Schoolyard Grudges, Amnesia, and Dead Fish.

Concerning Fritz, MacArthur, and Seashells

Most families claim that insanity has taken root in their bloodlines. My kin are no different. My mother is absolutely convinced that her Grandfather, Ashley, is the root cause of said mental instability.  Ashley (as he wants us to call him) is what one may call an odd bird. 88 years old and strong, Ashley is a Veteran of the Korean War. The reason for my mother's assessment is that he's quite prone to fits of delusions. At Christmas, he was absolutely convinced that the Christmas tree, which was decorated with red ribbon and silver tinsel, was a bomb planted by the Commies. My sister is a bit scared of him, but I find myself in possession of a strange affection for the man. As little of the family is willing to spend any sort of time with him, I often find myself sitting with him in the living room, pouring a glass of whatever he wants. If one gives him scotch, he'll tell fantastic war stories. If one gives him whiskey, he'll talk about his son, Joshua, who committed suicide when he was fourteen years old. If one gives him wine, he'll reminisce about Lilah, his wife, who died of lung cancer two years after Joshua passed away.  He's lonely, and I can relate to that, which is what enables us to get along as we do.

One story that I'm particularly fond of is the one about the time when he mistakenly carried around a picture of General MacArthur in his pocket for six months, when he really meant to carry a picture of his Lilah. His voice, roughened from years of chain-smoking Camels, effortlessly lends itself to stories of sorry and joy alike. I myself don't find him to be any more insane than say, my mother, but she is absolutely certain that he's bred craziness into my siblings and I. To my little brother, Joshua (named after Ashley's son, obviously. My father insisted) she frequently says things like, "don't do that, that's something that Ashley would do! You don't want to turn out like Ashley, do you?"

Actually, she may be right about Joshua. Joshua, who is nine years old, has a strange obsession with salamanders. There is absolutely no explanation for this phenomenon. My mother had him taken to every psychiatrist within eight counties, and none of them had any answers. His room is decked with photo after photo of salamanders. He even has one of his own. Nearly every book he owns is about the amphibian. My father has said that this a good thing, because it means that Joshua's cut out to be a herpetologist. Personally, I don't think that Joshua's future is going to go in that direction.  I think he may end up in the circus. It'd be a wonderful  show. "The Amazing Joshua and His Salamander, Fritz." I can see it now.

I'm quite convinced that Captain Armstrong is the most impatient human alive. He standing behind me, breathing like an asthmatic hippo (which, now that I think about it, may be why Felix thought he saw one out in the bushes. From the frankly alarming amount of jelly smeared on his uniform, a room full of jam must sound quite appealing. I'll have to consult Felix when I return.) He's just informed me that I'm wasting too much time on backstory.  I've just graciously informed him that he can stuff his badge up his posterior. That vein on his forehead is starting to worry me. It may pop. He should probably get his pressure checked.

At any rate, continuing upon the line of insanity in my house. My mother, as mentioned above, is a glorious example of lunacy. While my sister is obsessed with Michael (her lazy, good-for-nothing boyfriend who drives a yellow van), I'm obsessed with my academics, and Joshua has a peculiar preoccupation with amphibians, my mother is quite devoted to the collection of seashells. Now, one must realize that these aren't spectacularly interesting shells, but are, instead, the most boring shells that she could find. She thinks that they show simple beauty. I think they show that she's dull.

They are stacked everywhere. Everywhere.  Floor, night table, kitchen, next to the  friggin' toilet bowl. It's annoying and stupid and boring, and our house is perpetually sandy. 

Captain Armstrong's shift has ended, which means that I must cease to write my affidavit until the next officer arrives. I sincerely hope that this one will bring a donut, instead of just smelling like one. 

Au revoir!