for the better part of younger years, and was essentially the

father I never had. Sure my sperm doner lived in Toronto, a mere 3 hour car

ride from us, but I never saw him but for the every odd year in the months

that end in "y".



Regardless, the images of what I grew up with what a man should be and

obviously, from the looks of it, it wasn't good. But regardless, I loved my

grandfather, as he was more real then the shallow children (including my

own mother) he produced.



On December 23, 1996, I got a call from my Aunt Jackie that my grandfather

had passed away in his sleep. He was 84 years old. The last time I had seen

him (that November), he had shriveled away to almost nothing. He was

listless, not eating, and weighed only 140+ pounds on his once 6'4 frame.

He was STILL trying to get out of the nursing home they had him in.  He was

loudmouth, he had spirit and he was full of life. Nothing could ever get him

down.



I left Christmas day for the funeral. There was hardly any snow on the the

drive in, though the closer I got to Port Huron, the more nostalgic I got

about growing up there. I passed by familiar exits: Flint, Imly City,

Capac, Goodles.  Got pulled over by an anal retentive cop for speeding. No

ticket. Merry Christmas to me.



My aunts all looked like stuffed turkeys: fat and shiny. I felt awkward

being with them. I have never gotten along with my family, there has always

been some tension between me and a majority of my family, but yet I was the

favorite of all the grandkids. Never figured that one out.



A lot of family I hadn't seen in five years, ten years were there. "You

look just like your mother!". Fuck. Just what I needed. Some of the older

relatives actually "thought" I WAS my mother. Shocking, considering I can't

stand my egg donor.



The funeral wasn't what I would have done, if I was in charge. My

grandfather looked fake, and plastic with his stitched up mouth and eyes.

The fake smile, the filling in of teeth when he had been toothless for a

better part of my life.  My aunts and uncles, being the idiots they were,

joked about putting a tiny kroger shopping cart in the casket, symbolizing

how he used to walk around with his junk in a shopping cart around the

city. He lost his drivers license after the drunk driving accident, and

that shopping cart became the mainstay in his life.



I didn't cry. I couldn't cry. Family members, old family friends asked me

about my brother, the state basketball star or my mother, the superwoman.

To them, I was just a waste. The trouble maker. The worthless person who

had everything going, and fucked it all up. I was the female version of my

grandfather.



My cousins Kevin, Shelly and I went out to Shelly's car and got high. I

heard family gossip about how Shelly's dad was going over to Kevin's house,

getting high. All the siblings getting together recalling their life with

their dad, drinking cheap beer and getting high off the pot my cousin sold.

The stories I wasn't privelidged to hear till then. My mother was miss goody

two shoes, the back bone of the family, taking care of her 6 younger

brothers and sisters while growing up, and I was her 'disappointment". 



And the hypocritical thing, was that all the awful things they said about

me, were not true. Well, majority of them were true. My cousin shelly

related news about ME, regardless of the fact that I had not seen her in

over five years. And here was my "family" busily discussing about my coke

habit (funny, i never touched coke) while my uncle used to deal coke

heavily.  A few of my aunts were dealing pot as well, but yet I was the big

druggie. Other stories filtered in about acid use, orgies, all the good

stuff. The funny thing, that is about their LIFE, and they said it was mine.



At the actual funeral, the man who spoke about my grandfather was a baptist

minister. My grandfather was raised catholic, though he hadn't been to

church in years, and more or less was an atheist. Regardless, my

grandfathers general comment to the minister when he would come visit him

would be "So what do you 'really' do for a living?". har har.



The whole service was short and cheap. The "minister" said about 15 words

about my grandfather and spent the rest of his "speech" trying to win

converts to his church. I eyed everyone with disgust.  They all weeped and

hung on to the preachers words. My grandfathers casket was closed and

flowers were laid over it. In the funeral possession to the graveyard, I

was squashed in the backseat of my aunts car. Three of the aunts were all

arguing about my grandfathers watch, which was supposed to be taken off his

wrist before the casket was closed. Their voices started escalating higher

and higher, till finally i pitched my cigarette out the window, and in a

calm but stern voice told them to shut the fuck up. They fell silent. 



We left the graveyard and drove to a small church for "brunch" or however

they were disguising the buffet they were serving. I didn't talk to anyone,

I didn't want to talk to anyone, I didn't want to sit on the hard folding

chair, pushing my potato salad around. Suddenly what I wanted was to be

home, drinking. Heavily.



A blizzard had hit the area hard that weekend. The aunt I was staying with

begged me to stay over a few days extra because of the weather. My flight

instinct was calling me strong. I drove to her place clear across town,

picked up my stuff and drove home that night.



The minute I got back into my hometown, i stopped at the liquor store and

bought a fifth of vodka. I didn't care what brand. Drove to my parents

house and got ahold of my brother. One of his best friends deals drugs, so

I bought a quarter bag of pot. Drove home, ignored my roommate/fuck toy/love

of my life. Got out of my clothes and into something more comfortable, and

started drinking.



I didn't stop till I finished that whole bottle.



I continued in that manner until the bottle was gone. My roommate/fuck

toy/love of my life drove and bought another fifth. Together we finished

that one, and purchased one more which is still sitting in the freezer

today. In between all the drinking, rolling joints and smoking them while

sitting on irc blasting people left and right.



And I have never talked about my grandfathers death.

What he meant to me.

How I felt.



I just drank that whole weekend, getting high. And the unusual part is that

I had not gotten high since november, and the last time before that was

nearly two years before. Drinking, hell, when I turned 21, I drank like a

fish, and one night it hit me I was following the patterns for the rest of

my oddball family, so I more or less stopped drinking except for when I

went to clubs. And I never bought alcohol *ever*. So I "knew" something

inside of me, snapping like a spiders web, was having me behave in this

manner.



After this binge, I never brought up anything since then nor have I drank

but for a few occasional time.



I don't live in Michigan anymore, but in the sunny state of california.  I

called various relatives to let them know I had moved. Short, terse

conversations with me relaying my new contact information. They didn't ask

how I was, they didn't ask what I was doing. Did nothing but bitch moan or

complain about their lives, their worthlessness. I shivered and I hung up.



Received a letter from my egg donor today.  She forwarded all my mail not

making it through. I haven't read her letter. Don't know if I want to.



I miss my grandfather, proud to be like him, proud to be alive and wanting

do things differently. Even if it means no acceptance from my family. Fuck

'em and feed 'em fishheads. No rice, no beans.



And what I will always remember, is driving along I-69, passing the green

fields, and the big sign that said "DeBucks Sod Farm" painted on a the side

of a hay bale. To me, the endless green of new hay growing, the contrast of

the earth, the blue sky melting in the back, is the perfect metaphor for my

grandfathers life.



I love you grandpa, hope you are okay wherever you are.





-simunye 

June 4, 1997









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