A part of me wants to just tell you that it has been a hell of a weekend and then just go on to tell you that the girls are sick and were up all night taking turns in my bed and today are fighting over a box of ‘issues’ while staining everything they touch with boogers. I would tell you that I made an awesome pot of coffee this morning and that I am just going to stay home (since I have to with sick kids) and just sort of try to get back into the swing of things. I would then go on to tell you something about … well something and you wouldn’t even really think to ask why it was a hell of a weekend, and I would be happy with that.
On the morning of Wednesday, September 22nd my father got up at 4:00 in the morning, like he normally did to make a pot of coffee, throw some toys for the dog and get ready for the day. He had the trailer on his ATV loaded with garbage that he drove down the road a hundred feet to drop off in the neighbor’s garbage bin. He then went into the neighbors house and had a cup of coffee while visiting. The school bus came and picked up the neighbor kids and he took that his cue to leave. He and one of the neighbors were going to cut some firewood later that after noon. In between that short distance between houses, and on the top of a long slowly inclined hill he was hit from behind by a teenage girl driving 50-55 miles per hour (on a 40 mph road). He was thrown and died instantly upon contact.
He would have wanted a traditional ho chunk funeral — and it was pretty much in progress by the time I got the family together and packed to go up there. It a long arduous affair that takes a lot of people who know what they are doing, helping the family who doesn’t know what they are doing because they don’t live and breath the ho chunk way. I have often thought on the fault of that, but in the end it doesn’t matter. To quote my BIL and former co-worker, “It is what it is.”
It was a beautiful ceremony and he was surrounded by people who loved him. He would have liked that.
However, I am glad it is over. I never want to do that again. Three is enough for me. In fact, I am so … maybe I am not in my right mind, but I never want to do another indian thing in my life. I want to change my last name to match that of my husband and kids and never look back. No one would ever ask, no one would ever know. I don’t want to look through the papers I brought back with me. I don’t want to file for a will. I don’t want to think about lawsuit. I don’t want to answer my phone. I just sort of want to … I don’t know. Forget it all.
I bet these are all normal things to feel. Ironically, I wish I had more indian friends to talk to about it. Maybe they would say something to me that would help.
Anyway, anyway, anyway.
Here I am. Home. The kids are sick. Tim took the day off to sleep and get over the Saturday all nighter –a luxury I could no do myself thanks to a rising sun (again with the traditional things, why do I fucking care anymore???) and mucousy kids.