I went home for a couple of days to attend my grandmother's funeral on September 11th. The family met at 10 AM at the funeral home for a last viewing of her body. There are two uncles with funeral directing experience on my dad's side of the family, so it went smoothly. The funeral took place at St. Mary's church in Lindsay. Grandma was Catholic, and it was hands down the most ceremonial funeral I've attended. For my folks' sake I went up and received communion (there's a first). Many of those in attendance responded appropriately in prayer while my siblings and I stood in quiet awe.

Her middle name was Madeline. Hers was only the second deceased body I've seen in my life, the first since my other grandmother in 1992. We weren't close. She didn't get along with my mother, though there was no vitriol between them at the end. Last time I was home my dad told me about the time he drove out to Lindsay one evening years ago to tell her that she was a lousy grandmother to his kids. I remember her as a somewhat frail, intimidating woman who had a way of staring a hole into you, an intense gaze that I believe I inherited from her. She had a voice like creaking doors and avalanching rocks rather than a wind through meadows and opening flowers. When I remember grandma I remember her voice and eyes.

I'm not sure I loved her. How can you love someone you barely knew? Whose memory evokes receiving socks for Christmas as a child? I remember being ten and playing a game with my sisters. We would hide in their room and peek around the door frame at grandma as she sat in the living room talking to our parents. Occasionally she would look over and penetrate us with those eyes and we would collapse in laughter and retreat. I have no earthly clue what she thought of us on lonely nights when she must have taken stock of her family. To us she was largely absentee.

This is how things are sometimes. It wasn't our fault. I don't know how things can turn sour, how relationships with the people you're supposed to know and be close to for the rest of your life break apart. My uncle Greg, her son, didn't attend the funeral. I struggled to remember the name of my dad's sister and avoided talking to her sons, my cousins, so screwed up by their dad before they divorced that we'll never be able to carry on a normal conversation. But then, I'm not normal either. I'm a product of being kept away from these people, to the point that I'd be fine if I never saw them again for the rest of my life. I've turned out solipsistic.

Since I moved out of my parents' place I've become more and more interested in where I come from, but I'm realizing that the links to my past are falling further and further away. My dad showed me a collection of pictures at the reception after the funeral. One of them was a picture of my dad as a baby, sitting on my grandmother's knee, with her mother standing beside her, and her grandfather completing the quartet. Four generations of a family.

"11166-17 Walter LABADIE, 22, glass worker, Chatham, Wallaceburg, s/o Peter LABADIE & Mary BLAIR, married Elma MACHET, 19, Montreal, Wallaceburg, d/o Edward MACHET & Palmire LEONARD, witn: Lawrence BLANCHARD & Christena ROSS, both of Marine City Mich., 17 Feb 1917 at Point Edward."

Peter Labadie and Mary Blair. My great great grandparents. Walter Labadie and Elma Machet, my great grandparents. Thelma Labadie and Adelore Emery, my grandparents. Who were they?

This was the first time I'd ever accompanied a casket to the cemetery. The ceremony was respectful and peaceful. I felt sorry for Leonard, the closest person to a grandfather I'll ever know, who has always been a terrific guy and who took the best care of Thelma he could. I watched him sit near the grave while the priest led a prayer and the sun glinted through a tear that hung on the end of his nose.

She'll be buried beside Adelore, dad's dad, who died forty years ago next year. Thelma will be nine feet deep in a concrete vault, so that Len can be buried on top of her at six feet when he passes. Before we left the cemetery we visited my uncle Leonard's grave, a brother of my dad's I never met before his death in 2000. On the way home we stopped by Rosemount to pay respect to my mom's parents. All of my parents' parents, now gone.

Emery-Albrecht, Thelma M. (Née Labadie)

Entered into rest at the Ross Memorial Hospital in Lindsay on Sunday, September 7th, 2008, in her 87th year and was the loving wife of Leonard Albrecht and the late Adelore Joseph Emery (1969). Loving mother of Ron and his wife Joanne of Peterborough, Michael and his wife Cheryl of Lakefield, Greg and his wife Kathy of Lindsay, Mark of Oshawa, Laurie Dancy and her husband Rick of Lindsay and predeceased by her son Leonard and his wife Ali. Sadly missed by her 12 grandchildren David, Sarah, Holly, Adam, Michael, Keith, Christopher, Jason, Lisa and her husband Jeremy, Lucas, Cameron, Craig and by her great grandchildren Erik, Kyle, Zoie and Anthony. Survived by her sisters Diane, Marjorie, Marilyn and by her brothers Robert and Jim and predeceased by Gordon, Walter Jr. and Dorothy. Lovingly remembered by many nieces and nephews. Friends are invited to call at the STODDART FUNERAL HOME, 24 Mill St., Lindsay on Wednesday from 2 to 4 and 7 to 9 p. m. Mass of Christian Burial from St. Mary's Church in Lindsay on Thursday, September 11th at 11:00 a. m. Interment St. Mary's Cemetery, Lindsay. In Thelma's memory, donations to St. Mary's Restoration Fund would be appreciated by the family. On line condolences may be directed to www.stoddartfuneralhome.com.

