Town Crier

When I was in the 6th grade I went on a class trip to the exciting Corning Glasswork Factory. Remember when class trips were all about education?

After I returned home, my dad wasn’t there to pick me up. Instead, one of the neighbors was sent to fetch me. My dad couldn’t make it was the only explanation, and in my 11 year old mind, I didn’t think any more of it. We were latch key kids, so it was no big deal to come home to an empty trailer. The neighbor told me that I was supposed to go to my Grandmother’s place. She was a short walk from our place, so I trudged up the hill, high on forbidden McDonald’s hamburgers and Coca Cola.

It felt like I was there for hours before my Grandmother (who was a total bitch, but that’s a story for another day) said, “I guess you were surprised to find out your dad was in the hospital.” What? I had no idea. He’d had a heart attack earlier that day, while I’d been enjoying the fabulous glass making at Corning.

In 7th grade I returned home from a class trip to Dorney Park & Wildwater Kingdom (much more fun than Corning) to find my mom home from work. She worked 3rd shift, so we rarely saw her, unless we stayed up past midnight on a school night to wait for her arrival home. I was so excited to see her, until I’d found out about the family meeting that I had missed. I was the last to find out that she had cancer.

In the 12th grade, I was too afraid to go on the Senior Class Trip to Hershey Park. I was afraid that my entire family would be killed while I was off having fun.

Flash forward 20 some years. Now I am a somewhat paranoid girl who is afraid to be left out on any family tragedy. And I have the strong urge to call everyone and anyone to tell them the tragic news, lest they feel bad that they were overlooked. But now I’m afraid of becoming the town crier of tragedy.

I think I’m healing, as I only called Cousin Becki to tell her “tragic” news from the weekend. I bugged her with updates while she was at a fabulous barbecue with her date in Santa Cruz. It’s possible that I’m being overly dramatic, hence the quotes around tragic. All is well, don’t you worry your pretty little heads. I mean, it just involves the removal of a gangrene-infected gallbladder. (PS, do NOT look up gangrene on wikipedia unless you are prepared for some really icky pictures) The patient is no more ornery than usual, and is recovering with the aid of lots of morphine.

Oops, I think I just reverted back into the town crier mode. I guess that I have a ways to go before I become stoic and learn to keep my mouth shut. It may never happen.