Saturday evening, I settled onto the couch and Grant and Katy’s place, pulled out my book, put on my reading glasses, and started reading. I’ve been reading The Great War by Peter Hart and was getting his take on Verdun, which interested me since I had just read a different book-length work on the battle. Grant came into the front room from the kitchen and dining area, talked to Katy for a minute, then looked at me.
“Woah, Dad wears reading glasses now?” And he started to laugh.
I glanced over at him. “Yeah, I wear reading glasses now.”
“Wow, what happened?”
“Dad’s old,” Lauren said.
Grant laughed even harder. I looked over at him. “F— you, all right.”
Katy said, “Oh, wow.”
Grant just laughed harder. “I was laughing at what Mom said.”
“Uh huh,” I said.
This was, of course, a devastating conversation on multiple fronts. First, I hate the reminder that I’ve had to fold and go to reading glasses. What’s worse, though, is that it means Grant has also stopped reading my posts since I very recently wrote about this problem and he was ignorant of it.
This is close to a mortal dagger. I have tried for years to develop a writing repertoire. I have published six books professionally, self-published a number of others, won a literary prize, and had three short stories published in literary journals. Nevertheless, I don’t have anywhere close to what I’d call a career or even a side-gig, and I say all the time that if I can’t convince my family to read what I write, I have zero hope of convincing the reading public who has no vested interest in me.
To make matters worse, an hour later, Grant came back into the room and said, “Dad, I don’t mean this bad at all, but . . .”
“Oh, this is gonna be good,” I said.
He started laughing again. “No, listen. It’s not bad. It’s just that when I see you in those glasses, well, you look like Grandpa.”
“Tremendous,” I said.
Lauren cracked up.
“That makes it even better,” I said. “Go on. Keep going.”
“No, not like you look like A grandpa,” he said, still laughing. “You look like Grandpa. Your dad. My Grandpa.”
“It’s not getting better, dude,” I said. “You’re just digging further and further.”
“It’s not bad,” he said.
“Keep going,” I said. “Keep f—ing that chicken.”
Grant broke down laughing even harder. Lauren just looked at me. “What did you just say? I don’t get it.”
“It’s that old viral clip,” I said.
“I know what it is,” said Grant.
“I don’t,” said Lauren. So I pulled it up on my phone and showed it to her.
“Wow,” she said.
But we weren’t done with such verbal devastation. In yesterday’s post, I noted my history with the Dukes of Hazzard and the General Lee. Right after buying the matchbox car, I had snapped a photo of it and sent it to a family group chat that includes my mother, sister, brother, his wife, his kids, Lauren, and my kids. My mother loved it. My brother loved it. His wife laughed. The next morning, I got this text from my sister, Ruthanne:
What’s the General Lee? Obviously, the car. But I’m still confused about the significance?
I sent her a Wikipedia link and wrote back: I’m not sure I can ever speak to you again.
My mother: The General Lee is almost as important as Ponce and John.
[Author’s note: if you write to me and ask me to explain Ponce and John, just block me while you’re at it because I will be blocking you. If you really don’t know, do us both a favor and Google it, so you can pretend and our relationship can be spared.]
Stephen, my brother: How could anyone possibly forget the General Lee?
Yes, exactly. I’m not sure my sister and I were raised in the same household.
It was a tough weekend. Guess it’s good that it’s Monday and I can get back to work.
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His Smile Lit Up a Room and Other Things to Say at My Funeral 