Well, it looks like the upcoming election has offset the Senate's schedule, as I was afraid it might. Dave says it looks like they won't need me until November at the earliest.

So I need to find another job.

And I just this second found out that my grandmother died, which means all of my original grandparents have now passed.

Hmm.

Okay.

Rogers finally came by to give me Internet access today. The cable guy told me to go to a Rogers Plus to exchange the modem for a wireless one, except the store is OUT of wireless modems, so I won't be able to get the Mac online until they receive a shipment. Fucking company. They're ALREADY screwing me.

Okay. Breathe. A lot has transpired over the last few days. Connolley's wedding was certainly a wedding. I got a kick out of the minister, who was really jovial about the whole thing, constantly cracking jokes. I kind of respected the fact that he didn't bring God into the ceremony as much as a lot of ministers do. I'm looking forward to not having a wedding to look forward to, all things being equal.

I've been living in this apartment now for three weeks and it feels like three months. Things can't happen fast enough for me to get everything in place. I still need my couch. I'll feel a lot better about the place once it's here. I never thought I'd be so picky once I started living on my own.

A group of us had dinner at Tucker's in the Market last night and ended up at Mod Club. I stayed until close for the first time in forever. It was fun. I'm tired today. I think I might just watch movies and chill, get away form the world for awhile.

Andrea and I are heading to Kingston for Connolley's wedding tomorrow. I've been looking forward to this wedding as the last real "event" of the summer, and although I'm definitely happy for Greg and Kelly I'm looking forward to having it behind me. I'm kind of wedding-ed out at this point. In any event, I'm going to try to hit Kingston on the first shot in the rental car and not end up in Arnprior this time.

A bunch of us went to The Lookout last night, a gay club in town. It was the first time I'd ever been to one. It's pretty much the same as any other club, with more men wearing tighter t-shirts.

I think I need to start getting out more.

I've been having trouble sleeping lately. I'll lay awake in bed until as late as 4 in the morning, and the other night the reason struck me: I have to get back to writing my novel. It's been stewing in my brain for the better part of two years now. Last night I sat down as my kitchen table, my new workspace, and started writing out the narrative outline and descriptions of the woman I want to try and bring to life through the senses of others. before I make her a series of assertions I want to make sure that she is, in fact, real. That she is a person who makes decisions and has a set of ethics and lives a full life despite the tragedy with which she is afflicted. After sketching out in general terms the first half or so of her life, I was able to fall asleep at 2. It's working.

The new television arrived yesterday and it's pretty fantastic. It makes me want to revisit my entire movie collection. Yesterday Andrea came over and we watched Punch-Drunk Love. Unfortunately, she wasn't a fan, but damn if it didn't look great on the new TV.

I've started reading Alligator by Lisa Moore. Moore is a good writer, but I'm having trouble getting into it despite the phenomenal first chapter. Her descriptions of small things are poetic but too numerous. Maybe it's just not something I'm in the mood for right now.

The song is done. Download it here. Give it a listen. The song is called "No Time Left." I'm calling the band Wire and Light. I'm going to try hard to ensure it won't be the last song I'll record.

I think my drive to be creative lately has put an atmosphere in place in the apartment, constantly reminding me that there's something I should be reading/writing. It hangs over me, I breathe it in, whenever I'm indoors, and it keeps me active. I started reading Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee last night and I'm forty pages from the end. I couldn't put it down today.

I've been thinking about picking up a record player lately and starting a vinyl collection of my favorite records. Yesterday Matt, Carly and I went to Vertigo to browse LP's. A player is going to end up costing me about $250, so I'm not going to get it up and running immediately.

Andrea came over last night and I showed her a bunch of stuff from my college days. Apparently the college version of me was cute, even without facial hair.

The TV arrives tomorrow. I'm beyond excited.