Sunday, April 8, 2012

Coup de grâce

Until I looked it up on wikipedia, I thought the spelling was coup de 'grasse.', not 'grace'  I see that it is a kind kill.  Just as Hemingway gave to himself.  My grandfather gave kind kill, I suppose, on the beaches in the Pacific war.  To look into his eyes, and hear the Our Father, is a kind death, along with the tubes of morphine.    A hypnotic angel.  While those who had a chance, were given something to bite on, and pain relief, enough to only moan, so one could be located,  I suppose.  He prayed to St. Joseph, for a kind and happy death.  He had one.  I took his hand from the man with the crash cart, and held it, and let the regulations be damned.  My grandfather's body glowed like a candle.  Amazing to see.

My grandmother was in a room near the nurses station.  As I left the room, the 'relatives' told me not to get her, my grandmother.  I kept walking.  The famous nun of the hospital was with her.  I looked at grandmother and told her.  'But,' she said, 'they said he was getting better."  "I know, I heard them say it to you, grandmother."
She rose and we made our way to the end of the hall, to grandfather's room, across from the elevators.

Grandmother pulled up a chair and talked to her husband in words and ways that no one in that room ever heard or even knew existed.  "Joe, I didn't know.  They didn't tell me...." And a conversation on such a level of regret and love and experience.   She called her only living blood relative, her niece, and said, "He's gone.  Joe is gone.". and talked on an even keel, not what anyone in the room expected either.

Then the 'saints' said  they were taking his body away, etc.  And I understand, from my youngest sister,  I turned my eyes to the Uncle that echoed 'officialdom' and said.  "Tell them to back down."...He babbled on, and I repeated my statement and the nun and priest and the doctor retreated.

Other relatives were called, and made it to see the 'glowing', and there was whispering.  My baby sister took my measure that day, she told me a few months ago.  I told her not to be so sure.  I get beaten up often, curling up in shame. most often for being physically unable to complete a task.  Then I told her how 'fools rush in where angels fear to tread.'  To not waste her life on 'the English', to measure her resources, not 'cast pearls before swine.'

I will carry on later, maybe.

Four days later, the 12th.  I find, 1.1mm lead for old pencil.  Hours later I find staples, and a light blinks, a small magnifying class with a light.  Voila.  And then.....the ColorArt set.  Prang Brush Makers, Charcoal Pencils, Drawing Pencils, Colored pencils, sharpeners, and gum and soft eraser.  Voila!.  Only $3 at thrift store because one brush marker missing.  I will put the small loose stuff in tackle box acquired last month, double sided,Plano Magnum, on the day I got the miraculous fortune in real cookie (Am I the only one who eats fortune cookies") It said: "Some pursue happiness; You create it."  That was the day my friend died.  And the gardener appeared, Jennifer.
Well, I haven't been exactly creating happiness, except for the Little Hellion.  She comes tomorrow, maybe.  At Easter dinner, as I drove off, I called out "See you Friday."  That's tomorrow.  And I need to enter it into the phone.  Dare I ask for a gallon of gas?  Best not to speak.

Oh, and then there is the new 'presence', wearing a hat, my Everlast 'speed ball' in pigskin, on spring with suction cup.  Exactly like a human head, and like a Fig.  Perfection, itself, Leonardo, Albrecht, Franz, Leger. You are all so sweet.

Oh, on Easter, my niece's boyfriend, was playing with Nerf blades, and shields and the two French girls under six were en guard.  I picked up the dagger and gave him the 'coup de grass'  Funny, that the other day, and I can't remember where, someone said, "Ugh.  And the French with their guillotine!"  I stopped the conversation by interjecting, "That is a kind kill.  And everyone under it knew it."  But, I still thought coup de grass meant head on the ground.  Chuckle.   And, Hemingway, he too looks at me, from the Vinca, with the same speed ball on a stand, on his porch.  I should have such a stand.  The first toy I remember was a punching bag, a weighted thing, my height at three and four, that kept getting knocked about by me, my dog, the chiffarobe door, and always came back for more.  Maybe that is why I used to not startle!  Good training for French girls and for Native Americans.  And that Hellion needs some moccasins.  I have orange socks for her.  She hates the shoes.  I always say, each toe is a brain. because it is true.  And truth is beauty.  Beauty is truth.  Oh, and here is a link never to forget a wonderful blog, a new artist who will grab my wrist and swing me to the back of the saddle, Fernand Leger at  I must depart to check him out on YouTube now.  And you should be grateful I have left the details of these last four days out.

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